I am a hero. (If only within the four walls of my home.) Why? Because I got our new TV hooked up to Netflix!
I may not have been awarded a medal, but I have had a whinge-free day.
Well, it seems – touch wood! – that we’ve avoided the potential nightmare of HAVING NO HOME INTERNET. Talk Talk has taken over the reins and Teflon Man didn’t make a hash of connecting up the new box, so we’re still all online. (Now just to work out how to connect it up to the TV so at least we can watch iPlayer on a proper screen rather than on my phone. For those (rare) nights when I don’t just fall into a sleep of the dead at the same time as the kids. Which is why iPlayer is vital!)
But Phew! Because just the thought of no internet as a possibility makes me shudder. No access to Google to search for anything/everything on a whim. No chance to vent my feelings or catch up with friends without the need to actually speak to them. Let alone confronting how so much of my entertainment – and I that of the kids! – comes from the little box of electronics that we carry in our hands. What would I do with all of those hours? Would I actually accomplish things in the real world?!?!
Or would I be too busy pacifying small people with too many hours in their days with no zoning out time? Would my house survive with an even greater deluge of toys and crafts? Would my family survive having to engage in mutual pursuits and conversation?!
After all, we are addicts. Internet junkies. It’s the first thing I check in the morning, the last thing I do at night. It’s worrying.
But it’s also wonderful! It brings the world to our fingertips, opening up our options and making everything accessible. How did we cope before it? Back when we used to just have to wonder about stuff or flick through books or make phone calls or venture outside to find things out! Who wants to go back to a life like that?!?!
I mean, imagine the difference the internet could have made to these people:
Janet Leigh’s Marion Crane in Psycho
An Ocado delivery would have been far more reliable. Their ready-meals selection would have cut down on all that time slaving over a bubbling pot of stew for the dwarves. Plus, they don’t sell poisoned apples, which would obviously have saved a lot of trouble.
No need to talk to the Wall when you could talk to other bored housewives online on Mumsnet. Perhaps realise that flitting off to Greece and shagging an accented and moustached Tom Conti isn’t the answer to life’s doldrums. Or maybe it still is.
That kid out of Dead Poets Society
Ok, he didn’t want to go to medical school, instead wanting to be an actor. But one look at Harvard’s faculty website would have shown a wide-range of extra-curricular activities. Go to uni, join the drama group. Don’t hang yourself.
Harry and Sally
Could they have fallen in love so much sooner had they not kept losing track, instead stalking each other’s holiday photos and funny GIFs on Facebook? Harry’s Twitter feed would have been full of witty quips of 140 characters or less. How could Sally not have been smitten?
Cruel Intentions’ Kathryn
Rather than being outed as a bitch she could have just laid it on the line with a catty blog and witty pseudonym. Everyone expects bitchiness online, so she could have been proud of her mean-spirited machinations rather than being undone by the revelations of her secret diary. It’s worked out for Perez Hilton after all.
Feeling my cut off due to ice powers that she doesn’t know how to control, she’d have only been a web forum away from other sufferers with sympathy and solutions. The fear would have been taken away, and she’d have stopped freezing everything in sight.
The trolls would have found themselves fighting a blackened reputation however.
Is it just me, or was it a bit weird that you could have a whole school of teenagers after the internet revolution and NOT A SINGLE ONE OF THEM had a laptop/smart phone?!?! Ok, they were witches and wizards, but still, a lot of them came from Muggle backgrounds. Surely, someonewould have had an iPhone?
Flying broomsticks and magic wands are cool, but surely Skype is better than trying to talk to a face in a fire and Facebook better than that annoying wizard wireless that drives them insane in the woods. Google could have sorted out How to Destroy a Horcrux easier than Dumbledore’s riddles and with his rejection of all things Muggle, Voldemort could have been felled by Snapchat!
He’d have still ended up being punished for our sins – look no further than Raif Badawi to see how authorities handle outspoken bloggers even today. Sorry, Jesus. Kim Kardashian may have broken the internet, but we would have still broken you.
Remember last year when I wanted a Pandora bracelet for my birthday but instead got this:
Well, Teflon Man has upped his game. And in a good way.
