It's a Wonderful Life…

…isn't it…?

I Feel Like Chicken Tonight February 29, 2012


I have just been stood outside in the freezing cold for at least half an hour trying to outlast the cockerels. Bearing in mind my parents rescued the pair when they were found, believed to have been dumped, on the golf course where we live. So, the hens and ducks went away without a battle, the goose went into his shed a little begrudgingly but without too much hassle whilst the pigs screamed for food. My attempts to wave the cockerels towards the shed that is acting as their temporary home were to no avail. As soon as one of them got close to the door the other one did his best road runner impression and sprinted back off up the garden. I coaxed and cajoled with no result. After about five or ten minutes of these antics I decided to sit and try and wait them out: not before I ranted at them that if they were so keen to get eaten I would GLADLY be of service and fulfil such a request.

I don’t know how many of you have watched a chicken walk but one comedian made a spot on observation of their walking style recently that frustrated the life out of me trying to get them to go away. Chickens walk as if they are afraid of stepping on a land mine. One clawed foot goes up, rests in the air and is very gingerly placed down a few millimetres from where it started out then the same with the other foot. This ridiculous dance is continued almost all the way to the shed door. Then the chicken alters his choreography slightly and adds in some impromptu cleaning action…edges forward…edges back… ballerina stretch…cleans a bit….the suspense is killing me…ballerina stretch… actually the suspense is about to kill him.

Eventually the pair of them give in and enter the house for the night. I throw myself against the shed door and bolt it as quickly as I can before one of them decides to make another break for it. Inside there is not so concealed mirth from the cockerels as I can hear them clucking away to each other about the good joke they just played on me. I have just one word for you boys: “dinner”.

As I walk back up the garden I check that all the others are definitely away and secure.  Walking past the shed that the goose is housed in I simply sigh at the eccentricities of my parents “pets”. This goose, named Lou Lou but more deserving of “Butch” or “Rocky”, attacks Mum and I with real zest any time we walk past him and hisses and screeches any time he gets a glimpse of us. Very territorial and aggressive. However, as I walk past the shed I can see him through the window. At my eye level. He has somehow managed to propel his fat frame up onto the shed shelf in a bid to stay off the floor. Why? Because he’s absolutely petrified of the mouse that lives in the shed. Go figure.



An “Experimental Cook”…Bit like Heston…. February 22, 2012

Filed under: Being unfit — leatierney @ 9:19 pm
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In school I was forced to partake in Food Technology which was a course that was aimed at helping us to survive in the big bad world. Unfortunately I failed miserably to grasp most basic cooking principles and everything I made was inedible. Ah, that was if I remembered to bring in the ingredients needed, of course. There was a sigh of relief from the staff teaching this discipline when I was no longer required to make my brave attempts at culinary creation and a general vague hope that I might grow out of my ineptitude in the kitchen. No such luck. In fact; everything that I attempt to make is suffixed with “experiment”. This isn’t helped by the fact that I am now attempting to create edible delights using Gluten Free products which don’t behave in the same way (although somehow when I’m cooking the they do produce the same results…?).

Therefore we have the “Lasagne Experiment”, the “Ratatouille Experiment” and the “Truffle Experiment” to name but a few. The lasagne sheets were still rock solid after the required cooking time provided on the box and not even a chainsaw could cut through the top most layers: my version of “Al Dente” requires the risk of losing/breaking teeth. The “Ratatouille” quite literally looked like something the rat dragged in. And the truffles? Ah, the truffles were a masterpiece. A testament to my destiny to NEVER be a housewife. The truffle recipe I found sounded really straightforward and simple (ideal for me) with few ingredients. White Chocolate and Raspberry Liqueur Truffles. Yum. I figured they would make a lovely “Merry Christmas” for the rest of the team at work without costing me too much money. I followed the recipe to the letter except for doubling all the quantities and unlike my previous experiments I didn’t even make any little substitutions with the ingredients. To. The. Letter. What did I end up with after 48 hours of leaving the mixture to set? Melted White Chocolate with a splash of Raspberry Liqueur. Grand. So my Christmas present to my team ended up costing quite a bit: I surrendered my dignity in the name of comedy and took pictures of what it should have looked like and my inedible creation, posted them on the notice board with a message reading:

“Here’s what you COULD have had for Christmas if I wasn’t such a moron when it comes to domestic duties…Here’s how it came out…Merry Christmas”

Fortunately I was able to seek solace in the remnants (whole bottle) of the Raspberry Liqueur. *Hiccup*. If you ever want someone to help out in the kitchen I would recommend not calling me!


