50 Shades Of Grey

Girls.. if you've been secretly ripping those cheeky grey tresses from your mane before madly racing off to the hairdressers to kill them off with some tint action-  STOP!

Unless you've been living in cave for the past 12 months - in which case your greybies are excused - then you won't have missed the youngies trends for silver hair. Its been the colour of choice for our Millennials trading in balayage for silver with hints of rose and violet and I personally have LOVED it!

The irony that I've not got any grey yet at 49 and now want some isn't lost on me but when the time comes, I'm there ready to rock that graphite locks.

Image Source: Pinterest

Image source: Bing

What's your take on grey - fighting it or falling for it? Share your photos on my Facebook page - I'd love to see it!

Until next time

Suze xx

SHARE:

0 comments

Ageless Beauty - Rock It Mammadeus!

Fashion has been such a huge part of my 30 year career. It wasn't intentional rather something I tripped into in my early 20's after finally realising that being in charge of selling frozen fish fingers, pizzas and peas wasn't really lighting my proverbial fire. Since then its been the bedrock of my being in one way or another.

30 years on and I'm standing back looking at this new generations' online parade of pre-lit, photo-shopped style perfection thinking thank bloody god I don't have to be part of this anymore. I never really towed the fashion line to be honest, save for the 80's lost years where giant perms, perma-tans, blue eye shadow and shiny, belted shirts were the trend du jour.

But something interesting is happening in the online fashion playground. I'm seeing the dawn of a new era of the Femme Confiante. The rock-star woman coming of age where she's brave, bold and burgeoning; striding into her 40's, 50's and beyond with 'I'll-do-and-wear-what-I-want' bravado. No rules. And its about time.

Its beyond exciting to see stunningly beautiful women who, finding themselves halfway up the stairs, are pushing the boundaries of what it was once to be 'middle aged'. Sod that.. aint no space for elasticated polyester pants and matching plastic poncho here darling. No.. step aside for these awesome creatures of cool personified - look and learn girls.

the hilarious Kate of Does My Bum Look 40

Elle McPherson still The Body at 54 years old

Catherine Summers, Not Dressed As Lamb stunning at 45 years old

Suzanne Carillo aged 40 and some :) looking a-m-aazing

SJP... always on point whatever her age

Gwen Stefani rockin it at 48 years old

Next stop.... Going for Grey ;)

See you there!

Suze

SHARE:

0 comments

The Text

You always told me I should write a book. I always told you I would. But time.. that evasive bugger, the cheeky monkey that leaps around from branch to branch; the one we try desperately to pin down but can never quite catch.

Got to to run the kids around, feed the dog, visit the parents, do the shop, got the business to run, do the okekoki and turn around. The Anxiety. Oh yeah, that'll have nailed it.

All lame excuses dressed up in time-starved attire to provide sound and just proof as to why the book I know I can write, could I be arsed, still hasn't been. If I'd have wanted it badly enough, I'd have made time and poured myself into it. Boom. Published. On the shelves. Richard & Judy Book Club Winner.

I'd never in a million years have thought that your text on that cold, drizzly March evening would become the reason that I'd never again let any excuse stand in the way of writing the book I promised you I would write.

" Dear Belles, I'm really sorry to tell you by text but I'm receiving treatment for breast cancer when I get back from my holidays"

Silence and blackness have deafened my noisy, busy world.  I've been dropped into a vat of ice cold glue. I can't move. I can't breathe. My body is shaking so hard I can't stand. I'm freezing.

No Lou. Not you. Please no.

Impulsive. This is me. Act first, think second. Before I know it, I've dialled your number and your voice is there. But mine isn't. They're all there. The words of comfort I'm going to share with you, the positive encouragement that this is all going to be ok...lined up in an orderly queue. But a petulant child has barged to the front without care and consideration. It's taken the sharp pain in my chest and is mercilessly pouring it out of my eyes.

"hello..hello.. Suze.. "

I've taken your pain, made it my own and have taken centre stage. This is so wrong. It's topsy turvy. You're consoling me using the gentle words I should have been wrapping you up in, the same as you have always done with me and everyone else. It's your souls' default. It's why you are loved so much by the hundreds of children you have taught over the years.

I'm trying to stop crying. I bite my lip so hard it bleeds.

"Im sorry Lou. sorry. sorry. sorry"

Pathetic. Selfish. Ashamed.

In the moment, minutes and days that have followed, you are always there are soon as I open my eyes and when I go to sleep. I think of little else. I consider how just one fleeting moment in time can create such a tidal wave of change.

They say cancer doesn't have a face until it's on someone you know.

I can't bring back the minutes I stole, not being stronger for you on that cold, drizzly day in March. But I can and will be there for you on this journey - your journey. I will remain at the sidelines until you need me. My laughter, tears and shoulders are ready to share. On stand-by. And there'll always be tea. Lots of it.

Until then.. I have a book to write.

Your book to bind when you ring that victory bell.

