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.

Lost in Translation

I've always had a not-so-secret appreciation for comedy accents. It's one of the few things I've been able to take away from my linguistics degree, apart from an understanding of the logistics of how speech sounds are conjured up in our gubs. Comes in handy when several previous part-time jobs have involved working closely with Speakers of Other Languages; one particular year spent slogging my ass off in a local Thai noodle bar included helping the chef with his English skills. I'm proud to say that Kunlawat no longer says 'suh-ponge' and 'suh-nowman', a skill which will clearly have a huge impact on his everyday quality of life.

Obviously my current dalliance with The Scotsman has opened up a new world of opportunity.

This week, we were chatting on the phone and he mentioned his boss had shuffled his job role about a bit, and that he would now be in charge of "proper A cars."

DG: "Proper-A cars?? Ooooh what are those, they sound class!!"

Scotsman: "....what?"

DG: "You're in charge of the proper-A cars section, what's a proper-A car?"

A few moments of silence pass...

Scotsman: "PROPERTY and cars, dumdum." Then he proceeded to tut several times.

I'm not going to lie; I was mildly gutted that it was just a case of miscommunication and that there was no secret elite car advertising section. So to equalise the disappointment, I got him to say 'curlywurly', and happiness was immediately restored.

You can always rely on rhotics to brighten your day :)

'A kiss is just a pleasant reminder that two heads are better than one.' - Anon

This month I have mostly been having lots of kisses with a new boy! This may not sound like much of a story, but I should fill you in with some context. After splitting from my Mr Big last Xmas, my 2010 consisted mainly of typical break-up mental anguish; a long running "will-we-or-won't-we-get-back-together" saga; a LOT of alcohol and several displays of inappropriate behaviour, including a summer spent stringing along The Artist and The Bouncer simultaneously. Not my proudest moments, but self destructive behaviour tends to be (dare I say it?) quite a lot of fun. Heck, at least I got a few amusing photo albums out of the experience.

Pat knows what she's talking about.

Anyhow, once I finished my little pity party I gave myself a little pep talk and told everyone who would listen that I was quite happy to fly solo for a while, thank you very much, and I would not be requiring the company of any males to come along and mess with my delicate little brain. So what do I do the first girly night out I have once I decide this? I somehow find myself a date. After a pretty standard DG display of peacocking, I turn around and lock eyes with The Scotsman, who appears to find my drunken body-popping skills deeply alluring. Two super-hot blind(ish) dates later, I officially have a Romeo: after months of psyching myself up for a solo Valentine's day crying into a bag of Minstrels in my jammies, I instead found myself cosied up in bed with a new man, watching a DVD and sipping chilled Pinot Grigio. Got to love life's little ironies. The Scotsman has strong arms, a lovely soft beard, eyes that laugh and an accent that makes my wibble wobble.... ahh yes, I am quite enamoured with my current crush.

I love how this relationship business plays out you know, it never ceases to amuse me. I am convinced that Jebus created the concept of love under the guise of procreation, whilst having a little laugh to himself knowing how much enjoyment He's going to get out of watching us all run around like idiots.  Trust me, I have had my fair share of long-term commitment, of future plans involving rings and babies and mortgages, of investing everything you have in another person just for it all to go to shit. You build up this beautiful and exciting tower of potential together, only for a door to slam shut somewhere, it all comes falling down around you and all that's left is two miserable people looking at each other, wondering what the hell just happened. Isn't it awful!! But the important thing to realise is that it's ALL OK. It doesn't matter how jaded someone could be, how badly they've been hurt in the past, how cynical they are about the concept of lurve; all it takes is to have a spark, a positive connection with a chance encounter, and it all goes straight out the window; you are reborn baby, and ready for action :)

Lord knows what will eventually happen with my Scotsman; it could all be over in a month, he could be the love of my life, we could end up having a few illegitimate children together and start a family folk group. Stranger things have happened, and I thrive on the delicious anticipation of waiting to see how it all pans out, not just for us, but for my life in general: it's a successful primetime soap and I'm the lead character. Drunken Grape Meets Scotsman is just this month's running storyline: my plan is to soak it all up as much as possible, before reality sets in and he realises that the seemingly laidback, fun-loving, straight-talking brunette he has been concentrating so much of his energy on is in fact just as batshit-crazy as the rest of the female population. *cue manic laughter...*

P-A-R-T-whY? 'Cause I gottaaa...!

