Tag Archives: Fabulous

I’m Too Busy Being Fabulous

Posted on May 14, 2012 | 4 Comments

I appear to have taken an unintended blog holiday since dumping AF unceremoniously via email. Sorry about that – not sure what happened there! I have no excuse except I was too busy being fabulous.

The thing is, after everything with AF, and the fact that I’m clearly entirely inept at being a human being with feelings, I’ve been feeling a bit… well… pants. Blondie is all loved up with her pocket-sized beau still, Bridget’s choosing wedding venues, Flora’s permanently attached to her lover’s penis and Irish has fucked off back to the land of the shamrock for a minor mental breakdown (don’t get me started). I had a run of maybe three or four ‘plus one’ events in a row that I found it damn near difficult to fill, and it bummed me out big time. Seriously, if your plus ones have found their own plus ones and you’re still just a ‘one’, that can get a bit effing depressing.

I chose – perhaps unwisely – to reignite my fierce independent woman status, by inviting The Ex to the theatre. The last we heard from him, you may remember, he’d sent me a rather wanky showbiz text when I was in France, and I’d replied about a year later telling him I was busy until the end of time.

Desperate times call for desperate measures though, so I dropped the text and immediately he accepted. I rather think this was through a love of a good freebie as opposed to any lingering affection held for me, but take from it what you will.

So we went, and we talked (once he finally showed up. Late. Of course) and I told him about work and life and the fact that I’ve just been promoted (slipping that one in there) and had that day come out of an appraisal that essentially declared the world my oyster (well, theatreland anyway – maybe more of a mussel or a clam…) and on top of that I’d just won a pair of Vivienne Westwood pumps on ebay for an absolute steal.

‘Wow, sounds like things are going really well for you Ritzi!’ The Ex enthused while clapping a slightly patronising but probably well intended hand on my shoulder.

And actually I suppose… he’s kind of right.

Okay, so I haven’t found my Darcy, but frankly I’m smashing the crap out of Darcy’s estimated ‘ten thousand a year’ on my lonesome and it’s still too cold to expect a man to dive fully clothed into a lake as a form of foreplay, so maybe I’m not missing much.

So instead of moping around while everyone else picks out paint for their picket fence, I’m reminding myself that being single is basically awesome. Last week, I bought SIZE 10 skinny jeans*. Today, I’m off to Starlight Express press night with a gang of gays. Tomorrow, I’m taking over the world.

Just think what a girl can do with all that pointless ‘snuggle’ time…

RitziCx

*this is a big deal. My bootilicious ass has been in 12s for years. Nothing tastes as good as fabulous feels – and 100 squats a day doesn’t hurt either**.

**okay, that hurts. A lot.

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Posted in Theatreland Tales

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Something’s Gotta Give…

Posted on October 28, 2011 | Leave a comment

I’ve been annoyingly busy of late. Which Eton Boy decided to point out to me ever so slightly maliciously after I’d spent the evening of the Cosmo Blog Awards rubbing his face in the fact that I was eating my body weight in Pizza in La Porchetta and he… was not.

‘Not blogging much at the moment though are you………….?’

Alright smart arse.

Yes, I do in fact appreciate the irony that the girl who writes about her crazy life in the West End is having SUCH a crazy life in the West End at the moment that she’s finding it rather tricky to find time to actually report said craziness to the blogosphere.

The thing is (insider info alert) the West End is a horrendous nightmare in the Autumn, purely due to the sheer quantity of STUFF going on. Shows are opening, closing, struggling to survive and just generally creating a lot of work for the theatrically inclined. The hours are long and the post show wine is very necessary, and so it’s natural that something’s gotta give. In this case, it happens to be my social life.

Well fuck that. Ritzi Cortez without a social life is like Harry Potter in contacts.

In theory I’ve made a conscious decision to limit theatre-going to once a week (admittedly, the day I made that decision I also tripped over my own feet in my haste to get my mits on tickets to The Last Of The Duchess in Hampstead but I digress). I will not be the girl who sleeps, then drinks coffee, then goes to work, then goes to the theatre, then drinks wine, then does it all again.