SHARE:

1 comments

Zumbabum

I finally had a word with myself and joined the gym.

Yes. I gasped too.

You see I'd had a little run in with my bingo wings and was appalled when The Teenagers observed that my rear end was looking like I'd been rear-ended into a wall so flat was it. How they tittered as they raised their phones to capture the humiliation ready to share with the online Big Bum Brigade. I'd been thrown to the Millennial lions - ready for my petit derrière to be publicly mauled.

Remember the olden days when we'd have happily dived under the wheels of a moving milk float  rather than be accused of having a big bum.  "Mum does my bum look big in these dreadful starched jeans with zero stretch and a stupid fabric belt???!" we wailed. The hours I spent in my parents front room clad in my lycra all-in-one and headband feeling the burrrrrn with Jane Fonda and desperate to be the goddess that was Jamie Lee-Curtis. And then came Flash bloody Dance.

definitely me.. fully colour co-ordinated with

fake-this-is-shit-and- savage-smile

Well old girls here's the good news: big bums are big business! The resin-filled Kardashians have led our girls towards a freedom our bottoms could only ever have dreamed of...

Excellent.. just as ours have decided they've been traumatised enough and have started the retreat south towards the back of our knees.

And so it came to pass that tonight, I found myself in my first Zumba class. Did I mention I now dance like my mum? This matters as people who do Zumba well dance like J-Lo. They also know how to move their arms and legs in opposite directions at 5 different speed levels. They don't morph into a giant beetroot and run for their inhalers. When they twerk they look sexy like J-Lo. They don't look like the pissed up aunty doing the Birdie Song at a wake.

It was all a little too sweaty too late when I turned round to see The Teenagers, faces contorted against the glass gold fish bowl, hysterically laughing with phones held high, flash lights on...

My legs have already seized up and I've only been home 10 minutes. I've put St.Johns Ambulance on speed dial. I fear I'll be needing the delivery of a hoist to get me down the stairs tomorrow.

Next stop... lying down meditation ;)

SHARE:

0 comments

The Pause

I'm a 49 year old night sweat machine. I morph into a sponge that gets wringed out in the middle of the night for two weeks out of four. There's something irresistibly un-sexy about waking up with your wet dank hair attached to your cheek like a piece of modern art. And let's not talk about the imprint your tepid body leaves on the sheets after a night out at the Wet & Wild waterpark. It's like a crime scene body outline.

But then there is nothing vaguely sexy about entering that zone we women must all visit at some time. The zone in which you are required to hand in your former confidence, child-like energy, crystal clear memory, svelte figure and yes a dry, all night sleep.

I have just entered The Pause. 

Not quite the Meno-pause.. but its equally ugly sister, the Perimenopause. I say 'just' but my 'just' has been 16 years. 16 f***g years of feeling like Cindy Crawford one day and Mrs Haversham the next with intermittent sightings of Shining madness Jack Nicholson stylie. 

It's no bloody laughing matter. 

Especially when you realise that no-one told you about THAT hair - the black brillo pad one you spotted bungee jumping from your chin. The one the man on the bloody moon could have spotted from his lunar vantage point let alone the client you'd just parlayed with for the past 2 hours. Oh the shame of it. I remember trying to listen to my grandma tell me stories of happier, carefree days of bygone years and all the while wondering whether the small patch of vegetation growing from a patch on her own chin meant she'd actually been a pagan witch complete with blood red cape and broomstick. 

And now here I am. 

The witch. No broomstick. Yet. 

We could go on for pages, chapters, books - and people do - about the shit-stick deal we women are dealt with this whole mid-life shenanigans. Only last week, my teenage supermodel heroine Yasmin Le Bon was splashed across the front of the Daily Mail with the ominous words ' How menopause ruined my life'. She still looked super beautiful but confessed to have been covered in an additional layered of body fat since The Pause took hold. Great.

Women in The Pause are in a secret sweaty sisterhood. Its a club with no joining fee. Membership just requires you to:

* cry uncontrollably and unpredictably 

* forget where you put the keys, the dog, your life

* want to kill your partner, the kids but never the dog - a couple of times a month

* sleep rarely and shout about anything often

* weep at photos of you in your 20's and grieve about the woman who once had collagen and a waist

* console yourself by seeking out other Pausers who make you feel sane and normal as you all wonder what day of the week it is


To all my fellow Pausers... solidarity is the name of the game. And if you're not up for that wine and bags of chips come a close second.

Until next time xxxx

SHARE:

0 comments

Have You Met Andrea?

"Write a book"  they said

"I can't. I wouldn't know where to start" I said.

"Yes you can" they said. "You always write funny stuff on this blog and you always know where to start" they said

"That's because this is a blog and not a book. Nobody, except you and my mum reads it. And anyway, you only think I'm funny after wine." I said

I bloody love my friends.

I've decided that I won't write a book but I will write a Blook. A halfway house if you like.

Blogs and my Blook are different. I can get my head and words around a blook in a way that I know I couldn't do with writing a book. Not yet at least.

