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Facebook is a Snitch!

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Why does Facebook tell on me every time I do something?
 

I just noticed my ‘recent activity’ and it said "Rhonda Louise just pinned a whole load of crap."

Ok, well maybe not those exact words, but near enough. It might just as well have said "Rhonda Louise is pissing around trying to figure out what the freak Pinterest is all about and getting squatsville – she is clearly too thick to understand the simple concept of the drawing pin."

Facebook is also telling people that I started reading The Silver Linings Playbook in 1992 and I haven’t finished it yet. But it kindly notes that I have ‘made progress’. Don’t patronise me Faceboook!

And get your facts right before you defame me. As a matter of fact I read it, I finished it and I just didn’t tell you. You didn't know that did you, smarty pants? I don’t actually tell you every single thing that I do Facebook. I don’t post “Rhonda Louise just broke a nail, took a leak and had a meltdown at her husband.”

And you know something I realised Facebook? You are just GUESSING! You are guessing what you think should be reported. Rhonda Louise wrote something sparklingly clever and witty? Nah not interested. Rhonda Louise replied to someone’s post with a gut wrenchingly twee “LOL” and to make it worse added a smiley face? Yep, perfect, post it.

 

I am definitely not notifying this blog on Facebook.

And anyone reading this, please don’t tell Facebook.

It will just get jealous and who knows what revenge it will exact. I expect it would send out friend requests on my behalf to every single member of the mormon seniors’ trainspotters page.

On second thoughts, maybe I should think this one through ...

 

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Fat Arse Pay Day

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You know how when you get a raise you immediately go out and spend the money, even though it’s not payday for another 3 weeks and you haven’t actually got the money yet?

Yeah, well I’m doing that right now.

But Rhonda, I hear you say, you don’t have a job.

To which I say I do have a job actually, it’s called being a mummy and shhhh so hubby can’t hear you - he still thinks I’m getting maternity leave even though our daughter is almost 3.

But no, you are right, I don’t have a real job. But I’m not spending money - I’m spending calories.

I’ve just got a new bike and I am now planning to cycle everywhere and get heaps fit and healthy and lose loads of weight and have a tushie as tight as a jam jar lid and a belly as flat as Keira Knightley’s boobs.   

And because in the very near future I will be burning up loads of calories, I am allowing myself to eat lots of cake now.

It’s kind of like I have the calories on credit and I will pay them back at the end of the month in one lump sum when I go on that really long and arduous ride fully laden with my daughter and her seat on the back of the bike, together will all our crap, erm I mean safety equipment like helmets and mud guards and lights and high visibility everything in bright fluoro pinks and our backpack full of essentials such as toys and nappies and wipes and changes of clothes and cake.

Only problem is that there has been a very cold spell lately so I haven’t been able to get out as much as I expected.

Actually I’ve only really been able to go out on my bike once.

To go to the nearest shop.

To buy cake ... 


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What a Phoney

I bought my two year old a magazine yesterday - the one with stickers and counting and colouring she loves. And there was a free gift attached to the magazine - a plastic Ben and Holly mobile phone.

My little girl couldn’t wait to get it open. She cuddled the magazine all through the supermarket and in the car. As soon as we got home she ripped the phone off the magazine and hurled the magazine aside. She tore the plastic wrapping off the phone and held her new possession in her hand.

She breathlessly touched the screen excitedly.

Nothing.

Then she touched the buttons.

Nothing.

Then she touched everything all again.

Five times over.

She slid her finger over the screen once more, making sure none of her other fingers were touching the screen and thereby preventing the phone from reading her prodding.

She looked at me with mild annoyance. “Batty flat.”

“No honey” I explained. “There is no battery. It’s a pretend phone.”

She looked confused. “Plug in” she suggested.

I tried to break it to her gently. “It doesn’t plug in honey. It’s just pretend.”

I have never seen such a look of disgust in all my life.