Time to throw a little fabulous back in.

So tonight, I’m donning a naughty Hallowe’en costume, and joining The Guru at The Hospital (it’s a club. Don’t have a cow) for a night of spooky festive fun. And men. And cocktails.

And I’ll be damned if I’m still stuck for something to write about in the morning.

RitziCx

 

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HOW many parties?

Posted on October 13, 2011 | 3 Comments

A few mornings ago, some kind of crazy miracle happened.

I managed to get my ass out of bed after 2 1/2 hours sleep, 6 espresso cocktails, 4 glasses of wine, 2 weird cranberry things, half a glass of champage and and 2 tequila shots, and stumble through an entire day of work. A weirdly productive one at that. I’m so creative when I’m smashed.

You see, it all started about a week ago when a friendly PR I know sent me an invite to a fabulous awards party in exchange for passing more invites onto a selection of famous people.

I passed on the invite – however said famous people are in West End shows and therefore unable to attend a 9-midnight shindig… but Ritzi’s free!

Downside – also happened to be on the same night as a press night that I had already RSVP’d yes to. DARN IT. The solution? Go to both of course!

So, at 8.30, I’m legging it out of the door of my office, fancy invite in hand, and hopping a cab to Mayfair, where legendary diva The Guru and I then proceeded to party on down with exceptionally cool people, most of whom popped up on 3am.co.uk the next day much to my surprise.

(I really need to pay a bit more attention to pop culture outside of the 1980′s and know who the heck people are.)

A few hours later, after an awful lot of cocktails, The Guru apparently knew absolutely everyone in the room, and had no issue with my crying off early from partay number one. I left just before she stumbled spectacularly and threw her espresso martini all over the designer suit of a rather nicely turned out gentleman.

*side steps*

Into another cab I leapt, yelling out (slightly drunkenly) the address of a West Endy venue across town. It’s after 11pm by this point, but there was so much caffeine in those cocktails that I practically bounced down the red carpet into the next party. Then I discovered the slippery shiny floor and promptly stopped bouncing, lest I break a limb.

Much as I adore a posh party, with people in attendance I’d probably recognise if I didn’t spend most of my time locked away in a darkened room in theatreland, I can’t escape the fact that walking into a slightly less polished, rather more rowdy gathering where the drinks on offer are fairly decent wine and shots of tequila, I instantly feel at home. I hit the bar immediately, greeted by a chorus of wordless cheering that could have been my name – I couldn’t tell. Then for about an hour I was dragged around from person to person, congratulating, gushing, flirting my ass off with the cast, and generally schmoozing my socks off.

Despite the fact that I knew, even then, that the next morning was going to be sheer TORTURE, I still love my crazy life sometimes. Especially on occasions like that. Even more so on occasions like that when I happen to run into The Ex while he’s doing his rounds as a West End Leading Man, all the while looking hot and having very little time to talk to him on account of working the room so damn much.

The moral of this story kids – if you look very closely – is that one should always do one’s best to live life to the fullest. If you can help it – never turn down an invitation, always show your face at everything, and take every opportunity you can to be fabulous.

Take The Guru for instance – I emailed her yesterday asking when she was back from NYC, and her response was thus;

‘Not sure darling – having way too much fun at the moment to come home! Fabulous people – why go back yet?’

Carpe Diem people – it’s the only way. Just don’t blame the hangover on me, that was your own doing.

RitziCx

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Zumba-holics Anonymous

Posted on June 23, 2011 | 3 Comments

My name is Ritzi Cortez and I am a Zumba-holic.

‘Serious body sculpting for party animals’

Now that is a tagline I can get my head around.

A couple of weeks back, I had a date all planned and whatnot (those of you who follow me on twitter may recall this) who then cancelled on the day of, which royally pissed me off as not only do you just not cancel on Ritzi Cortez, but  I’d also worn heels, a very foolish thing to do in my office.

Anyhoo, long story short, the Aussie totally got in on the man hating and declared that she was going to Zumba for the first time that evening and that I should join her.

“It burns 600 calories in one class,” she informed me. “That’s more than sex honey.”

