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I go on Facebook quite a bit. I log on and I share things I feel like sharing about my life. Mostly I just snoop around and look at what other people are sharing about their lives. Facebook is one of the best inventions for snoops like myself. I especially enjoy looking at other people’s pictures. Don’t be scared. I’m not stalking you really. I’m just curious. There is one aspect of Facebook that has been getting on my nerves recently though.
Why does every site I sign up for want me to sign up through my Facebook account? I don’t want to share every single thing I do online with everyone I’m friends with on Facebook. If I want to listen to New Edition on Spotify I don’t want everyone to know. I don’t want to log into Facebook and see written on my wall that I listened to Mr. Telephone Man three time.
If I read an article about the worst Oscar dresses this year, I don’t want everyone I’ve ever spoken to in my entire life to know. I want to privately scoff at Gwyneth Paltrow’s caped dress as I sit on my sofa wearing a lovely green and blue cape of my own.
The other day I was on Rotten Tomatoes watching the trailer to 21 Jump Street when I noticed that Rotten Tomatoes was signed into my Facebook account somehow. Yes I was a 21 Jump Street fan in my younger days, but maybe I want to secretly jump down on Jump Street.
It’s bad enough that I can’t figure out how to unlink my Pintrest account from my Facebook account. I don’t want any other accounts linked to it too.
NOTE: The 21 Jump Street trailer looked terrible. 21 Jump Street is nothing without Hoffs, Hanson, Penhall, Ioki and Captain Fuller. Why would you remake a television classic like Jump Street? I just don’t understand.
Are you on Pinterest? I’ve been avoiding joining it for a long time now. That’s just what I need, another social media site to keep track of, but a few days ago I succumb to the pressure and attempted to join.
You can’t just join Pinterest, you need to be invited to join. So I went to the site and clicked the little button that said get an invitation. Then I was taken to a screen that let me know that I was on a waiting list to receive an invitation and that I will receive an email when space becomes available. What’s that supposed to mean? It’s a social media site not an actually room. I’m sure they can fit us all on the site so what is the waiting for? Stuff like that just makes me feel annoyed. I made sure I let everyone know how annoyed I was too. How dare they make me wait!!
A few days later I got my invitation to join and suddenly I forgot all about my annoyance. Now I’m on Pinterest. I don’t know how long this will last for me though. I tend to have a very short attention space when it comes to social media.
The other day we went for a walk and we saw a dead badger on the side of the road. I’m talking about the European badger here not the honey badger. (Note: The honey badger isn’t really a badger. It’s a weasel. No wonder.) European badgers are big. An adult badger can get to be 50 pounds. I wouldn’t want to run into one of those in a dark alley.
Apparently there are a lot of badgers around here. How come I never see them though? I see tons of foxes and even see strange fat little deer but no badgers.
Anyway…the point of this post is that I searched for badgers on YouTube and found this video the someone filmed of badgers in their yard. It’s longer than it should be and has no sound, but I was shocked by the how many badgers there were.
According to Wikipedia “[The badger] is very fussy over the cleanliness of its burrow, and defecates in latrines.” That is too funny. Now I’m afraid I’ll open my bathroom door one day and find a badger sitting on the toilet saying, “Do you mind!” They are also social animals who have been known to bury their dead and they don’t mind sharing their burrows with rabbits and foxes.
My husband and I tend to go for walks a lot. You would think that living out in the country would provide us with nicer places to walk. That isn’t exactly true. So far every public footpath that we have attempted to walk on has eventually led to a scene like this:
Yes those are cows in the distance. They’re in the distance because that was as close as I was willing to get. My husband kept insisting that it was fine to walk across that field like the public footpath sign directed, but I swear I saw some bulls in the mix. Bulls are dangerous. I’ve seen the way they charge people on TV. My camera bag is red. That’s like wearing a great big target on my back. Hey, Mr. Bull standing on that hill over there, come stab me in the back with your bull horns and fling me like a rag doll into the air. No thank you.
“But we just pasted a woman who obviously came from this direction,” my husband said.
Some people are willing to flirt with danger. I’m not. I like to keep danger hidden deep inside the junk drawer in my kitchen where it will cut my fingers when I reach in it without looking.
So we turned around and decided to follow the signs for another public footpath. Once on that path we encountered this:
That still makes me feel a bit uneasy, but I was able to deal with it. Mostly sheep just stare at you and if you walk in their direction they get out of the way. I’ve never heard of anyone getting killed by a sheep. But wait, there was that movie I saw not too long ago…
The other day I was sitting on the sofa surfing the interwebs and minding my own business when a rather rotund gentleman walked right up to my living room window and looked inside. This wasn’t a sneaky casual look into my home. It was purposeful hands cupped across the forehead face against the glass look. Surprised I got up off the sofa and opened my front door just in time to see the man disappear into the flat next door.
I thought he’s obviously curious about his new neighbors. So I decided to introduce myself. I walked over to this door and knocked. He didn’t answer. So I knocked again…still no answer. Figuring that he was embarrassed and we could deal with introductions later, I went back inside to continue with my very important interweb surfing.
The next day when my husband and I were going out that very same neighbor was in the parking area. We said hello and he introduced himself. “My name is Mr. Harmond,” he said outstretching his hand to shake. Mr. Harmond, seriously? He is probably only 5 years older than my husband. “I stopped by the other day to introduce myself, but my telephone was ringing,” he continued. I wanted to laugh out loud and say, “That’s not what happened.” I was on my best behavior as usually and kept my mouth shut.
