Wig Wham Bam...

Well, this week I did something I've certainly never done before. No, not swimming with dolphins (although I'd like to one day); not skydiving from a hot air balloon (can't say I've ever really thought about that one) and not even finally sitting through the whole Lord of The Rings Trilogy (I managed half an hour of part one and fell asleep, and have never attempted again). No. This was neither exciting nor daredevil, but it was something I wouldn't care to repeat. Namely, having a domestic with The Other Half over a grey wig in the middle of a fancy dress shop. I kid you not.

On Monday, we went shopping for some bits and pieces (namely a wig for him) for the imminent TedFest party we're attending. Since he is going as old Father Jack, a quick bit of research on t'interweb told us we probably wouldn't get a Father Jack-specific wig, but something along the lines of a mad scientist/Beetlejuice-looking grey wig would do, especially as we could do the finishing touches to the costume ourselves to make everything more Jack-esque. So, off to the shopping centre we trotted to have a trying on session in every costume shop we could find. And by god, it was trying.

Tensions started to fray when we kept having to go backwards and forwards between different shops to compare wigs. Which pretty much all looked (and cost) the same. I'm not sure what The Other Half had a picture of in his head - I'm guessing he was looking for a packet labelled 'Father Jack wig', which I calmly explained several times over we were never going to find and we'd just have to get something as close as we could. Then the argument started when I found a Beetlejuice grey wig - which ok, didn't look exactly like Jack's hair, but we could trim it and it would be ideal. Apparently not good enough, despite the fact that nobody except our friends would see this, and nobody would care anyway if it wasn't an EXACT replica of Jack's mangy locks as they all knew who he was supposed to be going as.

It continued. The Beetlejuice wig just wasn't going to cut it as the picture on the front showed that the scalp of the wig was grey, when it should have been pink. This is when I lost it, there and then in the wig shop with a comedy polystyrene brick in one hand and a giant fake priest's cross in the other. The staff were so bemused by this weird couple shouting at each other over the colour of a wig's scalp that I left the shop and went off to buy a cup off coffee. On my return, I found a sheepish-looking Other Half with a bag in his hand. Turns out, he'd tried on the flamin' wig after I stormed out, only to find that the scalp was in fact pink, not grey. And it did look rather Father Jack-like after all.

I have no words.

All the small things...

Here's a little update on what's been cooking this week:

Being a Plan 'B'
The dating game is a minefield. Blind dates especially. Now, I'm not going to get all sanctimonious here - while I haven't been on one for a very long time, I do know that blind dates can be fun. They can, however, also be a showcase of the biggest rotters and weirdos known to man. This week I was my friend's get-out-of-jail free card, otherwise known as the Blind Date Plan B, should her date have been a psychiatric ward escapee or something. He wasn't - but we still had the code phrase phone call at a strategic time, just in case it went awry. All very Sex and the City, but necessary. He didn't make the cut in the end, though.

2-4-1 equals good times
In these times of economic hardship we're all looking for a few ways to save the pennies here and there. So, when a group of mates and I decided it was high time we met up and had a good old chin wag over dinner, we scoured handbag.com until we found a suitable restaurant voucher. Tight? Us? Never! We're just thrifty every now and then. And what we saved in food costs just went towards the wine bill. Oh yes.

There's nothing like a good bitching session
When you've had a bad work week, sometimes that last thing you need is to rake it over and talk. But sometimes you do. Especially if a few of you have had similar troubles. Anyway, an apres-work drink seemed in order on Wednesday where some coworkers and I put the office to rights. And caught up on the workplace shenanigans - all those juicy little tidbits that are meaningless to everyone else, but to colleagues - they're gossip gold. And all things I couldn't possibly repeat.

My crazy mother
Every time I visit my folks, I come away with random items from her loft. Tuesday was no exception. After a very strange meal that consisted of mashed potato, some oddly spiced carrots and not much else; gossip about people I still have no idea who they are (Mother dearest: "You know him over the road with the bad leg, well he left his wife - the second one, not the one with the bad perm. You know them - you used to go to birthday parties with their daughter." Me: "Who?!"); she produced a bag of bits she 'no longer has room for'. What am I going to do with a school project about the Amazon, a box of Forever Friends stationery and some clay pots I made in school ceramics classes?

Planning for next Saturday
My gal pals are coming over next weekend for eats and drinks. I'm thinking Chinese, since it'll be Chinese New Year. There will be lots of flicking through recipe books and practice sessions in the kitchen, no doubt. And I'm sure The Other Half will happily hoover up the results. Lead-lined stomach, that one.

There's a pox on my house...

