More news from the internet world of my fairly odd parents.
My mum was overjoyed to hear that her friend had won the lottery on the internet! Hurrah! What luck! This friend had already started celebrating and had replied to the email informing her of her good fortune with all her details in order to claim her prize! When she saw me scrunch up my face and shake my head in disbelief, my mother exclaimed "It's true, I've seen it!" I showed her my hotmail junk folder and asked her if the email looked like any of the lottery winning emails I had received over the last few days. I took my mother's crestfallen expression as a yes.
Hot on the heels of "my computer is badly bugged so called in a Bulgarian engineer", I have just received an email from my father announcing that he has bought a new computer. I quote - and bear in mind he is not trying to be funny - "You know with any new machine / gadget at first you are scared in case you break it , but as you get used to it the fear disappears. first day I didn't know know how to switch it off,and the second day I didn't know how to turn it on. Once I discovered these minor things I am now on route of making more discoveries". For any Viz readers out there, it's like something from the letters page.
Talking of which, I haven't read a Viz magazine for about 20 years, but I seem to remember there was a character with a pair of bollocks so large that they dragged on the floor. Last night, I had a dream that I had a pair of bollocks this big. I was wondering how on earth I was going to conceal this monstrous growth and couldn't walk for tripping over them. It was one of those dreams where you are really, really glad when you wake up. I did wonder, if somewhere else in the world, there was some poor Elephantiasis sufferer who really did have huge bollocks and also had a dream (on the same night? No, too much of a coincidence) that he had female genitals of normal size. How ironic that would be.
Monday, 14 April 2008
Sunday, 13 April 2008
Bad Things Come In Threes
When my mother came over yesterday, she asked me if I could give her a plate to smash. I mulled it over for a few moments, reacting as if it were a normal everyday question, before answering "actually I'm a bit short on plates mum."
My mother had received some bad financial news a couple of days ago, the day after her car broke down and we all know bad things happen in threes. Unless you smash a plate apparently. Funnily enough I had smashed one only the morning before; I picked up two plates for breakfast, one plastic, one totally breakable, and somehow frisbeed them across the kitchen. I knew I could save one of the plates, but hell, I just didn't have enough time to work out which one, it all happened so quickly, and was left standing with the plastic one in my hand. Anyway, it wasn't enough to break the spell, my mum had to smash the plate herself.
I'm not at all superstitious. I do remember my gran telling me it was good luck whenever I trod in dog poo, which seemed to happen a lot during my childhood. Although I never really believed it, it was a comforting thought. When your shoe is covered in dog shit, you're desperate enough to believe anything to make you feel better.
When I was about eleven, during a school assembly, the headmaster was calling out for pupils to come up and collect their merit badges. Normally there would be a few, but this time there was just one other girl and the next thing you know, I found myself walking up to the assembly stage. About halfway up, I realised I hadn't actually earned any merits, but I just couldn't stop my legs from carrying me up to face the rest of the school. "And what did you earn your merit for?" he asked the other girl. She said something annoying like "Science" and my answer was honest and to the point "Didn't get one." So he sent me back to my place, and on my way back I realised, amongst the sniggers, I could hear "ugh! Gross!" and everyone pointing at my shoe, which was, not only covered in dog shit, but I had also managed to tread on chewing gum which somehow attracted a large red feather. So, just in case, my standing before the entire school to not receive a merit was not enough to attract attention, then here we go everyone, stinking dog shit leaving shitty footprints all the way to and from the assembly stage, but just in case anyone missed that, lets flag it up with a bright red feather. Here I am kids, take your shot. I was mortified, and had to wear the smelly plimsolls from the spares box all day long to remind everyone to ridicule me. When my gran told me later that day that this was a sign of good luck I could have slapped her.
Anyway, back to smashing plates for my mum, I changed the subject, went off to the kitchen to count my crockery and then the third bad thing happened. Ky performed a double somersault off the sofa, but instead of landing on his feet to applause and scores out of ten, he fell head first on to Thomas the tank engine and cut open his head. Down at the hospital, I wondered how many more hospital visits I would be making as a parent. Last time I was here, Ky had pulled his arm out of his elbow socket.
Later I got a text from my mum "on top of it all, my internet is not working!". Aha! A flaw in this superstition. Unless this was the start of another round of three bad things. Uh oh. Where's that plate...