Not only did he take me out for the best meal of my life last night…
…he also got me the exact watch I was lusting after…
…and he found his way to the Pandora store with Boo to buy her present for me. (Generosity charm also pictured above.)
10/10, Teflon Man. I’m impressed.
1) It’s cold. And going out means going out into the cold, when rather sitting inside in the warm would be the go-to option. (Except, my house is cold also. But the cold makes me miserable and I don’t want to be miserable on my birthday.)
2) Plus, unless you’re a teenager or from Newcastle, it means you’re going to need a coat. Which then means carrying it around all night, which, frankly, is just a pain in the arse.
3) It’s possibly also rainy, which is not good for the hair on a night out. And you just know you’re going to leave your umbrella in a taxi.
4) As for snow: pffft. It snowed on my 30th birthday. I did go spectacularly arse-over-tit. Whilst carrying my birthday cake. Most of the time I love snow (or, at least, the thought of snow). But on my birthday it’s evil and not my friend.
5) Nice restaurants offer seasonal menus, which in January features such in-season delights as kale and Savoy cabbage. Firstly, such greens taste like old socks and secondly, I’m already feeling older than I’d like without a menu that encourages farting like an old woman.
6) Everyone’s still suffering from a post-Christmas hangover. Whether they’re physically hungover and having a dry January or financially, having maxed out the plastic over the festive season, asking friends to sacrifice all that frugality in favour of a night out can seem like a big ask.
7) The January sales don’t offer the best gift-buying options. Things you didn’t get at Christmas are now being handed over in gift bags and you know full well that they had 70% off. But the shops still aren’t offering normal goods, so what are you gonna do?
Reasons it’s GREAT to have a January birthday:
1) Everywhere has central heating rather than sodding air-con.
2) It’s an excuse to buy a new coat. The furry one I bought for my night out on Saturday was particularly lush.
3) It doesn’t always rain…
4) …Or snow. My 21st was just unlucky.
5) Body fat helps protect against the cold. Bring on dessert!
6) Abstinence is boring! You’re literally doing your friends a favour by giving them an excuse to break all the bleak January rules. Anyone who wants to be a killjoy can just stay away from the celebrations. Or be the designated driver. Either way you’re onto a winner.
7) You can get your party gear in the sales too! So why buy one coat when you can have two? Plus new shoes!
8) Friends are ace whatever time of year and celebrating is always fun.
To be fair, I’ve just had the best weekend! Dinner and cocktails with some fantastic friends last night…
…and then a BAFTA exhibition and 2 Michelin-starred dinner with Teflon Man in London today.
Which takes the edge off the bleakness of winter, as well as the whole getting older thing, to be fair.
Claire and DP, I hope you’ve had equally fabulous birthdays!
Things to do with the twenty minutes whilst your DIY hair dye takes:
1) Clean the bathroom of all dye splatter. Wonder how you’re going to get it off the ceiling. Consider a job as a blood spatter forensics expert and ponder as to whether this could be deemed to be training.
2) Pluck your eyebrows. They haven’t been touched since Christmas Day after all and are clearly never going to become Delevingne-esque.
3) Paint your nails ready for your big night out tomorrow.
4) Half-heartedly wipe down the bathroom, get as far as plucking one eyebrow whilst contemplating your nails before being summoned by your 3-year-old, whose only been asleep for an hour, yet who now refuses to settle back to sleep a) because he has a cough and sore throat and b) because you smell funny from the hair dye. Become increasingly frantic about trying to get him to settle back down because you sense not only is your time up, but also the ‘bonus’ five minutes for excess grey hair. Wonder how long it could be left before your hair turns bright orange/falls out. Try to cuddle your child back to sleep with smearing hair dye over every available surface – walls, bedding, your child… Contemplate sacrificing the bedding
Thankfully Noodles did go back to sleep and even more amazingly he did so before I fell asleep too. And my hair hasn’t fallen out, although it’s dark, so I can’t vouch as to its non-oranginess. I’m already convinced it wasn’t the exact shade I used last time either. Why do I never make a note when I find a colour I like? But, yeah, bright orange wasn’t what I was aiming for, so here’s hoping I shan’t wake up tomorrow to discover a barnet the colour of carrots on my head.
