Protected: How to be a much loved customer December 9, 2012
The Dog that Doesn’t Speak English July 8, 2012
I may have mentioned, once or twice, that my parents have a penchant for rescuing waifs and strays. This week I have received a constant stream of hysterical text messages from my mother. You see, she decided, this time, to rescue a dog from a group of ex pats out in Spain who have been lovingly rescuing and nurturing some very sad cases of animal cruelty and neglect. This dog hadn’t been neutered and, despite only being a baby herself, had gotten caught out and ended up with a litter of mouths to feed. My Mum took pity on this little being and decided she should come and live with us.
Bonita – means “pretty little one” in Spanish
Text message received after Bonita’s first night in her new home:
She’s following me everywhere like a lamb. Poppy [my dog] hates her. She has chased the cats out of the house and won’t let them back in the garden. She won’t listen when I tell her to stop
Text message returned:
She doesn’t speak English, what do you expect?
Text message to Mum the next day:
How are you today, much sleep? Still hysterical and a silly English woman getting between a dog and her toys?
No. Yes. She’s been on the roof.
HAHAHAHAHA. You mean the house roof don’t you? How did she get there?
Yes. Landing window was open.
Text message back:
Senorita Bonita thinks she can fly. Nuhnuhnuhnunnuh BAT DOG!
That evening, to calm my Mum’s hysterics about having this loony puppy that doesn’t speak English climbing on the roof, we went out for a walk. Surprisingly, the expected arch enemy, Poppy, actually rather likes bat dog now and they walk along side by side like the best of friends.
However, our nice, peaceful walk was interrupted when they both tried to give chase to a pair of wild bunnies lolloping merrily across the golf course. And then.
Turns out our little Spanish one is quite fond of a squirrel. Sees them everywhere in fact. If you have ever seen the film UP you will understand what I mean when I say that she is every inch Dug the Dog.
I have also been obliged to point out that it’s very much a “dogs and their owners” thing as she displays “squirrel” tendencies on occasion: breaking off midway through a conversation and interjecting with an entirely unrelated topic. Anyone who has read my post “My Boyfriend Has Renamed Me Jim” will understand exactly what I’m talking about here.
There, undoubtedly, will be more to follow on the adventures of the dog that doesn’t speak English so stay tuned, lovely readers J
Ten Signs It Might Be Time To Fly The Nest May 21, 2012
You know that feeling, you’ve been back living under your parent’s roof for longer than you all would like to admit and you parents are starting to give you the oh so subtle nudge towards the door. If you’re having difficulty picking up on their signals I have kindly listed below the signs that your parent s think you should fly the coop:
- Your Mum asks you repeatedly when you will be moving in with your BF/GF
- Your Dad persistently complains about how your red hair dye (insert other rage inducing messes caused by you here if this is not applicable) staining the tiles in the bathroom. You say you won’t stop dyeing your hair…there’s a significant pause while he waits for you to catch the drift…
- Your Dad starts referring to your beau’s place as your home e.g. “You can take that with you when you go home”…time to go then..
- Your dog is getting cranky living with two other blind dogs; you comment that she would prefer to be an only dog, your parents cannot agree more. Pause. Silence. Penny drops.
- They tell you repeatedly how they can’t get over just how quiet the house is when you’re not in it. And how they are really enjoying the peace and quiet.
- The dog starts trying to tell you something Lassie style: “What’s that girl? What are you trying to tell me? Go…Home?” Oh.
- Your Mum has forgotten about your dietary requirements since you last ate with them. She poisons you. Hint. Hint.
- A whispered conversation between your parents ceases when you enter the room. You have caught snippets of a “swatches” and “paint charts” debate. They already decorated every other room of the house. Just yours then.
- Leaflets suggesting you engage the services of “first class” local removal services keep mysteriously appearing under your bedroom door.
- Your stuff starts migrating out of your bedroom. Into boxes. Into the hallway. Down the stairs. Out the front door. MOVING DAY.
And if you are more of a visual learner I have included below a video of a current advert that illustrates many of the above points nicely.
Sunday Morning Chuckle Vision May 6, 2012
As I may have mentioned before my boyfriend has a penchant for staring at another man’s lycra clad behind. Last weekend, like many other weekends was rudely interrupted by the pair of them spending Sunday at a cycling event. Do hold your “where’s the harm in that? What an unreasonable girlfriend” until I’ve explained my issue with this. My main concern is not that I don’t get to see him or that I’m concerned by the love of a man’s lycra clad bottom: no I’m more concerned with the fact that this morning I was roused from a rather lovely Saturday night – don’t have to be up in the morinignsnoze. At six. A.m. Yes that’s correct: SIX A.M on a SUNDAY. For those of you that know me well you will understand what this means. I am a snarly, fire breathing dragon when awoken from my beauty sleep. His cycling buddy made the error of saying something about my looking less than impressed to be awake. I believe my mumbled “good morning” (social niceties, pah!) quite possibly came out more like the guttural snarl one would expect from a very.Hacked. Off. animal.
I didn’t run off to my own bed for further slumber though dear readers because what I saw next had to be observed until the bitter end. Two lycra clad men (I think they think they are ninjas/power rangers) both scratching their heads and detaching various parts of bike turning them every which direction and both trying to be the most expert “NO, I’ve done this before you know, I know what I’m doing”. Nothing like a bit of a Chuckle Brothers re-enactment to make loss of sleep bearable: “to me…to you” between the boot and the back seat, I was desperately hoping one would let go and fall flat on their lycra clad behind. Eventually they were off after a good deal of pushing and shoving.
So now, would you like to play guess the number of puncture readers?
Sunday morning The Beast (for those that don’t know, the beast is me when I’ve been unceremoniously woken up) was awoken: firstly at 5.30 by a debate over whether a cycling event was going to take place in the god awful weather. Several text messages that I heard through lovely tap tapping of haptic feedback and a couple of phone calls later it was established that the event was cancelled: could you not have simply gone and stood outside for a minute my love, that would have told you all you needed to know surely (gale force winds and torrential rain do tend to be a bit of a giveaway)?
Woken again at 8.20. What kind of idiot would wake me twice in one morning: answers on a postcard please. Was I woken the safest way known to man: with a kiss and a cup of tea? No, no I wasn’t. I was, in fact, woken by the dulcet tones of football pundits talking over a match he had already watched, in full, LAST NIGHT:
“HE SHOOTS! HE SCORES! WHAT A BEAUTIFUL GOAL!”
He even, despair with me here readers, he even started drumming the Match Of The Day tune on.the.mattress. That’s right, Drumming It. I eventually open my eyes, slowly turning to face him to give him one of my menacing stares: eyes glued to screen. Sigh. In a rage I wrap myself in all of the duvet. That’s right: all of it. Which he tries to take some back of. But I am Queen of the duvet covers. All of it is mine and mine alone.
“I’m a little bit hot now under all these covers”
“Good, I hope you combust”
Now, my love, the rule is if you are going to insist on waking me up very early (for me) on a Sunday morning (my last day off and lie in for the foreseeable future) please remember that if your arm has a cup of tea at the end of it you are much less likely to wake the beast and you could probably even get away with putting the football on without me snarling and growling at you.
Tea first. Always. Tea.First
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
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?
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?!”