She looked at the phone and then looked at me. I could read her thoughts:

“What a useless piece of crap. You can’t do anything with it. I can’t watch Peppa Pig on it. I can’t phone people. I can’t take photos of my own feet.

What’s the point of it? I’ve already got an HTC Wildfire which does more than this piece of rubbish, even without a plan. I thought I was getting an upgrade. Instead I got this useless piece of shite.

You suck Ben and Holly. You can take your dumbass phone and shove it up your magic kingdom.”

And so at two and a half my daughter has learnt one of life’s tough lessons: sometimes the anticipation of getting something is more exciting than the having. 

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Looking a gift car in the mouth

As we were involved in a minor collision recently (amazingly NOT my fault) the insurance company has loaned us a brand spanking new white car.

Brand. Spanking. New. White. My family.

These are things that should never ever be together, like blue and green, matter and antimatter or Heather Mills and Paul McCartney.

 

Because if they do ever get together the result will be destruction on an unimaginable scale and will cause a rift in the space time continuum. Much like the rift in my bank account that will result from muddy little shoes, fruit rollups, juice bottles, scratchy toys and kicky feet coming into contact with a freaking brand spanking new and white car!!

 

 

I have now mounted a 24-hour vigilance over the damned thing. I rush out the door and shoo away birds that fly near it. I peer through the curtains and glare at anyone who passes and dares so much as look in its direction. The postman must now leave the mail on the pavement. I insist that children hold their breath as they walk past my house. I chased a little old lady with a stick yesterday because she spent too long hobbling past it. And its not even my car!!!  

 

There is a reason I drive a 500 year old piece of junk. It’s so that I never have to worry about it being dirtied, scratched, bumped or broken into and so that people give me a wide berth on the road because I look like an unemployed uninsured crazy lady driver.

 

Somebody please take the thing away.

 

God knows how I’m gonna get it back to the hire company. I can’t possibly drive the thing.  

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The baby Cheesus

I am in love with a cheese ball.

I know it’s wrong. I know it’s the love that dare not be voiced, the love that has no name. But I just cannot help myself.

 

Recently I went to a drinks party and there on the buffet it stood in all its magnificent glory. Spherical perfection. Formidable fromageness. Cheddarlicious cheesiness. Encrusted in thick black wax, a chorus of halleluiahs accompanied the opening. I imagine it was something like that at the birth of the baby Jesus.

My cheese comes from Sainsburys. The perfect cheese ball came from the milk of virgin cows raised on the summit of mist encrusted Welsh mountains and cannot be purchased in a mere shop. I imagine one must make supplication to the cheesemaker direct three years in advance together with payment and an essay demonstrating an indepth understanding of the cheese tasting experience and your worthiness to be in its vicinity.

I still dream that we will meet again. That I will spy that beautiful rounded body across a crowded room. But it is only a fantasy. And the knowledge that I will never ever ever have that gorgeous irreplaceable taste in my mouth is killing me.  

 

And now I am alone with just my memories of that cheese ball. I can’t even look at my Sainsburys cheese now, with its revolting rectangular shape and its declaration of being “mature”  - oh wow, how exciting, you are mature.

You disgust me.

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Happy New Year?

 

I just poked my toddler in the eye.

Twice.

I also hit her on the head with my bottle, kneed her in the boob and stuck my foot in her fanny.

Oh, that's not quite right is it.

Now I remember. This is what SHE did to ME.
 

I would like to point out that if I did in fact do the above things to my toddler that I would be arrested. Yet she can do them with impunity. I believe this is a blatant case of age discrimination. I could start a petition, I could stage a rally, I could make an application to some overpaid European Court on Human Rights grounds.

But I’m not going to do that. You know what I am going to do? I'm gonna call the police and have her arrested.

 

Yes I will.

They can take her down the slammer and lock her up and keep her there for at least five hours.

 

And don't bother trying to call her parents because we won’t be in. Becasue I’m planning to do it on New Year’s eve at 7pm.

Oh come on people, have you seen the cost of babysitters on New Year’s Eve?

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