It's a Wonderful Life…

…isn't it…?

Lego Monster March 28, 2012

I have created a Lego Monster, dear readers. This is only made worse by the realisation that my blog category “Lego” and “Addictions” is only getting bigger by the day. As those of you who have read “My Boyfriend is Addicted to Lego Shopping” will know, his new found obsession with Lego started off as a well meaning attempt to put some of the child like sparkle back into Christmas for him. Unfortunately I didn’t really foresee the long term effects of this: not only have I caused my twenty six year old boyfriend to regress back to playing with Lego, but I’ve caused his twenty three and twenty one year old brothers to go the same way. Now I wish to make it clear that I never intended for the two of them to be similarly effected.

Last night, following the incident of the Altercation with the Dustbin, the boyfriend kindly picked me up from work and presented me with a carrier bag full of lovely posh chocolate. My immediate response was to proclaim this to be a reward for being ridiculous and I should continue driving my car as if it were a bumper car at the funfair. Shortly after this I surmised it was in fact a (very well aimed) ruse. A deflection if you will, from what the three muskateers had been up to all day. I knew there had been some talk about going shopping while I was at work and visiting the Lego Shop (a.k.a Mecca – not to be confused with Meccano which, apparently, is “TOTALLY different from Legos, duh”).

The three, grown men, had gone and whiled away the hours at the Lego shop. They managed to frighten away any child that so much as glanced at their coveted treasures and, after maiming several children, left the shop with six different Lego sets between them. Yes, SIX. My boyfriend had desired one of these sets for quite some time (having researched all the other possible sets he could add to his ever expanding Lego Collection: “But I am just getting next month’s Lego allowance early”?!?!) and had chosen the biggest one they had in the store: “NO, there are other bigger ones….”

My Dad pointed out to me earlier that it would actually be fairly easy to maintain order in a relationship where my partner had regressed so far as all I needed to do was threaten to take his toys away if he didn’t do as he was told. This was especially appropriate as I had already done this the previous evening when the conversation steered back towards the incident of the Altercation with the Dustbin and I threatened to take away and hide a vital component of his new Lego if he persisted. His response: “Oh no! Don’t take away the battery pack!” Sorry did you just say “battery pack”? Apparently his amazing super duper wow new Lego has a battery pack included: “It doesn’t drive or anything but the windows and doors open”.

As I sighed and looked around for a sane person in the room

The Boys and Their Toys...

The Boys and Their Toys…

I found that all had gone silent. It was, in fact, the quietest the house had ever been when they were all in before which seemed eerie. Then I realised that the silence was that perfect silence of concentration. The boys were all sat on the floor with little piles of different coloured Lego all around them trying to construct theirs the fastest.

What have I done?

 

She Drove the Starship Voyager into a Dustbin…. March 25, 2012

One of the many hazards of your boyfriend being one of three brothers (as I am sure many of you will relate to) is having to a. do boy talk b. take a considerable amount of stick when you do anything remotely silly. This is incident combined me doing something absolutely absurd, boy talk and taking a considerable amount of stick.

Somehow last night myself and one of the boyfriend’s brothers got onto the highly intelligent topic of “Which would you say was better: Star Wars or Star Trek?” believe it or not I actually did take a few minutes before I gave my answer which I was told was fairly controversial (ooookkkaaayyy) I was then asked which Captain of the space ship in Star Trek I had though was the best again I gave a fairly educated answer (it’s no longer such a well kept secret that I am, secretly, a bit of a geek at heart).

My boyfriend then joined in the conversation by proclaiming Captain Janeway to have been his favourite (the first female captain of the space ship). I was already suspicious as to his choice when this led into reasoning as to why it had taken so long to get a female captain: women drivers. Ah, now I saw where this was going, let me guess she drove the ship into a dustbin in outer space? Some jabber ensued about women being careless drivers and having no sense of direction etcetera: “in the first episode she gets lost, like, hundreds of light years away”. Yes, hilarious, I am sure you will agree dear readers.

I have spent two days taking stick for the fact that, a couple of nights ago; I smashed my own car window. On my own driveway. By driving into our dustbin. As my Father very kindly pointed out to me “that bin has been in the same place for the past four years and no one else has ever bashed it” a fact I am very much aware of, thank you. I didn’t actually think I had broken it at first and I didn’t actually drive into it especially hard but I caught the corner of the bin lid on my rear window, heard a pop, tried to get off of the bin, got stuck and then heard the tinkling. Excellent. No primal screaming or beating of fists or head on steering wheel took place at this stage…Well not much at least.