My mother had received some bad financial news a couple of days ago, the day after her car broke down and we all know bad things happen in threes. Unless you smash a plate apparently. Funnily enough I had smashed one only the morning before; I picked up two plates for breakfast, one plastic, one totally breakable, and somehow frisbeed them across the kitchen. I knew I could save one of the plates, but hell, I just didn't have enough time to work out which one, it all happened so quickly, and was left standing with the plastic one in my hand. Anyway, it wasn't enough to break the spell, my mum had to smash the plate herself.
I'm not at all superstitious. I do remember my gran telling me it was good luck whenever I trod in dog poo, which seemed to happen a lot during my childhood. Although I never really believed it, it was a comforting thought. When your shoe is covered in dog shit, you're desperate enough to believe anything to make you feel better.
When I was about eleven, during a school assembly, the headmaster was calling out for pupils to come up and collect their merit badges. Normally there would be a few, but this time there was just one other girl and the next thing you know, I found myself walking up to the assembly stage. About halfway up, I realised I hadn't actually earned any merits, but I just couldn't stop my legs from carrying me up to face the rest of the school. "And what did you earn your merit for?" he asked the other girl. She said something annoying like "Science" and my answer was honest and to the point "Didn't get one." So he sent me back to my place, and on my way back I realised, amongst the sniggers, I could hear "ugh! Gross!" and everyone pointing at my shoe, which was, not only covered in dog shit, but I had also managed to tread on chewing gum which somehow attracted a large red feather. So, just in case, my standing before the entire school to not receive a merit was not enough to attract attention, then here we go everyone, stinking dog shit leaving shitty footprints all the way to and from the assembly stage, but just in case anyone missed that, lets flag it up with a bright red feather. Here I am kids, take your shot. I was mortified, and had to wear the smelly plimsolls from the spares box all day long to remind everyone to ridicule me. When my gran told me later that day that this was a sign of good luck I could have slapped her.
Anyway, back to smashing plates for my mum, I changed the subject, went off to the kitchen to count my crockery and then the third bad thing happened. Ky performed a double somersault off the sofa, but instead of landing on his feet to applause and scores out of ten, he fell head first on to Thomas the tank engine and cut open his head. Down at the hospital, I wondered how many more hospital visits I would be making as a parent. Last time I was here, Ky had pulled his arm out of his elbow socket.
Later I got a text from my mum "on top of it all, my internet is not working!". Aha! A flaw in this superstition. Unless this was the start of another round of three bad things. Uh oh. Where's that plate...
Thursday, 10 April 2008
The Play-Doh Mystery
A parcel arrived this morning, addressed to "Ky, rock God of the future" and the R.G.O.T.F was absolutely delighted when we opened it to discover a big bucket of Play-doh. I couldn't help but notice a wave of relief spread over Ky's face, hopefully this means no more disastrous attempts at making playdough episodes for a while.
He spent most of the morning, well I'd really like to say, creating sculptures, but in reality he was having the most fun using the playdough to create spectacular crash scenes with his Thomas the tank engine. I have to add, Ky seems practically obsessed with crashes and accidents. Several times a day I hear him call from another room "Help! Help! I crash!" and find him tangled in a heap, normally involving his bike or scooter, his chair and a few other toys thrown in for effect. I then have to rescue him, he is ever grateful, then he sets about creating his next accident scene.
Anyway, Ky loves his new Play-doh set, and if he loves it, then I love it (even the bits that stick into my carpet and won't come out.) But this bucket of playdough arrived with no note to tell us who had sent it. I know it's someone who reads this blog, as I do not go around insisting everyone address Ky as the rock god of the future. I am also guessing that after having read about my failed attempts at making playdough, this gift was sent with a bit of a cheeky smirk.
So, who are you? Who is it out there that has lost all faith in my playdough making abilities? I do have a few ideas as to who it might be, but it's not the sort of thing you can ask someone really, because if it's not them, then it's a bit like saying "oh I thought you might have been thoughtful enough to send this present, but you're not."
Will the real playdough gift sender, please stand up.
He spent most of the morning, well I'd really like to say, creating sculptures, but in reality he was having the most fun using the playdough to create spectacular crash scenes with his Thomas the tank engine. I have to add, Ky seems practically obsessed with crashes and accidents. Several times a day I hear him call from another room "Help! Help! I crash!" and find him tangled in a heap, normally involving his bike or scooter, his chair and a few other toys thrown in for effect. I then have to rescue him, he is ever grateful, then he sets about creating his next accident scene.
