A mad March marriage...

I very recently got chastised by Mrs Not-So-Newlywed for yet again neglecting my blog. I admit it, I have been vair naughty. But in my defence, I have had an extremely busy few weeks and should not be held entirely accountable for my absenteeism. So there.

Sooooo March was a mad one, eh! More specifically, the first three weeks of March, which could only be described as the most action-packed, blissful, exciting, emotional and drama-tastic nineteen days since I don't know when;  a tornado of excitement involving several thousand units of alcohol, a barrel of laughs, tears, false lashes and tan, a wedding and a trip to Marrakech (more on that later), which is almost a criminal amount of fun to be having in the first quarter of a calendar. We also had two very special guests come to stay with us who had travelled all the way from sunny Melbourne: Chopper and FauxFirecrotch, two Aussie friends that lived in Edinburgh a few years back and had played a huge role in The Scotsman's social circle in those obviously dark pre-DG days, so the news of their coming over for the wedding was highly exciting.

A surprisingly accurate interpretation of The Dolmio's.

The two bright-eyed bushy-tailed kids getting
hitched are two very-long-term friends of TS;
Mr Dolmio has been his best friend since primary school (bless!) and the two of them had played football and smoked dubious cigarettes and partied together all the way through the education system right up until graduation. Mrs Dolmio went to their university and has been on the scene for over a decade, so it was really special to see such close friends of his swap rings and promise to love each other for ever and ever. Although I am still a fairly recent addition to the crew, I have had many many debaucherous evenings with both of them and couldn't wait to be part of their Big Fat Wedding Day.

Now it's no secret that I love a wedding. I love everything about it; I love the getting your hair and nails did, picking out your outfit for the day, the endless agonising over which shoes and jewellery and fascinator to perfectly complement your ensemble. And then the inevitable eye-dabbing as I get all emotional watching the couple say their vows. I even love that awkward fannying-about session that happens inbetween the ceremony and the meal, while the photographer works his magic and the bar is hit with a vengeance. But my most favouritest part of a wedding? The speeches. Yep, I love 'em. I honestly cannot understand why some people begrudge hearing insights and anecdotes from the people who know the bride and groom best, seeing the father of the bride get all choked up talking about his little girl, hearing occasion-appropriate risque banter from the best man and all the clinking and 'cheers'-ing inbetween each one. I am usually that person who is dangling off their chair hanging on every word with wine-induced glistening eyes and a big dopey smile on my face, loving every second of it and laughing a little bit too loud at the jokes. Ahhh yes, speeches are awesome. At the wedding of the Dolmios, the speeches were extra special, for TS was one of the best men and had to write a speech of his very own. It was already the first time I was ever going to have seen him in a kilt, which in itself had me coming out in hives from all the suppressed swooning, but add a speech into the mix? Let's just say I asked his mum to bring smelling salts along just incase it all got a little bit too much.

All in all the wedding was fantastic, the bride looked beautiful, the groom was very handsome in his kilt, much drinking and robot-dancing later the day was ended with a bang as the entire reception got up on their feet to the smooth grooves of House of Pain's 'Jump Around' and saw the newlyweds off to their bed in style. The next day we didn't have much time to recover from the excitement and resulting hangover, as we had to drag our sorry asses out of bed and get packed for a 3am start the next day to catch a morning flight, for we were Morocco-bound and ready for a week in the sun and souks...

Merry Xmas/Happy New Year/Bon Anniversaire

2012 is here! Technically it's been here for over a month now, but it's taken me this long to get used to that.

Did anyone else secretly get an ominous feeling as they welcomed in their new year? I certainly did, but only because the part of my brain which is susceptible to all the hype about Mayan calendars and Doomsday theories and Jake Gyllenhaal movies was having a field day. But it's all nonsense of course. At least it better be, if the world ends before I get a chance to wear a wedding dress, visit Tokyo or pick out a kitchen from Ikea I'll be very upset.

So what has been happening over the past few months? I had a shlovely Christmas at home, I only managed four days this year instead of the usual couple of weeks I normally get, but it was fine as I still managed to get spoilt rotten, consume many thousands of calories and spend some quality time with my lovely family. I was a very lucky girl and managed to shuffle my travel arrangements so I got to have an overnight stay with the Scotsman and his folks, which definitely helped to make up for us having to spend the holidays apart. After an evening of craic I was off on my way to Norn Iron on what was the possible the roughest, most puketastic ferry crossing I've ever been on. There was literally a person on either side of me boking into little paper bags, which is not the most pleasant seating arrangement for a three hour journey. Not having the strongest of stomachs when it comes to these situations, I doused my scarf in perfume, wrapped it round my head, shut my eyes tight and went to my happy place until my feet were on the dry land of home.

Xmas was fab, I managed a few jars down the pub catching up with my chums back home but spent most time at home, just vegging out with Quality Street and turkey and playing with our mad shih tzu. Before long I was back in the Burgh, ready for my first ever Hogmanay! Twas exciting stuff indeed, and seeing in the new year with my man felt so so good. The anniversary of our first date is next week, I can barely believe it! This is going to be our year, there are strange and exciting things coming in our near future and I just can't wait to see where we end up next.