I’d also better not forget to pluck that left eyebrow. Preferably before work!
I think I must be the anti-Elsa. Because the cold really really bothers me.
Which is very definitely NOT GOOD at this time of year because it’s cold ALL of the time. Cycling to work, waiting at the school gates and particularly AT HOME.
Draft-friendly doors, crumbling window frames and a lack of heating (central or otherwise); it’s bad. The fact that everyone seems to have been born in a barn and thus incapable of CLOSING THE SODDING LIVING ROOM DOOR really doesn’t help matters. (The living room being one room that is heated and thus of imperative need to stay as toastie as possible.)
You’d think having your blood boil in rage would be warming, but apparently not. Instead it’s just hard to tell whether I’m trembling with fury or shivering with cold.
Boo’s bedroom the other night was a goosebump-inducing 13’c. Thank god for duvets and body heat. Getting up in the morning though is a battle of epic proportions. As if getting up when it’s still dark isn’t hard enough.
And as for showering…don’t even go there.* The bonus is that you don’t smell so bad when all sweat has retreated to your very core in a bid to regulate your body temperature.
(*Obviously, I do go there – I have to share the world with people with olfactory functions after all. Just so you don’t get the wrong idea about me. But it’s not fun.)
But my very most hated place to be at the moment is the kitchen! Even with gas burners roaring I’m still chilled to the bone. Surely that’s not right? The plug-in electric heater has given up the ghost after all of three weeks and, as we’ve got contractors in fixing the roof , the patio doors are left ajar whilst they’re here. The walls seem to absorb the chill like an 80s supermodel faced with a line of coke and a rolled up bank note.
It comes to a point where you can be boiling the kettle and feel tempted just to pour the scalding water over yourself in the hope of warming yourself. (Although, not really, obviously – more like when you’re at the top of tower or on the edge of a cliff and feel compelled to jump. Please say that that’s not just me!)
I’ve been trying to wrack my brain for a single positive reason for living in the domestic equivalent of an ice hotel:
That I can justify the copious consumption of warming cocoa (although I’m struggling more to justify the lashings of squirty cream added to the top)?
That I can positively look forward to work, where my little office is heated to sauna standards? Ahhhh, bliss!
That my seasonal (ok, perpetual, we’ve all seen the photos) layer of blubber now has a reason for its existence? Imagine how much colder I’d be if I was skinny!
Maybe I should just take the my lead from an ice hotel, actually, and justify a dependence on VODKA on my only-14-degrees-away-from-sub-zero house? Although that surely suggests how bleak it is when alcoholism is the positive spin!
At least if I was drunkenly comatose I wouldn’t care about the living room door being left open all of the time.
If I’m not around for a little bit I’m really sorry. It’s not personal, it won’t even be by choice, and believe me, it will all be Teflon Man’s fault.
He’s decided to change internet service providers for a cheaper deal, so has cancelled his direct debit with our current one. The next payment is due tomorrow. The new magic box hasn’t arrived from our new providers. Let alone us being able to set it up.
I may be gone some time.
Or maybe it will all be ok. Or maybe I can sneak onto WordPress at work. (Just don’t tell the boss!)
Otherwise I may as well just go and find a bear to go and see the rest of winter out with.
If I am forced to live in the real world instead of online, at least I’ll be able to plan my Happy Places post for A Prompt Reply. Yes, I may definitely need to retreat to my happy place!
Since Noodles was barely a week old he’s had a dummy.
Resistant at first, but my poor sore nipples couldn’t put up with his constant oral demands and replacing them with the crook of my little finger was no less tying. So, on Boxing Day 2011, with a guilty heart I headed to Superdrug and purchased a twin pack of the least orthodontically-ruinous pacifiers I could find.
Boo had completely rejected anything plastic to suck on as a baby. The amount of hard-earned expressed breastmilk I wept over tipping down the sink because she refused to take a bottle wasn’t funny. But I’d been able to smugly sit back and inwardly gloat as other parents regaled stories of lost nights’ sleep due to disappeared dummies or of the hell of dummy weaning.
