Tag Archives: exercise

Bribery and the MAD Blog Awards

MAD Blog Awards 2011

It’s a sad day when you find yourself revelling in triumph after beating a toddler at poohsticks, especially when that toddler is not your own.

But this is what my life has now become. I never win anything, you see. Not even a tenner on the Lottery. So to win a game of poohsticks is, actually, rather a big deal.

I realise I’m not doing myself any favours here. You’re probably rolling your eyes at me already and mouthing get a bloody life. But I can’t help it if I’m a competitive person who spends her life pretending not to be competitive at all.

So imagine my angst / excitement / crushing sense of foreboding when I found out about the MAD blog awards. Here’s my chance to actually win something. A real victory. One that doesn’t involve conning a two year old during a game of poohsticks.

But then I bump back to reality and remind myself that I’m not a winner. I’m a poohstick cheating loser who’s never won anything at all.

Feeling sorry for me yet? Have I tugged at your heart strings enough? (Emotional blackmail is my forte, one that my baby has clearly inherited).

So let me tell you about the MAD blog awards. They’re the awards which recognise brilliance in blogging amongst Mummy and Daddy bloggers. There are fifteen categories, all with very tempting prizes. But to even get nominated is a rather big deal. Each category will get whittled down to five blogs, the five with the most nominations. The winners will be chosen by a panel of judges.

All sounds rather scary doesn’t it? But who dares wins and all that…

And here’s the bit where the bribery comes in. If I get nominated then I promise I will share with you a true story involving me, nakedness and a gang of firemen. It isn’t that kind of story – I’m really not that kind of girl. But it is funny. Or at least it was for anyone who happened to be in the area at the time.

So maybe you think my Rod Off post is deserving of a nomination for the Best MAD Baby Blog. Or maybe my Sitting Envy post did it for you.  Or maybe you’ve enjoyed reading about my foray into exercise and how I became a flatulent car thief. If that’s the case you might want to nominate me in the Best New MAD blog category. Whatever, I’m not picky.

But remember this, I’ve never won anything before and if I get nominated you’ll be richly rewarded with a very true and very shameful story. Note the use of bribery and emotional blackmail in this post. My baby may only be nine months, but I’ve already finely tuned the two key skills needed to raise her for the next eighteen years…

To nominate me, simply follow this link or click on the badge above to take you to the MAD Blog Awards nomination form.

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The perils of postnatal exercise: Part III

It’s happened again.

The ritual humiliation, pain and constant pummelling of self-esteem. The sweaty socks, sweaty pants and sweaty bum crack. The sickeningly toned beautiful people. The hot room, the weights and the constant never-ending bouncing-bloody-squats.

Yes, it’s Bootcamp time.

After the pants-wetting and hairy toe episodes of last week, it’s fair to say I’m the least popular Bootcamp victim. But just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.

Again, I made a promising start. I survived the kettle bell drill. For those of you unfamiliar with this method of torture, it involves standing up, bending down, lifting, pushing and bouncing. All while holding a heavy weight and doing your best not to fart.

I also survived the running back and forth across the room while being shouted at. Without wetting my pants. Or farting.

All in all, I was feeling pretty smug. And sweaty.

But then I got to the car park. I wasn’t in the best of shapes. The smugness was giving way to a dazed and confused feeling. With a bad case of trapped wind.

The car park was dark. It was cold. I was scared.

I fumbled in my pocket and grabbed my key. The trapped wind was turning into a stabbing pain deep in my stomach. I pushed my key into the lock and…nothing happened. I was getting desperate. As the pain intensified, terrifying scenarios started to run through my head…I’m going to get mugged, I’m going to have to ring the police, I don’t have my phone, my car’s broken down, the baby’s going to wake up and I’m miles from home. I’m going to get mugged…

And then a sharp tap on my shoulder.

This is it. I’m being mugged. It’s actually happening. Please don’t hurt me.

I turn to find one of the Beautiful People staring angrily at me.

Turns out I’d only been trying to get into the wrong bloody car. The sheer relief that I wasn’t being mugged was all too much. I could hold it in no longer. Yep, that’s right. I did a massive trump.

Great. So now I’m a pants-wetting, hairy toed, flatulent car thief.

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The perils of postnatal exercise: Part II

Everyone knows Friday nights are for drinking wine. Everyone that is, except the sickeningly toned and beautiful people who run Boot Camp.

This is the Boot Camp that I signed myself up to, in an I’m so fat moment. The Boot Camp that I instantly regretted joining. The Boot Camp that I’ve paid more than £60 for. The Boot Camp that the (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine has money on me packing in next week.

Well I’ve proved him wrong so far. I’ve now completed my second session of humiliation and pain. And because I’m a woman of my word, I will share the whole sorry episode with you.

It all went rather well at first. I ran (or sort of rolled) a whole mile without stopping. I did bouncing squats without wetting myself. I even managed a full press up (sort of). On the whole, I was pretty pleased with myself.

And then came the Pilates.

They never told me we would have to take our shoes and socks off. The thing is, when you have a baby you don’t have time to think about your feet. And it shows. Boy it shows.

I am now the least popular person at Boot Camp. No one wants to do The Triangle next to someone with feet like mine. I won’t go into too much detail, but in the past I have been known as Mrs Hobbit Foot.

So what have we learnt after Lesson Two? Wax your toes. It pays to be prepared.

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The perils of postnatal exercise

There’s nothing quite like an exercise class to make you feel rubbish about yourself.

Last night I took my first step to getting back into shape after having my baby. I know, I know, she’s eight months old now, haven’t I left it a bit late? J-Lo was back pumping iron after six weeks, you say? Whatever. I am lazy. I won’t deny it.

Anyway, it was hell. Pure, unadulterated hell.

The thing is, this experience of pure, unadulterated hell is one I will have to repeat twice a week, for six weeks. Because I’ve paid for all the lessons already. And I have a bet on with the (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine that I won’t drop out.

Seeing as it’s too late for me to save myself, I thought I would commit the utterly selfless act of being the exercise guinea pig. I will undergo a twice weekly humiliation, for your benefit. Every time something awful happens at one of these classes, I will share it with you. That way, you can gain all the virtuous experience of an exercise class, with none of the humiliation.

So, what have we learnt after Lesson One? Don’t do bouncing squats if you’ve had a baby in the last year. They make you wet yourself.

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