I described this scenario and the twinkling of little bits of broken glass to my boyfriend when he came round to point and laugh at what I had done. To my own car. He kindly pointed out that I could envisage the tinkling as being a bit like “a fairy sound” (knowing I like fairies and was very distressed about being stupid enough to smash my own car window. On my own driveway. On a dustbin). Oh yes, the sound of tinkling broken bits of my rear window is exactly akin to fairy dust, darling. I was not snarling and did not have steam coming out of my ears at this point.

How many times do you think, readers, I will be subjected to conversations coming back to “dustbin” over the oncoming weeks/months/years?

 

NO! Your OTHER left March 21, 2012

My Sat Nav and I have quite the love – hate relationship. You see she just loves getting me lost and I simply hate her telling me: “lost satellite reception” always at a critical point in the journey.  The BF asks me why I even bother with a Sat Nav because, of course, he knows how to get just about everywhere, and I am very pleased for him for this – no really. The reason he knows every single road and lane wherever we’re going at all times? Because and I quote: “I cycle round here” “I cycle round here” “I cycle round here”. So I gather you cycle round here then? Yes that’s right you’ve cycled just about everywhere well done you. “I cycle round here”. Excellent, then get out of my car and produce your bike from where the sun doesn’t shine and cycle yourself back home then. Which he does. Ah, great, how do I get home now? “Lost. Satellite. Reception”…

The other thing she does is say left when really she means right – or even just straight ahead. My story (and I’m sticking to it) is that she makes up the maps as she goes along depending on her mood: the little “(re)calculating” madam. However, I have gathered that it’s not just her sense of direction that’s at fault because when she says left my boyfriend points out that, actually, no she means my OTHER left. Oh. Oh dear. She doesn’t need to shout at me though, it’s not my fault she gives me such short notice “in 3 miles make a u turn” (ah, I missed an OTHER left, again) followed by silence and then “make a u – turn, MAKE A U – TURN NOW!”.Ah well, you get to see the best of the country’s prettiest roundabouts and learn exactly where all the best u – turn points are this way. Anyone for a nice drive in the country?

 

 

Driving Round The Bend March 14, 2012

Filed under: Being unfit,Driving,Imagining I Can Drive — leatierney @ 9:16 am
Tags: , ,

I must confess that my driving skills leave somewhat to the imagination: you imagine what it must be like for me to be able to control a car that is. I’ve been asked a few times how I managed to get a driving licence actually and the answer: I wouldn’t stop showing up for tests so they just caved eventually under the pressure of my menacing stare.

It did, in fact, take me until my third test before I actually managed to pass and as the second test went considerably worse than the third I wasn’t exactly hopeful. My fail on the second test was in the manoeuvres section: reversing round a corner. I still have a distinct problem with turning my head and NOT turning the steering wheel at the same time. So my fail was reversing round the corner and mounting the curb. Once…Twice… THREE TIMES! Yes that’s right, I mounted the same curb three times even after pulling forward each time and straightening up, I just ended up right back where I started. On the third test I think they just gave up and realised that was the best I was ever going to give and there I had it: my licence to kill.

Actually if I’m honest I’ve not killed anything yet. That’s not to say I haven’t hit a considerable amount of inanimate objects and squashed lots of plants though. And poor Kitty (yes I named my dear little bumper car) does have quite the collection of scratches and bumps but I would like to reiterate (for the BF’s benefit really) that I have not caused any real (significant or life threatening) damage.

The biggest bump I’ve given Kitty is right on her behind and she received it shortly after I managed to harass the examiners into giving me a licence (swearing never to darken their door again). One morning I drove into work to find that one of my colleagues had managed to get herself into work on the train from London having had a fall that morning and could barely walk, so, very altruistically, I offered to drive her down to minor injuries to have it looked at. I think she may later have considered herself safer with a busted foot than in my car but nevertheless. So there I am, windows down merrily singing along to my stereo in the sunshine and, right there, in front of me is the perfect space. Except, well, really I kind of need to do a reverse park and I haven’t done one of those since my last (third) test and as I mentioned before reverse isn’t one of my strongest points. But I tackle it anyway, with gusto, and find I actually can get myself into a space backwards. Dead Chuffed. BANG! Oh, erm, oops. Bollard. Didn’t see that in my mirrors. The spectators walking past did though and my passenger forgot all about her dodgy foot (until I accidentally stamped on it) while she was laughing at my parking. Ah joy, I love driving.