Here is a lovely photo of me with two of my best chums.
You see we enjoyed the chocolate cake.

It's February! The greyness of January is over and we can make our official start to the New Year. I don't know about you guys but Jan is such a depressing month that my brain has reprogrammed itself to take it out of the equation. That's right kids, in my head, January doesn't really exist; the year ends on 31st December and starts again on the 1st Feb. January is reserved for grey skies, empty bank accounts, miserable faces and post-Xmas pot bellies. The one shining beacon of light in the whole month is my birthday, a day in which I crank up my diva setting to 11 and stamp around making demands like a six year old with too much sugar. I try to make amends for my irritating behaviour by throwing a kick-ass bash for my lovely social circle every year, in a desperate attempt to shake us all out of our 'Santa's gone for another year' slump.

I'm a big fan of themed parties, and am unashamed by that. I LOVE them; don't get me wrong, they are a heap of extra effort and expense to throw, and I usually have a minor breakdown at the 11th hour when some inevitable planning catastrophe occurs. My Mr Big was exceptionally skilled in the art of recognising the meltdown symptoms, and was ready with tea, calming words and a vodka chaser to settle me down again, clutching his debit card and ready to run errands to fix whatever it was had made me sit cross-legged in the middle of the lounge sobbing and snotting all over the place.
Some of my past favourites include:

• My Merry Un-Birthday: an 'Alice in Wonderland' party with playing-card banners, a giant 'EAT ME' cake, cucumber sandwiches, goblets with 'drink me' tags, red painted roses and a bin-liner 'rabbithole' all the guests had to climb through on the way into my house. I went for a casual Queen of Hearts-type outfit, and made a red t-shirt with pink hearts glued all over it, a tiara and heart print heels. Later in the evening, one of my guests came bursting into the room screaming 'SILLY STRING!!!!' and proceeded to spray a full can of heavy-duty fabric glue spray directly into my hair. It took two days to comb out.
• One Night in Tokyo: a Japanese pop-culture affair with a range of random treats from the asian supermarket, sushi, sake and Hello Kitty cupcakes. I was chuffed with the effort everyone went to; we had a Japanese tourist, a Powerpuff Girl, GoGo Yubari (from Kill Bill, complete with a spiky mace) Fook-Mi (from Austin Powers), an 'origami expert', several ninjas, geishas and harajuku lovers, and my particular favourites: The Not-So-Newlyweds who arrived in matching inflatable sumo suits, and one of my besties, who turned up wearing a painted chef's hat and a top with tiny plastic people sewn onto the shoulders. That's right, she came as Hiroshima. Fabulous.
• My Beardy B'day: the entire group of 20+ braved the knee-deep snow and hit up a local shisha lounge wearing a variety of fake beards. Mine was a white Gandalf-type affair with pretty purple flowers sewn into it to make it special. Bless.
• Requiem: my leaving party for Edinburgh. The idea was that it was a faux-funeral for 'my life in Belfast', with blown up portraits of me up everywhere, lots of lit candles, a slideshow of photos up on the projector screen; a classic wake buffet with lace doilies, triangle sandwiches and sausage rolls, and a highly potent Long Island Iced Tea in a tea urn with paper cups. All guests arrives in full funeral gear (black suits for the boys, lots of black lace for the girls). I have to say, this was an interesting experience for me; I think I successfully freaked myself out. At one point Smoky and I were in the livingroom, watching the slideshow of photos and listening to 'Dust in the Wind', when it suddenly dawned on me just how morbid this theme was and how it perhaps was not the best idea for a party I'd ever had. But then again, any party in which the hostess has to question as to whether or not she has actually died, sounds pretty successful to me.

I hope I never get too boring for theme parties; they are great fun, and a way to tap into being a 5-year old again, for one blissful evening. People are so quick these days to dismiss them; you can hear the collective groans and complaints every time there is a costume party on the cards. It's highly upsetting.

I am all too aware that the time bracket in which it is socially acceptable to shoehorn your guests into fancy dress is getting smaller by the year; suddenly it seems to be the vogue amongst my friends to have a proper job, a hubby, a couple of sprogs and a mortgage. Apparently when you have one or more of these you have become 'sensible' and are no longer required to stoop to such childish levels; well, I'm afraid that just won't do. I will be keeping a close eye on these nouveau-adults and attempting to normalise them with glitter and novelty cakes as soon as it becomes necessary.