If you've poked around this little blog of mine, then you'll realise there really hasn't been a theme. I've darted around from jeans to journey's making a stop at a couple of obscure tea shops on the way without making any real sense. But as I sit in front of my warm fire today surrounded by a dog, a one-eyed cat and panoramic views of the bleak Manchester greyness it's slapped me right in the face.

The directionless waffle has really only been a wordy manifestation of what's been going on upstairs. Not literally upstairs. Not like in my bedroom or bathroom because, well, thats a full stop at the end of a very boring story.

No this is about my head and my friend Andrea.

I haven't introduced you to Andrea yet. She's been a friend I've tended to keep to myself for the past couple of years. Until recently that is, when I realised that sharing her with lots of other people wouldn't actually be a bad thing. Infact, quite the opposite - it might indeed be really thoughtful if not helpful.

I should add that Andrea is her stage name. Her real name is Anxiety.

I met Andrea upon waking one morning. She arrived unannounced, unapologetically and determinedly intent on making her presence known by jumping on my chest with the force of an abandoned elephant. It was uncomfortable and terrifying in equal measures. I looked at my sleeping husband wondering whether he'd heard the thud. The soft rise and fall of the duvet suggested not. My heart felt like it would explode out of my chest whilst fear raced around my body scratching it inside with hot molten tar. I didn't know what to do so I did what I always tend to do in a crisis. Nothing.

2 years on and with some clever scrambling of my once organised and focused mind, Andrea has managed to disorientate me - leading me away from the dynamic, decisive and successful woman I once was. She's stolen my sense of direction and certainty leaving my boat without sails.

But then.. you might already know Andrea too. Do you? Maybe we can swap stories.

I know this isn't quite the twist in the story you might have been expecting considering I started it with a cloaked nod to what a witty woman I am. I've let my head do the talking through my fingers and the keyboard without consciously thinking about what comes next. I've not re-read what I've already written above (believe me, I'll hit delete faster than you can say it!) and instead I'm just letting it all spill out like a splendid red wine poured out of a big crystal decanter.

So here's what you know.

* I am (allegedly) a witty woman who can, when inspired, write. I can't promise it'll be funny though. Unless you drink wine and then I'll be hilarious.

* I have a friend called Andrea. She's a bloody pain in the arse - well, in the chest actually but let's not split hairs on that. We'll talk some more about her. But not now. Slowly steady as my dad would say.

* I have a dog and a one-eyed cat.

* I have plenty to talk about, none of it really driven by a theme (like the young blogging superstars do) other than me; a 40-something, working mum of 2 gorgeous teen girls and wife to long- suffering fella who likes to talk with a cockney swag.

Fancy trogging along with me on my middle-aged magical mystery tour? I can't guarantee you'll LUUUURRVVVE everything you read but I'm pretty sure you'll relate to a lot of it.

For now... I'm off to slay Andrea.

Suze x

SHARE:

0 comments

59 Backwards

This is Doreen.

I spotted Doreen as she pushed her shopping trolley awkwardly through a busy Tesco car park on the sunniest of Autumn days. She wasn't difficult to miss in her perfectly colour co-ordinated skirt, hat, gloves an burgundy tights. She looked adorable.

I approached her and told her I loved what she was wearing. She bought her trolley and walking support to a halt as she looked at me with a young delight in her eyes. 'Thank you, my love - I knitted it all myself'. As someone who has only ever knitted and pearled a scarf big enough to keep a hamster warm from the elements, I was more than impressed. 

"Look, I knitted this too" she continued

 
                   

It made me smile. She'd thought the whole thing through - keeping herself stylish and warm and creating a special place to keep her bus pass safe!

"I'm 59 backwards" she chirped. She flipped open the lid of her trolley as if opening a vault to a collection of precious jewels.

 "I'm an artist. I paint and then make cards to give people. I don't sell them, I just give them away so that other people can enjoy them" They were as beautiful as she was. She continued to tell me that home was Pontypridd, Wales, and that her father had been a coal miner all his life. We talked about Aberfan and the tragedy that enveloped it when a colliery spoil tip collapsed killing 116 children and 28 adults. "I remember it well" she said sadly. 50 years on and it was as raw to her as it was then.

I had spent all of 10 minutes talking to Doreen and as I waved goodbye to her I wondered whether like many other elderly people, I had been the only person to have shown any interest in her; given her time to share a story of her life and to make her smile. Once upon a time, when Doreen was halfway up the stairs, I wondered what kind of woman she would have been and the life she was living. I suspect that whatever it was, she'd have killed it with her personal style and artistic flair. I like to think that Doreen would have stopped a gorgeous little elderly lady in a knitted bobble hat and dress as she pushed a trolley precariously through a busy Tesco car park on the sunniest of Autumn days.

Everyone has a story. Wouldn't it be lovely if we asked more of our elderly about theirs?

Until next time

Suze xxx

SHARE:

0 comments