My Boyfriend Has Renamed Me Jim February 19, 2012

This is because after spending a day in my Mother’s company I am at the stage where I struggle to remember my own name. I was in the middle of a sentence which I stopped abruptly and couldn’t remember where I was going with it (a Mother favourite). He prompted me to continue but I couldn’t and told him so and that, really, I wasn’t even sure I could remember my own name at present: “Jim” was what he called me.

I regularly inform my Mother that she has “early onset” although she has told me I need to stop saying it in case someone takes offence. Incidentally, last week when I was talking to someone at work about my Mum’s inability to retain information for more than 3 minutes, they did actually point out to be that Alzheimer’s isn’t funny and I shouldn’t joke about things like that: “I’m not joking, she really does have early onset” ok I probably didn’t respond in the most adult manner but I have a VERY warped sense of humour (which they really should know by now) which led to me informing my Mum that someone with Alzheimer’s wouldn’t actually mind and get all PC about it, because within a few minutes of my saying it they would have forgotten anyway.( I am in no way to be considered to be mocking Alzheimer’s or Dementia: I realise more needs to be done to raise awareness of these issues) I just, quite literally, am the kind of person that would laugh at a funeral – I REALLY have done that. I would say ask my Mum to back me up on that one but, well, she probably doesn’t remember. Memory loss isn’t really a joke. Because it’s coming my way: I take after my Mother in a whole lot of ways. That’s why when I remind her that I will be choosing her nursing home and she responds that its okay because she is going to come over and wee on my furniture I am not at all concerned: I wont remember this agreement or even that she wee’d on my sofa.

We drove to somewhere my Mum had never seen before today and pulled into the car park “Oh, is this it? I don’t like it. It looks like somewhere you might dump a dead body” my response to this? “Mother, if I was confident in my ability to drive any car back home safely, let alone yours, I would be seriously considering testing that dead body theory…[long pause]…sorry what was I saying?”


February 15, 2012

Filed under: Being unfit — leatierney @ 1:26 pm

This person’s blog is too true

Reasonably Ludicrous

This morning, I woke up to a horrible realization. Actually, that happens pretty much every morning, the realization being that I’m awake and no longer in the blissful world of dreams.

But on this fateful day, I came to recognize a much more devastating truth: I had spent four years of my life studying English.

You’d think kids who get into Stanford would be smart enough not to pursue their dreams, but I’ve always been quixotic (and as an English major, I can tell you that word’s based on a character…from a book!), so I studied what I loved, future be damned! My parents, idealistic saps that they are, actually encouraged me towards this! They said, “Russ, you can do anything if you put your mind to it!” Can you believe that?

So I kept at it. I enjoyed my major, and I’ve never been one to deny…

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Twelve Signs your Parents are Tragically Addicted to Facebook

  1. Your Mum can tell you what all your friends’ status have been updated to today.
  2. Your Dad starts up a debate on what colour your hair should be using a picture you have been tagged in as a reference.
  3. That burning smell coming from the kitchen. That’s dinner.
  4. Your Dad sits through you talking to him without offering a single response to what you’ve said but merrily chuckles away to himself whilst tapping the screen on his phone. That’ll cost you Royal Bank of Dad.
  5. Your Mum starts talking about old photos on your boyfriend’s profile page. The walls start to feel like they are closing in around this stage.
  6. The teenager in the household deletes his Facebook account and switches to Twitter in the hope that it will take them years to catch up. And Facebook is his LIFELINE.
  7. Your friends start a conversation with “Erm, this is awkward, but I’ve had a friend request from your Mum…”
  8. Or (and I am yet to decide which is worse), your friend starts a conversation with “Oh yeah I was talking to your Mum about that earlier”….??!?!
  9. Your Dad attempts an “I have more Facebook friends than you” type of competition. Sigh.
  10. Your “Newsfeed” no longer shows any news except that your Mother “likes” 50 odd things on Facebook and your Dad has continued his debate over your hair colour…for 50 pages.
  11. You end up having to give your parents a “Facebook for Dummies” tutorial in order to stop them disgracing themselves (you).
  12. Your parents start attempting to censor your posts in case you start disgracing yourself (them).

Filed under: Being unfit — leatierney @ 11:04 am

February 13, 2012

Filed under: Being unfit — leatierney @ 8:10 pm