Monthly Musings: February

So the second month of 2015 has drawn to a close. I successfully survived another Valentine's Day alone without resorting to a heart-shaped chocolate overdose and, as we move into March, we're one step closer to being able to throw off our bulky winter coats and embrace the first signs of summer as it glimmers on the horizon (or, for those of us living in South Wales, a slight increase in temperature with a good chance of showers).

Those of you who read last month's musings will know that this month I challenged myself to spend less time shouting at re-runs of Judge Judy between mouthfuls of shortbread dipped in Nutella. Well, I'm proud to say I've spent a lot less time in my pjs this month, but I'm far from being anything close to interesting and/or fun. For instance, today I was determined to go out and 'live life', but the only place I could think of the go to is an overpriced bar 15 minutes from my house. So here I've sat, nursing the world's most expensive glass of lemonade and pretending to get some work done.

But at least I'm heading in the right direction I guess.

So here's a recap of my month...

That hair!

Obsession of the month...

My February obsession was Blown Away, an album by Carrie Underwood. I downloaded it at the start of the month and I've been continuously listening to it on repeat ever since. I'm listening to it as I drive, as I work, as I attempt to force my hair into a semi-attractive style, and I sing the songs to myself while I'm in the shower. I've been a Carrie Underwood fan for years (I don't know whether I'm more impressed by her music or her wonderful country-girl hair), but this is my favourite album of hers. It just makes me want to put on my cowboy boots and pretend I'm cool.

Accomplishment of the month...

While organising my lipsticks was a pretty big deal, I'm going to say the biggest accomplishment of the month was competing in my first cheer competition. No, scratch that. My biggest accomplishment was competing in my first cheer competition without having to run off the mat and vomit into the crowd of spectators. 
Either way, it was an amazing day and, if you haven't already, you can take a look at how the competition panned out in my cheer vlog.

Book of the month...

I got through quite a few books in February (determined as I am not to lose any more brain cells), but the one that stood out for me was Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It was beautiful to read, words lovingly stitched together in a way that almost gave them a texture of their own. It really forced me to evaluate my life, to consider the passing of time and the inevitability of death, which, while far from uplifting, was certainly more interesting than the thoughts I usually encounter on a daily basis ("Why would they take Tangled off Netflix?" "My foundation just ran out. How can I possibly leave the house?" "If these crisps now have half the fat, can I eat two packets?" and so on).
But, honestly, this is the best book I have read in a long time. 

Youtuber of the month...

Linzy Rae 

If you like your beauty gurus funny, down to earth and honest then I'm convinced you will love Lindsay's channel. Have you ever watched someone on TV or Youtube and thought 'I wish we were BFFs, she looks like so much fun'? Well that's how I feel about Lindsay (and the Long Island Medium, but that's a story for another day). 

Things ticked off The 2015 List...

Any movie with hot men in uniform is fine with me

I was convinced I had utterly failed again and made it through another entire month without crossing a single thing off the list, but when I double checked, I realised I'd managed to tick one off without even realising it. That totally still counts!
29. Watch Top Gun
I'm not sure how I made it to the ripe old age of 23 without watching a film in which Tom Cruise runs around dressed in military uniform (seriously, where has this been all my life?!) but it's fair to say that I thoroughly enjoyed it. Apart from the depressing bit in the middle. I sobbed through that part.

Next month I will aim to...

Work out some kind of life plan. Or, at the very least, work out what to do with the next few months. Don't get me wrong, being a full-time Disney Princess is all very well and good, but I need to start asking myself some important questions. Is this what I want to do for the rest of my life? If yes, who will realistically want to hire a 40 year old Elsa impersonator? Where shall I go on my summer holiday this year? Shall I get a fringe cut in?

By the end of March I'd like to have a clearer idea of what I'm doing with my life. Or, if not my life, then at least my hair. 

24 Hours of Fancy

If three years in Exeter taught me anything about myself it's that I am not a fancy person. I drink Blossom Hill instead of Prosecco, I do not understand the obsession with Jack Wills, and I have never held a £50 note. (While we're on the topic, does anyone actually know who's on the £50 note? I've always been curious.)

But last week I got the opportunity to pretend to be super fancy for a full 24 hours. It was exhausting. 

As a birthday treat for my mother we went to the Celtic Manor Resort, a golf, spa and leisure hotel and resort in Newport. Everyone from the Prince of Wales to Elton John, Shirley Bassey and even Obama have stayed there. Clearly, if it's good enough for Barack then it's good enough for us. 

