One thing led to acca'nother

Just been to see Pitch Perfect 3 with my little lad Daniel. #lovedit
Especially delighted to see one of my #ifIweregay faves in it, Ruby Rose (OITNB) who is top of the  'if'-list closely followed by Julia Roberts (circa. Pretty Woman not Notting Hill (Hugh Grant, really?)) and Claire (oh, and Gloria, claro) from Modern Family.  Is that list too long?
Anyway, a few weeks before his 10th birthday, Daniel asked for a goalkeeper shirt as a present.
A month later, I bought myself new car.
Trust me, there's a link, and a story, oh boy, there's always a story.
Daniel asked for a Bayern Munich goalie shirt so I messaged friends who I knew were holidaying in Spain, the land of the cheap replica footie kits.
A grand later, the four of us were on a plane to Munich.
So, no-one being able to find a shirt in a Spanish market, led to looking on the internet for one, browsing the Bayern online store, looking at Daniel's wide-eyed wonder at the images of the stadium, opening a new Google Chrome window and searching for flights..... Not that I'm a push-over or anything, just a sucker for my boys' big brown eyes and their fluttering long eyelashes.
Yadder, yadder, Munich; amazing city, wonderful people, public transport that runs on time, clean, tidy, friendly folk asking if we were lost, even before we knew we were lost, a slightly furrowed brow enough to engage a passer-by sufficiently to check if we needed any help, I could go on but I won't (for a change). Our hotel was near the Mercedes HQ and, popping in 'just for a look' at the fancy cars, I fell in love, with the smallest car in the joint, Smart eh?!
Now anybody who cares to listen to me (and some that don't have a choice) has now heard that I've got a new car.  Not any old new car, a Smart new car.
Being very proud of my little shiny motor, I was explaining to a colleague that this vehicle may be very small and not really very fancy, but that it comes from the Mercedes family and has a Daimler engine.
To which my colleague (clearly not listening properly) responded: "You what, a Dame Edna engine?"
Pah, theatre folk!!!
My new Dame Edna-engine'd vehicle may actually represent be the early signs of MLC creeping in.  *Mid-life crisis
I'm in denial about most aspects of ML.  Even though this Christmas Gary bought me a lower back support cushion and I got him a voucher for an eye test - please remember WDR (withdewrespect) is all true!

Then there's my own failing eyesight.
The other day Daniel held up a Love Heart sweet for me to read. I kept asking him to hold the sweet further and further away to allow my eyes to focus on the tiny words, until finally he quipped: "Shall I go to Africa mum?"
It's like Daniel's a little pocket-sized comedian, his wit effortless and half the time, in complete blissful ignorance with just a little bit of complete bonkersness thrown in for good measure.
His 15-year-old brother wandered past him the other day and Daniel wafted his hand in front of his nose and remarked: "Phew Teddy, you've gone a bit overboard with the astroturf, er, I mean deodorant!"
Say what!?!?
I'll round off with a couple of classics not from Daniel for a change but from a little black book of 'customers comments' that we have at my day job in a local theatre box office.
Customer: "I'm interested in coming to see Lesley Garrett; will she be singing and telling antedotes?"

Customer: "Good morning, I've got some buckets ticked for a show, wait, that's not right......"

Customer: "Can I book two tickets for Tarzan please?"
Box Office Assistant: "Do you mean The Jungle Book?"
Customer: "Same thing."

People who live in glass houses

I've discovered that alongside PCP, I am also a complete control freak (who knew!?), no acronym required.
In a cafe the other day I was multi-tasking; perusing the cake cabinet at the same time as telling my 9-year-old to take his coat off: "Daniel, Daniel, Daniel....take your coat off, it's warm in here, take your coat off, Daniel, Daniel!"
As I turned back to Daniel he gave me one of his withering looks and in a calm and dry tone said: "Well I was doing, before you started with the Daniel'ing".

Speaking of Daniel.... He's a boy with all the usual 'boy' attributes; he plays Minecraft on his PS3, kicks a ball around a muddy field every Sunday morning, collects Match Attax cards and likes guns and knives.  He also, as has been analysed in many an edition of withdewrespect, has a, erm, softer side which was never more apparent than a conversation the other day.