Anyway, Ky loves his new Play-doh set, and if he loves it, then I love it (even the bits that stick into my carpet and won't come out.) But this bucket of playdough arrived with no note to tell us who had sent it. I know it's someone who reads this blog, as I do not go around insisting everyone address Ky as the rock god of the future. I am also guessing that after having read about my failed attempts at making playdough, this gift was sent with a bit of a cheeky smirk.
So, who are you? Who is it out there that has lost all faith in my playdough making abilities? I do have a few ideas as to who it might be, but it's not the sort of thing you can ask someone really, because if it's not them, then it's a bit like saying "oh I thought you might have been thoughtful enough to send this present, but you're not."
Will the real playdough gift sender, please stand up.
Sunday, 6 April 2008
Back To Basics
Perhaps you have parents like mine. When you started getting into computers, possibly sometime during the 90's, you would try and explain things like Google and Hotmail to them, and they would ask questions like "So, this Goggle service, what are the opening times?"
Now of course, my mother is proficient in Facebook and my dad sends me regular emails, with headings such as "WHY 9/11 DISASTER WAS A CONSPIRACY" and "The lies behind Christianity - WATCH THE VIDEO FOR PROOF". He also sends me personal ones, like "Update on my divorce". His last email was about his computer, which "is badly bugged so called in a Bulgarian engineer" and after some detail about this badly bugged computer requiring the attention of a Bulgarian engineer, concluded that his best option would be to buy a new one. He is asking my advice on which one to buy, but I am totally the wrong person to ask. Not only because I am clueless, but I suffer dreadfully from option fatigue.
It's like the time I had to buy a pram for Ky. I wished there were only three different kinds of prams in the world to choose from, but there were hundreds, on thousands of different websites. After hours of comparing basket sizes and considering whether or not a parent cupholder was really necessary, or if I could really live without individual wheel suspension, I just gave up and did what I always end up doing, having previously forgotten that this is what I always end up doing which is to open the Argos catalogue, close my eyes and point.
This method was inspired by a game I used to play at my poor cousin's house who had no toys. We would open the Argos catalogue at every single page, count to three and then point to the item we liked the most on that page. Considering the Argos catalogue was thick enough to even use as a little seat for a child, again at this poor cousin's house who didn't even have enough chairs to go round, this game would amuse us for hours. The good thing about this game is that there were no losers, although you would sometimes get dirty looks for some of the things you picked. It was fun doing the toys section, but Garden Tools could be a bit tedious, as would most of the Kitchenware department. Try it out and see. You can learn a lot about a person by their Argos catalogue product choices.
Now of course, my mother is proficient in Facebook and my dad sends me regular emails, with headings such as "WHY 9/11 DISASTER WAS A CONSPIRACY" and "The lies behind Christianity - WATCH THE VIDEO FOR PROOF". He also sends me personal ones, like "Update on my divorce". His last email was about his computer, which "is badly bugged so called in a Bulgarian engineer" and after some detail about this badly bugged computer requiring the attention of a Bulgarian engineer, concluded that his best option would be to buy a new one. He is asking my advice on which one to buy, but I am totally the wrong person to ask. Not only because I am clueless, but I suffer dreadfully from option fatigue.
It's like the time I had to buy a pram for Ky. I wished there were only three different kinds of prams in the world to choose from, but there were hundreds, on thousands of different websites. After hours of comparing basket sizes and considering whether or not a parent cupholder was really necessary, or if I could really live without individual wheel suspension, I just gave up and did what I always end up doing, having previously forgotten that this is what I always end up doing which is to open the Argos catalogue, close my eyes and point.
This method was inspired by a game I used to play at my poor cousin's house who had no toys. We would open the Argos catalogue at every single page, count to three and then point to the item we liked the most on that page. Considering the Argos catalogue was thick enough to even use as a little seat for a child, again at this poor cousin's house who didn't even have enough chairs to go round, this game would amuse us for hours. The good thing about this game is that there were no losers, although you would sometimes get dirty looks for some of the things you picked. It was fun doing the toys section, but Garden Tools could be a bit tedious, as would most of the Kitchenware department. Try it out and see. You can learn a lot about a person by their Argos catalogue product choices.