It burns more calories than sex? I. Was. Sold.

So that evening I joined the Aussie and her mate Disney Princess at Zumba at Clapham’s Clear Wellness centre, a place which also does Yoga and HULA HOOP CLASSES (I know, right?) and we shook our fabulous asses to the beat.

Oh. My. God.

Zumba is frickin awesome. Coming from a Musical Theatre world as I do, I’m no stranger to shaking it on the dance floor, but any one who knows me will tell you that while I’ll do it if I have to, I’m not a fan of the dancing aspect of my former career. However, stick me in a gym studio and pump up the latin inspired beat, and all of a sudden all those years of tedious dance classes finally pay off and I was LOVING it.

I love it so much that I signed up straight away and now make it my business to go three times a week.

Esther, the Saturday morning teacher at Clear Wellness, is an absolute demon. Seriously, the woman kills me. Especially this last weekend after I managed to imbibe a bottle and a half of red wine on Friday night and somehow managed to get my ass to Zumba the next morning by 11am. I swear to god I was sweating wine, but afterwards I felt amazing. 

Therefore, I advise all folks of the world to get their Zumba on and pronto, and pretty soon you’ll be shakin (as opposed to wobbling) that ass all over the world.

Zumba zumba zumba.

RitziCx

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Life Laundry Is Good For The Soul

Posted on May 30, 2010 | Leave a comment

So today I cleaned my house, which is normal for a Sunday, but I also began to tackle the mammoth mountain of crap that is my bedroom.

Now, I am not an untidy person by nature (at least since I moved out of my Mother’s house and learned the joy of furniture polish) but since I started this new crazy job I have barely had a minute to sit down, let alone begin to de-clutter the mess that seems to accumulate in one’s boudoir when you regularly forget to do washing and you own more shoes than shoe boxes.

Today, however, faced up to the task. I armed myself with a bin liner, several wash cloths and an industrial bottle of bleach and headed up the wooden hill to bedfordshire, and I’m telling you – it ain’t half satisfying.

My dressing table, formerly reminiscent of the ladies bathroom in Underworld on a Saturday night, is now neat and organised… my hairdryer is even in the drawer. That never happens. I threw away my battered old makeup bag and laid out my slap in order of brand, carefully manoeuvring the MAC and Bobbi products in front of my trusty rimmel rouge.

Don’t judge me. It’s a damn good blusher.

In fact, my dresser is now so spotless and tidy that you might forget it was mine… until you look closely and spy the ‘Legally Blonde’ branded nail file and the ‘Dirty Dancing’ compact mirror. God bless press night goody bags.

As I rifled through the heap of clothing that I have been carefully storing on my floor for the past few months, I uncovered items I’d forgotten I even had! Since I started this job I’ve been shopping constantly (stress relief) and could not for the life of me work out why I still kept running out of clothes. Answer is this, Ritzi; they were on your damn floor.

How could I forget: Fabulous Sonia Rykiel sweater dress that snuck under my bed. Powersuit friendly Ted Baker, black, tailored shirt that went straight in the wash since it was more dust than shirt once I pulled it out from behind my wash basket. Floor length, purple Karen Millen frickin BALLGOWN that I wore when I last dragged my ass on stage in a Cabaret.

Sometimes, my total disregard for my own possessions shocks and appals even me. This is what happens when I get a project… I become obsessed and lose all sight of anything else. Well, this madness must end! My new job is a constant daily showbiz obsession from dawn til dusk. If I don’t learn to balance I’ll be screwed when I get a month with no bank holidays.

Not to mention the fact that I also intend to have some sex in this house before I move in August. Generally, out of regard for my flatmates, I pack an extra pair of knickers and a toothbrush and go back to the guy’s place (what can I say, I’m a screamer) but this bed hasn’t seen any action since TV boy and that’s just bad karma to leave a mattress with.

I encourage a life laundry folks – be it your bedroom, your bulging purse, your makeup bag or your love life, it clears up your mind and gives you a sense of achievement you just don’t get on the average cluttered weekday.

Ciao now,

Ritzix

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