We were looking at Swiss Army Knives and discussing the values of all their many attachments, knives in all shapes and sizes for various purposes, scissors, a bottle opener etc etc.

Daniel pipes up: "Mum, shall I tell you what would be really good as another attachment?"
Me: "What you thinking Daniel?"
Daniel: "A comb".

This kid was just born funny, it's not something you can learn, or clearly as you can see from this blog, inherit.  He just opens his mouth and is funny.

Here's another one.....
Due to his 'softer' side, he is prone to shedding a tear or two at will (and usually for completely no good reason).  The other day he was crying at the same time as eating a rice cake and, being the cold and cruel mother that I am, was laughing at him.
In between sobs he looked daggers at me and hissed: "Don't laugh, you've must made me miss my mouth and choke!!!"

And another......
During a recent trip to North Yorkshire, we were taking a stroll along a riverside and Daniel and his dad were stopping every now and then to throw stones into the water.
I was very bored, chilly and wanted to keep walking and politely expressed my eagerness to keep going and questioned why we needed to stop every beeping 100 yards to chuck things in!!

Daniel replied: "Mum, we're boys, it's what we do!"
Payback time.
Me: "Well can we please get a bloody move on, the village is still three miles away and there's a tea shop and I want a cup of tea; I'm a girl, it's what we do!"

I'm trying to bring him up to respect the fairer (in all senses of the word) sex but it would appear that I've failed miserably.
Driving through Cornwall on (yet another) recent holiday, the sat-nav with a lovely female voice was leading us, with dulcet tones, down stupidly narrow streets and up ridiculously steep hills.
Daniel decides to throw in his two penn'orth: "Dad, why don't you change your sat-nav settings to a man's voice, then it will choose smarter routes?"

Sigh.

 

I have PCP, but I don't think it's catching

So, I'm finally ready to come out of the closet.
(Which you will soon see is a remarkably apt use of analogy)

I admit it, (drum roll).....I have PCP.

There, I've said it.
The world now knows my deepest, darkest secret (well, those people in the world who read my blog, which is, say around 10, on a good day).

I don't know when my PCP first manifested itself, probably years ago, but it's currently out-of-control.

For example. 
Yesterday, two coats and a pair of shoes were purchased, taken home and put away in my wardrobe. 

Today, all were removed from wardrobe, labels re-attached, re-bagged and all were returned to source.

PCP (self-named acronym for self-named Purchase Commitment Phobia) symptoms include a weird guilt-laden panic-like state, felt head to toe. 
It begins when it dawns on you that too much money has been spent on something that you don't really, really need - and can, however, be debilitating when you do actually need something!

Symptoms are immediately alleviated once the return has been processed and light-headed relief slowly replaces the breathless, arm-tingling tension that had begun to build while the purchase was 'in the closet'.
It's not life-threatening.

The youth of today (pft), are creating their very own version of the English language, and no doubt other languages around the world, as they snap, tweet and text their way through life (don't even get me started on their new usage of the word 'sick').
I suspect within just a few years the Oxford English Dictionary will be adding the word 'lobe' - as a separate entry and entirely unrelated to anything to do with ears.
Lobe (2) Meaning:

1. a strong feeling of affection

    
2. a great interest and pleasure in something

    
3. a person or thing that one lobes

    
4. (in tennis, squash, and some other sports) a score of zero; nil

Verb: lobes (third person present) · lobed (past tense) · lobed (past participle) · lobing (present participle)

1. feel deep affection or lobe for (someone):

On a regular basis (mainly on days when he's forgotten his PE kit, needs a lift to his friend's or wants a tenner), my teenage son tells me in a text: "I lobe you c"

Oh, and that's another thing, the letter X will be eradicated, simply because it's just too darn near the C on a Qwerty keyboard and seemingly impossible to hit on a touch-screen when you're not actually looking at said touch-screen - and therefore not essential.
I routinely text him back and tell him, I'm at work and can't traipse up to school with his blooming PE kit; he can stop being a lazy git and walk to his friend's house and he can sod off and ask his father for some money!  But I always add: "I lobe you too"

I'll round off for today with another gem from my job in a theatre Box Office.
Me: "Would you like to buy a programme for £2?"
Customer: "Maybe, how much are they?"