Rule 1 of parenting: Never be smug; you don’t know when it’ll come back to bite you on the arse.
Thus, 4-and-half years later I was about to embark on a long-lasting love/hate relationship with the dummy. Noodles was hooked and by child no 4 I was too tired to fight it.
Instead I just shuddered at every picture of him with a huge chunk of plastic covering his face.
And then on Monday he started nursery. There was no way I was going to let him go with a dummy. For one, judgement. And two, what if it got lost?!?!
By now he was fixated on a solitary dummy. Not a brand or even a make, but one specific dummy, that seemed to be just the right consistency to his liking. Others of the same brand, same style would get a solitary suck and then be discarded. Which was a bugger when he also came to storing it in weird and wonderful places. I quickly came to learn that the small plastic Animal Hospital ambulance was the go-to dummy storage point.
The permanent loss of the Blue Dummy would have been catastrophic.
In fact, last Sunday night I posted this reply on Looking Glass Mama’s blog in response to her son’s fixation to Blue Fork and its subsequent disappearance:
So, yeah, the following morning, carrying Noodles to his first session at nursery, I whipped the dummy out during a giggly game of ‘D’oh, Silly Mummy’. He whined for a minute before I slapped myself on the forehead ‘D’oh, silly Mummy,’ and off he chortled again.
And all was well. Well, apart from the part where he sobbed as I clumsily left him behind for his first steps into the world of education and I went and had my first undisturbed shower in more years than I care to remember. He coped and I actually got to use my hairdryer and the dummy was safe in my coat pocket.
Except it wasn’t.
Because when I went to get it it wasn’t there!
In my heart I knew there was nowhere else it could be either. Sleepless nights of shrieking or not, I wasn’t about to retrace my every step. I was time to bid the dummy goodbye.
The day wasn’t so bad. He asked for it once, but I told him that big boys who go to nursery don’t have baby dummies. At bedtime I was braced though.
‘Dummy?’ he asked.
‘Remember, you don’t have a dummy any more.’ I told him.
‘Dummy!’ he cried.
But what could I do. The Blue Dummy had gone. No replacements, no substitutes. I regretted not re-tracing my steps. But was glad that I would have to stand firm as there was no other option.
But we only had five minutes of wailing before he settled down and one cry at 1am when he wakes like clockwork.
The next night, just one request. I was stunned.
Six days on and it’s lovely to see his face properly all the time. He seemed to have taken it well.
Although I did catch him at various points this weekend sucking on his jumper, his coat zip, a wooden toy hammer handle and a plastic Angry Bird, so maybe he still misses it a bit.
Clearly we’ve still got a little way to go.
Can you believe it’s been a full year since my first post as the Gluestick Mum? Actually, since nobody was actually reading back then, probably not. But people do read now, which amazes me. (Ok, I’m blogging small-fry, but that I should have any readers at all, let alone such loyal, funny, insightful and witty ones as yourselves just makes me beam.)
That any of you then take time to respond to my witterings melts me even more. Can I just say a huge Thank You?!!!!
Now, what could be more appropriate for celebrating a first anniversary of a family known for their stickiness than the partaking of a huge, frosting-coated cake? It’s virtual, so literally has no calories. And you can make it any flavour you choose. Fancy a slice?
I ate rather too much of the batter whilst making it, sorry. (Well, licking the bowl out is the best bit.) The cake may have ended up somewhat smaller than I planned.
Then Teflon Man, like a ravenous, slobbering dog gobbled his way through a considerable chunk. There may well have been growling at anyone who got too close!
Boo just scraped the icing off hers.
Noodles doesn’t even like cake and ate chocolate buttons instead.
Teddy played ‘mush’ with his, and is now caked in, well, cake!
Grandy ate his with a nice cup tea. Followed by a nap. It may have been more than just ‘tea’ in that mug.
Eve snuck down in the night and polished off most by stealth. Knives, plates and crumbs were left for the cleaning fairy.
Indy missed out. But that may be why she remains so skinny. I’m not sure the cake would have travelled well by post.
But certainly feel free to help yourself!
Sorry, but you should be used to the sticky mess here by now.
NB No cake was harmed in the making of this post. However, I now really really fancy cake!