 

Oh For The Love of…CAKE!!! March 7, 2012

“I love cake” proclaims my Mum, “Yes Mother I know” I sigh, “No, you don’t understand I REALLY LOVE CAKE” she mumbles. She’s mumbling because she’s trying not to drop crumbs down herself and that’s kind of the give away that she has a bit of a love thing for cake: “from the jam stain on your t-shirt should I presume that’s a Victoria Sponge Cake?” I enquire. Her answer: “Nope, S’gone”.

My Mother is NOT a role model for healthy living. Her penchant for cake goes so far that she nearly screamed the house down when she saw that a chocolate gateaux required two hours defrosting time: “TWO HOURS?! I can’t wait two hours” she pauses for breath, “WAIT… it say’s if you slice it, it takes FOURTY FIVE minutes less…RESULT.” The madwoman then proceeds to the shed to fetch a chainsaw (ok not exactly a chainsaw but at that angle the carving knife was easily mistaken for one) “If I slice it into LOTS of pieces it’ll defrost EVEN quicker.” This statement is then followed by a manic evil scientist hatching a master plan of world domination style cackle: “Mwahahahahaha…CAAAAKKKEE!”

Ten minutes later:

Mother is literally watching gateaux defrost: “Do you think if I blow on it, it will defrost quicker?”

Two minutes later:

“Oh, sod it; I’ll just eat it frozen. Who needs teeth anyway?!”

 

Life in the “hood” aka life in the Village/Ghetto. Innit. Bruv March 4, 2012

Filed under: Being unfit — leatierney @ 6:21 pm
Tags: , ,

That’s correct, I live in Ghetto Ville. Apparently. This is according to the 17 year old boy in our household who discourses with his friends in the “hood” style. Because they is well ‘ard innit yeah, you get me? No, it’s alright, I don’t expect you to “get me” because “you don’t even know me bruv”, oh how I wish this were so. If you haven’t heard any of this ghetto speak and wish me to decode it for you I am afraid I cannot: I am no more able to speak “ghetto” (aka R.I.D.I.C.U.L.O.U.S) than you are.

Perhaps I should paint a picture for you of the Ghetto in which the “Village Massive” live. Our Village and the surrounding villages are much like any other countryside village really, everyone says good morning and good afternoon, walks their dogs on a Sunday morning, they all trade their garden produce and there is a “healing” retreat up the road. The closest high street is three miles up the road and holds a tiny police station that’s only open limited hours for lost cats and such. There are a handful of shops including an antiques shop, several hairdressers, a handful of country gentleman type pubs, a clock shop, a florist and a jeweller. Of course there is also the Ghetto Ville Mecca: Tesco. “I’m a bad man, you get me?” Indeed, bad at spelling, bad at grammar and BAAAAD  attitude but don’t worry you all get to spend Mummy and Daddy’s hard earned cash on Tesco sandwiches, kebabs and taxis to the high street because walking there is just “long man, innit”.  And no, I don’t get you, because, unlike you of course, I haven’t been raised in the “hood”.

The Ghetto kids were mostly raised in a suburban bubble surrounded by rolling countryside and farm land. They went to the little village schools and spent Sundays at Farmers markets with their parents. Now they have identical matching missing eyebrows, pants on display (that’s not just the boys) and somehow manage to have shiny new trainers every few weeks, despite having had a “deprived” childhood that we don’t understand and have got issues, yeah?

Our Christmas entertainment this year was the board game “CHAV” as a tongue in cheek poke at the attempt to “Ghetto – up” our village. We figured it would be interesting to see who would actually come out as king or queen of the chavs in our house: surely it would be the actual “gangsta” in our midst?  There was considerable mirth around the table as we battled to keep hold of Ayia Napa, Alco pops, a belly bar and a box of Super kings.  Much to his own irritation Ghetto Boy was the first to be eliminated and he stomped out of the house to go and “hang” with his “homeboys” in the bus shelter up the high street (no, I have no idea what this actually entails either).

So, who eventually won the chav crown? Well, if you hadn’t already guessed, me of course.