Now I couldn't finish a catch-up entry without mentioning my birthday, could I! This year, I had a TOWIE night, and it was facking class. The girls all got dressed up to the max to the sweet sounds of Rihanna, downing fishbowls of cocktails in the flat and left for a local dancefloor covered in several layers of Sunshimmer and fake lashes and short skirts and faux bling. My chum Smecky provided an instant vajazzle, which went onto my thigh as even I am not bold enough to show off a diamante-encrusted foof in the middle of a bar. The Scotsman got away with a layer of fake tan and escaped without the stick-on diamond stud earring I kept threatening him with, however it got lost in his January-white skin and didn't quite provide the TOWIE-orange I was hoping for. All in all an excellent and most drunken night was had by all.

So that's me all up to date, and ready to complete my new year's resolution and actually post something on here regularly and not just when the mood takes me. We shall see. I'll just have to continue on my merry path to mayhem so I have plenty to write about...

Spanx are a gal's best friend

It's official: winter is on its way and I am loving it. Perfect excuse for lazy evenings cosied up on the sofa with my man, watching rubbish on telly and flicking through the Boots gift guide, trying to find the best way to fully exploit the 3-for-2 offer. It also means thick tights and faux fur Fuggs (or fake Uggs to the label whores out there)are once again a perfectly acceptable daily wardrobe choice, not to mention novelty knitted hats complete with cutesy animal ears.

But my favourite thing about Wintumn has got to be the feeding. Oh, the feeding.

Gone are the summer salads bursting with vitamins and good intentions; my current diet consists of Anything Potato-Based That Can Be Cooked In The Oven. Cheese has slowly crept into my list of essential daily snacks, and all those lovely mugs of tea required to warm my little chilled bones require an accompanying biccie or five. I mean, it would be rude not to.
My brain tells me "you know you're going to regret this when you see photos of your chubster chops all over Facebook post-Xmas party season", but my body says "see them spuds and gravy? Get them in ma bellay STAT."

But it's not just the casseroles, the stews, the baked spuds dripping with Utterly Butterly: there's all that booze that comes with it. I struggle to contain my inner alcoholic at the best of times, but cold dark evenings are my drinking Kryptonite. Everyone knows Sauvignon Blanc perfectly compliments the delicate and complex flavours of a plate of cheesy chips.

My new dietary habits seem to be contagious; to my delight The Scotsman has rapidly moved from occasional wine drinker to fully-fledged "my teeth are itchy for a large glass of red" status, which is great because it makes my wine fetish look reasonable. I'm delighted to tell you his expanded palate has included a new tolerance for stinky cheeses; during a recent grocery shop a burst of inspiration at the memory of a freebie bottle of red plonk in our kitchen led to the purchase of a tub of Saint Agur and some cream crackers. In record time we were rubbing our bellies, chewing at our tannin-stained lips and generally feeling very pleased with ourselves.

And it's only the start of November. Looks like I'll be asking Santa for some lovely, belly-friendly maternity jeans then...(worth it).

What a difference a half-year makes

"Last post published 16th April".

I had to read it twice to make sure my laser-correction surgery hadn't suddenly undone itself. How on earth has it been six months since I last had a wee blether on this? And yet somehow, when I think of how much has happened since then, it's all too believable. Update urgently required, methinks!
Soooo, to condense half a year's worth of DG shenanigans into as short a paragraph as possible, I shall be removing all words deemed non-essential for your reading pleasure:
Emotional rollercoaster summer. Uni plans put on ice, leading to swift lifeplan adjustments. Currently employed in icecream parlour, wreaking havoc with my waistline, tooth enamel and blood sugar levels but fun way to pay the bills until Proper Job. Loved up beyond belief with The Scotsman (yay!), happier than a pig in muck. Co-habiting until further notice.

So now we're all up to date, I can get on with What's Happening Now.

It's that spooky, autumnal (my current favourite word), chilly-wind time of year again! Can't beat it with a big stick; shop aisles stuffed with orange and black tinsel, cardboard hanging decorations of witches and skeletons, fake vampire fangs and huge containers of pumpkins in the supermarkets. Although the pumpkin thing I'm not 100% sure about, being one of the old-school group who used to carve turnips in their youth. Good times.

I'm sure I won't need to go into much detail on why the week before Halloween would be so exciting, not at all. Or why the presence of several bags of sequins, fabric and rhinestones in my bedroom would be enough to keep my delirious happiness at peak levels. Not even the dried superglue on my fingertips can wipe the cheesy grin off my face; for it is Costume-Making Season, and I am in my element.

Ice cream not included.

I've spoken before about my love for fancy dress, and at the age of 26 the shiny appeal of Halloween still burns brightly as ever. This year I plan to attend a friend's bash doing my best impersonation of a Mrs K. Brand, or Katy Perry to the masses, and I CAN'T WAIT. Of course, I have a perfect picture in my head of my planned ensemble, whether my vision translates into actual reality remains to be seen. I am currently halfway through my costume, and now that my lovely chum Smecky has lent me her trusted glue gun for optimal gem-adhesion, nothing can stop me!

I did briefly try (in vain) to persuade The Scotsman that it would be quite a brilliant idea if he went as Russell Brand to my Katy; he was having none of it, and has instead settled on a tutu-clad Ace Ventura. So now I'm off for a visit to the fabric shop to purchase several metres of baby pink net for my boyfriend. There is just something so wrong about that sentence.