It's a Wonderful Life…

…isn't it…?

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?

 

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?

 

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?!”

 

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.

 

 

Twelve Signs your Parents are Tragically Addicted to Facebook February 15, 2012

  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).
 

Both my Parents are Addicted to Facebook February 12, 2012

Filed under: Addictions,Relationships — leatierney @ 3:11 pm

Yes I am twenty three and in my friends list are both my parents. My Dad was temporarily removed a few months ago due to some images that I knew were going up and would offend his delicate sensibilities (what father wouldn’t be brimming with pride at photos of his little girl on a fancy dress night out on the tiles I wonder?!). I live with said (sad) parents. My life is looking more and more desirable right? I got in from work this evening to find my mother far too engrossed in “how do I send someone a message?…OOOH SOMEONE’S TALKING TO ME!” (They can’t hear you if you squeal at the computer Mother although I – unfortunately – can) to say hello.

Eventually she manages to tear herself away from the social world of engaging with other human beings – solid proof that you really aren’t a teenager anymore mother – and comes into the kitchen to say hello: grinning like a Cheshire cat. This grin is something that women of all ages know the cause of. Deep sigh. “Ok. Who got fat?” no, not just fat apparently, like, SUPER fat. This is supposed to enrich my life in some way I presume as I am dragged to the computer to ascertain that, yes; my mother’s correspondent was, indeed, a little more than festively plump. Having established this I go back to making myself food and watching mum’s dinner cook into a congealed mess: “Mum, how long exactly are you going to cook that pasta for?” (It’s fresh pasta that requires about 5 minutes but has had about 20 minutes thanks to my mum’s somewhat limited attention span) “MUM, SERIOUSLY STOP TALKING TO THE FAT LADY AND COME AND HAVE DINNER”. She eats her “dinner” at the computer with her online friends. Ah, the joys of watching your own parents regress…