Wednesday, 2 April 2008
Birthday Blues
I shopped, I baked, I decorated, I wrapped, but some things are totally out of my control. Take Ky, on the morning of his third birthday party. The first words out of my sleepy mouth were "Happy Birthday Ky." The response fired back at me; "No! I don't want Happy Birthday!" And it didn't get much better. Ky was refusing to be three years old, a bit too young to be having an age crisis in my opinion. The thing with Ky, is that too much of a good thing really unnerves him. So when he walked into the living room, decked out in Thomas Tank decorations, I knew he would find it hard to react like a normal kid, you know, something along the lines of "Whoopee! Wow! It's my birthday!". Instead, he tried to distract himself by talking about the logistics of the balloons; "So there's two red ones there, but only one red one there....there's the green balloon...and another one there....hmmm." I tried to put some party music on but he cried until I turned it off. Then he refused to get dressed, and was still in his pyjama's when all his little party friends arrived, until my mum took him aside and used her excellent bribery skills to get him changed.
Then something saved the day; streamers. All I did was stand on a chair and throw some streamers across the room. Ky was a changed boy. He went from party pooper to party animal. I owe a lot to those rolled up bits of tissue paper, I tell you.
We had the obligatory non birthday party guest trying to blow the candles out before Ky, but was stopped in time by his mother, so he spat on the cake instead and announced "It's all stupid." All in all, it was good chaotic fun. After the kids had gone home, it was round two, continuing with family members. I made too much food as usual, even though I tried really extra hard not to. I made enough potato salad to feed a small country, but it went untouched except for my cousin who had some and said it was 'nice'.
When Ky received his first birthday card in the post a few days prior to the party, he was totally thrilled "Oh how wonderfill! Mummy, it's soooo lovely! Ahhh." After about the fourth birthday card, he was literally throwing them over his shoulder. One present, he would have appreciated, maybe two. But over thirty presents! I had to keep reassuring the givers "oh he'll really like that honestly, he's just a bit overwhelmed at the moment!".
The most inappropriate present, given by a relative who shall remain anonymous, was a soft toy in the form of a devil. The tag read "Horny Devil." The devil was holding a heart which read "Come to bed with me." Now before you go storming off to social services, I shall say that the relative in question would not have had his glasses on when his Turkish non English speaking girlfriend pointed out what she would have thought to be some sort of cute creature, a dog maybe. In Turkey, people are generally afraid of the devil. The devil is really, really bad news, not something you can make into a cute soft toy, holding a heart of all things. Not after all the trouble he has caused, it just wouldn't seem fitting. Well, I'm sure some non Turkish ebayer will make good use of it.
Meanwhile, Ky is still refusing to be three. "No, I am not three yet" he says "Maybe in a minute".
Then something saved the day; streamers. All I did was stand on a chair and throw some streamers across the room. Ky was a changed boy. He went from party pooper to party animal. I owe a lot to those rolled up bits of tissue paper, I tell you.
We had the obligatory non birthday party guest trying to blow the candles out before Ky, but was stopped in time by his mother, so he spat on the cake instead and announced "It's all stupid." All in all, it was good chaotic fun. After the kids had gone home, it was round two, continuing with family members. I made too much food as usual, even though I tried really extra hard not to. I made enough potato salad to feed a small country, but it went untouched except for my cousin who had some and said it was 'nice'.
When Ky received his first birthday card in the post a few days prior to the party, he was totally thrilled "Oh how wonderfill! Mummy, it's soooo lovely! Ahhh." After about the fourth birthday card, he was literally throwing them over his shoulder. One present, he would have appreciated, maybe two. But over thirty presents! I had to keep reassuring the givers "oh he'll really like that honestly, he's just a bit overwhelmed at the moment!".
The most inappropriate present, given by a relative who shall remain anonymous, was a soft toy in the form of a devil. The tag read "Horny Devil." The devil was holding a heart which read "Come to bed with me." Now before you go storming off to social services, I shall say that the relative in question would not have had his glasses on when his Turkish non English speaking girlfriend pointed out what she would have thought to be some sort of cute creature, a dog maybe. In Turkey, people are generally afraid of the devil. The devil is really, really bad news, not something you can make into a cute soft toy, holding a heart of all things. Not after all the trouble he has caused, it just wouldn't seem fitting. Well, I'm sure some non Turkish ebayer will make good use of it.
Meanwhile, Ky is still refusing to be three. "No, I am not three yet" he says "Maybe in a minute".
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