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

 

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

 

Somebody Do Something Funny April 11, 2012

One of the hazards of writing a purely comedy inspired blog is that sometimes the funny all dries up. I realise, given the content of my previous posts and my ability to attract slapstick like a moth to a flame, that seems impossible but I really am currently sitting here wailing “somebody do something funny!” How is it that I haven’t done anything absurdly stupid in a while? Have I learnt caution? Doubtful. Something is wrong in the universe Watson and I’m determined to sniff out the “fishy” by Jove! Perhaps what I should do whilst I await my next calamity is go out and make funny happen to myself or others. Which of the following would generate the most comedy value:

1)      Whilst driving my Dad to a Dr’s appointment I do my best rally car driver impression: driving at high velocity round precarious bends yelling “Yee HAW” whilst Dad’s knuckles turn white with the vice like grip of the dash board. Dad does his best impression of “The Scream” – he’s hoarse from, well, all the screaming – then faints in pure terror.

2)      I decide to take my dear little bumper car through the car wash: sounds innocuous enough but, you forget, dear readers I am due a little mishap. Things that could go wrong/comedy gold on offer at the car wash (and the reason I have always been too scared to go through one) are as follows –

  1. My recently “Auto Glass-ed” window pops again causing me to weep and wail like a banshee and make me incapable of  moving my car: the nice boys in the petrol garage have to come and move it for me muttering “I thought women liked fairy sounds” and proclaiming that this would never happen to a male driver
  2. My roof is torn away from the body of the car exposing my head to the big washer thingies. My hair gets tangled up in said washy thingies and is torn from my head. Or: my head won’t give up my hair and my head is pulled from my body. The end.
  3. The car wash fills with limitless water and then breaks down. I have to live in said car wash for all eternity. I evolve to an amphibious life: I now have webbed feet and scales.

3)      I go for a smaller, noisier target: I throw large sticks so accurately that they get wedged in the spokes of the bikes that small children are riding up and down the street on. They are pretending to be motorbikes. Broom, Broom indeed children.

4)      I get arrested for what the police term “manslaughter” when one of the kiddies is killed. I then:

  1. Plead diminished responsibility – “my blog followers made me do it, your honour”– they believe that I am psychologically disturbed and lead me to my padded cell in a straight jacket
  2. Am sentenced to a life living in a car wash (see point 2. A)
  3. Am sent to prison where I acquire a questionable room mate…
  4. Am found not guilty: clearly children pretending to be a motorcycle is a fraudulent act therefore I was simply doing my civic duty. I will then get a magazine deal to sell my story “I just did what anyone would have done” and rise to stardom overnight

Vote now!

 

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.