Here is what we learned about Mr. Harmond during our brief chat:
He talks to you with his eyes closed.
He had had just about enough of the previous resident of our flat, Scott.
Scott stole a laundry basket from the laundry room and Mr. Harmond wants it back
We share a laundry shed with Mr. Harmond at the back of the property. There was a pile of stuff on our washing machine when we moved in. We assumed it belonged to Mr. Harmond or the landlord. However it must’ve belonged to Scott because after we talked to Mr. Harmond that day we found all of that junk thrown into our trash can. That’s annoying because in our area they emphasize that all rubbish must be in a bag or they will not collect your trash. My husband was working at the time so I had to dig through the trash can to get the garbage out and put it in a bag.
I would like to add to my list of things learned about Mr. Harmond that he is passive aggressive. Actually I don’t know if that qualifies as passive aggressive or if it’s just plain annoying.
*The names in this post were changed to protect the not so innocent.
Sometimes we like to treat ourselves to the finer things in life. That’s why we spent a few days in early February staying at a Travel Lodge. We didn’t pick just any Travel Lodge, we stayed at the Studio Way Travel Lodge in Borehamwood. That’s right, Studio Way…the place where you can see all the top stars. The Tesco we shopped in just down the street was next to the Elstree Studios George Lucas Stage. I bet George Lucas has stayed in the very same Travel Lodge we stayed in. Heck, he might’ve even stayed in the same room.
The Studio Way Travel Lodge is the ideal hangout for A-list celebrities. It features a lovely view out back of beer bottles strewn across the grass. My favorite feature was the stray pubic hairs in the bathtub when we checked in. Because they could’ve been the pubic hairs of an A-list celebrity like Danny DeVito or Fran Drescher, I kept them. They’re in a plastic baggy in my purse right now. Once I figure out which star they belong to I’m sure I can get good money for them on eBay.
I knew our room was significant the first day because housekeeping didn’t shut our door completely after cleaning it. They probably did that to give other guests in the hotel the opportunity to look around our room and see the bed that George Lucas, Danny DeVito and possible Fran Drescher had slept in…separately I hope.
As much as I loved the Borehamwood Studio Way Travel Lodge, I was happy to leave. Now we have our own place in the country. Don’t worry though. We can go to Borehamwood any time we have a hankering to see some movie stars.
Some Films Made in Borehamwood (this bit is just to clutter up your already cluttered brain with useless information)
I’m not big into playing sports. I’m actually one of the lest sporty people on the planet. I can’t get a basketball into a hoop. I can’t catch a football. I can’t hit a baseball with a bat.
When I was a kid sports meant gym class and gym class meant humiliation. I was the kid who always dropped the ball or more accurately ran away from the ball. I was the kid picked last for the kickball team. I never understood why they let kids pick teams in gym class. It’s so embarrassing for the people that no one wants to pick. The only time I excelled in an athletic activity in school was during a game of capture the flag. I managed to run unnoticed into the other teams territory. Unfortunately, I was being chased by a bee so I ran right past the flag and into the school.
I’m older and wiser now, but I’m not any more coordinated than I used to be as a child. I still suck at sports. Because I’m not good at it I don’t like it. The other day I encountered a sport that I enjoyed. It’s called disc golf. Have you ever played it? It’s like golf but there are no holes, clubs, tees, sand traps, or balls. Doesn’t that sound just like golf?
Instead of holes, there are baskets, and instead of balls, there are Frisbees. I’m not sure if anything that involves a Frisbee can really be classified as a sport, but I’m sure it can be called fun. Here’s a picture of someone playing disc golf:
He doesn’t look like he’s having fun, but that’s because even though he’s supposed to be a professional he’s obviously doing it wrong. He should get a few lessons from me. While I do approved of the raised leg technique, I definitely don’t approve of the frown.
When I get back to the UK I’m going to make my own disc golf course. I think I can make the baskets out of twigs and yarn. I’m also pretty sure I can use a dinner plate as Frisbee. That should work just fine. Right?
My parents are into having big blowout parties. This has happened all through my childhood. Back then the parties where outdoor summer events in our backyard. They were the kind of parties that held up traffic as cars passing on the street slowed down to see what was going on. There was a lot going on too. My father is a musician and his parties always include a jam session. Live music makes every non-musician party attendee think the party was the best thing ever.
Last night’s party was usual in that regard–live music and way more food than anyone could eat. The party was supposed to start at 6. In true Stan and Pam (my parents) fashion, they weren’t even there when the guests started to arrive. My sister and I were there alone to greet confused guests who all wanted to know where Stan and Pam where. That was a good question because while we knew where Pam was we had no idea what was going on with Stan. When I called him I was told that he was getting ready. From what my husband described though getting ready seems to mean walking in a completely different direction than the party for no apparent reason. They finally did make their appearances though and the party started.
My father invites so many people to his parties that there is no place for them all to sit. There are also usually plenty of people there that no one in our family including my parents even know. Most of these people turn out to be perfectly nice, but sometimes you get a rude entitled one. We had one of those at the party last night. My sister and I didn’t know who he was so we just referred to him as Big Nose. He talked to us like we were his personal servants. Of course, my parents didn’t know anything about this because they were busy being party hosts, but my sister and I experienced his rudeness first hand. We dealt with it by walking away from him every time he tried to demand something of us. We also made sure he didn’t get a piece of birthday cake. If you can’t be nice at the party you don’t deserve cake.
