It's a Wonderful Life…

…isn't it…?

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?

Reply:

No. Yes. She’s been on the roof.

My response:

HAHAHAHAHA. You mean the house roof don’t you? How did she get there?

Reply:

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.

SQUIRREL

SQUIRREL.SQUIRREL.SQUIRREL.

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.

SQUIRREL

 

There, undoubtedly, will be more to follow on the adventures of the dog that doesn’t speak English so stay tuned, lovely readers J

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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:

  1. Your Mum asks you repeatedly when you will be moving in with your BF/GF
  2. 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…
  3. 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..
  4. 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.
  5. 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.
  6. The dog starts trying to tell you something Lassie style: “What’s that girl? What are you trying to tell me? Go…Home?” Oh.
  7. Your Mum has forgotten about your dietary requirements since you last ate with them. She poisons you. Hint. Hint.
  8. 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.
  9. Leaflets suggesting you engage the services of “first class” local removal services keep mysteriously appearing under your bedroom door.
  10. 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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oI_f7qMGVH8

 

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?

 

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?”

 

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).