I drove (purely because my car would fit in fractionally better among the BMWs and Porches than my mother's Ford Focus) and there was a long, winding driveway up to the hotel. Even the shrubbery was fancy! But there was a £15 charge to use the car park overnight! In a hotel as posh as the Celtic Manor you'd expect a valet in full livery with some kind of elaborate moustache to come and park the car for you (not that I would have dared let a valet get in my car, amongst the discarded Cadbury wrappers and crumpled up parking tickets). At the very least you expect to park for free. I mean, I can't imagine Obama standing at the ticket machine, counting out his pound coins.

However, by the time we got to the check-in desk, any irritation had been completely replaced with awe. The lobby was huge, with impressive dragon sculptures and giant Rolex clocks, showing the time in a random assortment of countries. It was even more impressive than the Radisson Blu in Cologne (although I may be biased because, well, there were dragons).

It was while we were queueing to check-in that we first spotted our holiday enemy. There is always a holiday enemy, regardless of where you go or whether you're there for two weeks or one solitary night. The holiday enemy is the person who keeps popping up at various points throughout your stay, seemingly with the sole purpose of irritating you.

Our holiday enemy was a lady in amongst a group of women who clearly thought they were auditioning for 'The Real Housewives of South Wales'. I didn't even know that people like this existed in real life, but there they were, looking more glamorous than any person has a right to at three 'o' clock in the afternoon in Newport. And then there was the holiday enemy, flicking her hair as if she was sponsored by L'oreal, laughing loudly so all the little people could hear, and staring down her nose at the rest of the world (literally, because her heels were so high).

"Look at her," My mother said. "She thinks that being in the Celtic Manor means she's really something special. But obviously it doesn't. After all, we're here!"

The room was amazing! There was so much space (I wish my bedroom was half as big) and we had a little sitting area with arms chairs, a desk, a dressing table, a view that stretched out for miles and a mini bar that we were too afraid to so much as look at. Then there was the bathroom. It was heavenly! I mean, the Bryn Meadows may have had a tv in the bathroom, but this bathroom had a giant mirror with lights all around and ample room to do makeup (even for someone who spreads out mess as much as I do).

After exploring the room we did a little turn around the lobby again, investigating the cocktail bars and restaurants and I taught my mother to carry her bag on the crook of her elbow because "that's how the rich people do it". Then we sat and had a coffee (which came with complimentary cakes!) and we tried to work out how we were possibly going to raise enough money to move into the hotel. Because clearly there was no going back to real life after a taste of such luxury.

We ate dinner in the Olive Tree, one of the restaurants downstairs, which served a hot buffet. I won't lie, I stuffed my face. Soup, turkey, duck, vegetables, weird rice things, some kind of gnocchi...I didn't turn down anything. I had five desserts and I feel no shame! Everything was delicious and, best of all, everything was labelled stating whether or not it was gluten free.

Then we got the bill and I thought my mother was going to throw four courses worth of food back up onto her plate.
"£9 for a glass of wine?!"
She complained all the way back to the room. Yes, she moaned about the price of wine all the way through the lobby of the most posh hotel in the country (but, even as she was ranting, she kept her bag on the crook of her arm in an attempt to blend in). Luckily she didn't find out how much my Cosmopolitan had cost until the next day.

After a night spent in wonderfully comfortable beds, and a morning spent stuffing our faces full of delicious breakfast goodies, we went to the pool. It was amazing! There were saunas, steam rooms, hot tubs, jacuzzis, sun loungers, a ceiling with little LCD bulbs, painted to look like the night's sky. It was all so...fancy!

But, all too soon, it was time to check-out. It was so sad, knowing that we were heading back out into a world where people wouldn't rush to our aid whenever we needed something or call us ma'am, a world where there was no one to come and re-fold our napkins between courses, where the baths were regular sizes and no one came to refill your wine glass.

We caught one last sight of our holiday enemy again, flicking her hair and posing.
"You know," I said. "If she really was that posh then she'd know you're not meant to wear open toe shoes after Labour Day."

And that's the story of how, for just one night, my mother and I became all fancy-shmancy, sipping on overpriced wine and dining on food we couldn't pronounce the names of. But alas, when the clock struck 12 it was check-out time and, as we pulled out of the car park, we instantly turned back into pumpkins.