There comes a time in every relationship when the inevitable happens. You’ve had the awkward meet-the-parents episodes and come out relatively unscathed; then came the declarations of love and joined-at-the-hip phase; then somewhere down the road you decided you don’t see each other nearly enough so you progressed to the merging of the things (and removal of the hideous artefacts like framed football tickets that the other brought into your newly shared abode). Life is good. Then comes that fateful day when one of you utters those dreaded words, the ones that strike fear into your heart and turn your blood to ice. ‘Argh - I’m going to be sick! Quick – get out of the bathroom!’

I have heard this sentence before – several times, in fact. Usually after a Christmas night out, the details of which are too gruesome to describe. But this phrase has chilled me for almost a week now. Last Thursday, I came home from a very lovely get together in town with my gal pals; the first time I’d seen them since hearing Uma Thurman wee. We giggled over coffees and discussed all manner of things over seafood pasta and interestingly titled pizza (which tasted even better half price – the wonders of finding offers on Handbag.com); such as mishaps with fabric softener and one friend’s amusing – yet slightly sinister – interview at work to attend a first aid course. All was well in the world. Opening the front door on my return home, however, I was greeted with a grunt from my very green looking Other Half who then hogged the bathroom all the live long night crying huey until the small hours.

This continued until Sunday, when my body decided that apparently this all looks like great fun and didn’t want to miss out on the action. Cue three days of me hugging the porcelain and feeling decidedly green. This alone would have been monstrous enough, but two people sharing a bathroom and having to time their Exorcist-projectile spurts was quite frankly, horrific. And so, the immortal line was uttered on several occasions, but unfortunately on at least one of those occasions it was impossible and the other had to deflower the sink. I won’t say who. But it later came to one of us ridding the poor sink of the products of heaving with bleach whilst donning a rubber glove.

Co-habiting is not for everyone. A note to self for the future - seek a home with two bathrooms.


P.S. I have now wasted a considerable amount of money buying a certain magazine with a dedicated ‘Spotted’ page, scanning carefully for a mention of my superstar pee excitement. How dare they deem the whereabouts of Dean ruddy Gaffney and his dog and long forgotten nobodies from series 4 of Big Brother wearing wellies more important Spotteds than mine. I’ll still have a nosy next week though, most likely. Just in case.

Teenage kicks (and twenty-something time-wasting)...

I worshipped Ewan McGregor when I was 15. Oh, who am I kidding? I still do. But today, I don't have little Ewan pictures stuck all around my bedroom mirror and his face adorning my walls on giant posters. But I might if only my Other Half would let me. I think I've always had crushes on famous boys; the first one was probably Corey Feldman in The Goonies. My friend preferred Mikey, but it was Mouth and his rude Spanish all the way for me. Then there was David Bowie. Bit of an peculiar choice you might think - but when I was 10, all I wanted to do was run away to the Goblin City and live in the castle with Jareth the Goblin King. If you don't know what I'm on about, shame on you - read all about it here.

My celebrity crushes dissipated in my later teens - but have since returned with a vengeance. Perhaps it's the boredom of my working day. Which brings me to a recent topic of discussion at work... the freebie list. We have very philosophical conversations and emails at work, as you can see. Made famous by Friends (I think Ross laminated his choices?!), the freebie list is the select group of celebrities you have crushes on who you're allowed to, er, have relations with, shall we say - should the opportunity ever present itself and your significant other can't say anything about it. My list resulted in several confused faces and I'm sure a couple of my choices were googled by my puzzled onlookers. Anyway:

1. Ewan McGregor. The afore-mentioned Mr. McGregor still holds the #1 spot on my list. He might be married and a bit beardy by now, but I don't care. I've even forgiven him for that ridiculous hair-do and facial wig in the gawd-awful Star Wars prequels.

2. David Tennant. And I don't even watch Dr. Who. I think it's his hair that does it.

3. Kyle Reese/Michael Biehn. The year would HAVE to be 1984 and I would need to be Sarah Connor, though. Oh, come on! He went through time for her! But if fictional characters don't apply, I'll take the very sweet John Simm as my #3 contestant.

4. Brett Anderson. I've loved him ever since I bought my first Suede single aged 13.

5. Andrew Lincoln. A forgotten teenage crush recently rediscovered upon repeat viewings of This Life. Damn that Milly woman; she didn't deserve him.

Honourable mention: I know I can't really choose fictional characters but if I could, Gene Hunt and his one-liners would be up there. It's so very politically incorrect and against the rules of feminism - but I'd quite happily let him give me a slap. That's really quite wrong.

So there you have it. I stand by my choices. They're liable to change, however, but they're not as odd as some - one of my friends had crushes on both Sean Connery (not so odd really; I suppose he could be considered as a bit of a silver fox) and Captain Von Trapp. Yes, you read that right. The Sound of Music dude. Each to their own!