Mind you, if I was the customer, I'd be more likely to ask: "If I decide I don't need it, can I have my money back please?"

 

A wee football trip

Taking the boys to their football games is such a constant joy, nay the highlight of my week. There's nothing I would rather be doing on a Sunday morning than getting up at some God-forsaken hour and driving up hill and down dale around West Yorkshire following sat-nav to some field, somewhere where it's muddy, raining and blowing a hooley (please note heavy sarcasm and the subliminal angst in my cathartic heavy usage of the keyboard as I type this).

This week it was away, somewhere in a field in Halifax, with son 2 Daniel (numbered by arrival into the world not preference to reiterate from a previous blog on the subject of offspring numbering).

On arrival at our destination in Halifax, Daniel and his dad recognised the pitch and started recalling memories of their previous visit, the weather, where the pitch was, where they parked, the score, who scored etc (sad, very sad the male aptitude to memorise football trivia, yes, you heard right male, other more PC blogs are available, just not at withdewrespect).

I also recognised the location and cheerfully chipped in: "Oh I remember Daniel, they didn't have any toilets and I needed a wee so I had to drive miles to the nearest civilised supermarket with a loo and I missed most of the game."

They both looked at me and Daniel replied: "I'm sure you weren't with us mum, it was just me and dad."

Dad confirmed this was indeed the case.

I wracked my brain, fully recalling in minute detail the toilet trauma.

It was quite some time later than it finally dawned on me; it was actually child 1, Teddy, I had brought to this pitch, not Daniel at all!!!!

Clearly a minor detail in my random memory bank.

Our Song

I'm going to a wedding today so recalled a recent romantic tale of my own, be warned it might get messy.

Plus, I've been told off by one of my avid readers for not blogging enough.  Three words; job(s), family, life......walking bus, kids' taxi service, cooking, cleaning, sleeping, pilates, ballet, tap, personal hygiene.....you knew it was never going to be only three words didn't you?

But actually Mr Avid Reader has a point so I've decided to adopt a little and often (also the name of a great singing duo from Huddersfield, Google them) approach rather than waiting until I have multitude of blogging gems to impart.  The other plus side to this is that I'm getting incredibly forgetful these days so when there's a blog-worthy incident I have to jot it down quickly before I forget, and then I forget where I've put the bit of paper, closely followed by forgetting that I ever wrote it down in the first place.

Withdewrespect prides itself on being a warts 'n' all, spill the beans, tell it how it is kinda blog.

However, some things must remain private and I'm afraid the origins of our song (me and Mr Withdewrespect) will remain thus, and never be aired on primetime national radio alongside the dulcet tones of Simon Bates (is that still on?  I'm old now and listen to Radio 4 so folk think I'm clever).

Anyway, the story behind 'our song' will not be aired here except to say that such was its romantic, sweet and innocent poignancy in the history in our relationship that we had it played on a CD player in the registry office as we signed on the dotted line, some 15 years, two marriages and four children after we'd first met (not, I hasten to clarify, all with each other).

Imagine my, erm, shall we say, surprise, when I was in the kitchen the other day (cooking and listening to BBCR4) when I heard 'our song' floating out of the lounge where Daniel was watching TV.

It's a little known song, from an even littler known artist and is very rarely heard these days so I was intrigued and dashed into the lounge.

Right there, right then, every shred of romance was instantly ripped out 'our song' and we can safely say my heart will not be a'fluttering every time I hear the song in the future.  Instead, I will see red, literally!

There on the screen, as Harry Nilsson belted out his rousing chorus, were a dozen Dachshunds bounding across a field adoring hot dog baps on their backs and leaping into the arms of awaiting men wearing full-body lifesize bottles of the full plethora of sauces in the Heinz range.

On the upside, everytime Daniel squeezes a huge dollop of tommy sauce on his plate I can forever be reminded of my very own Mr W.

Romance, still very much alive and squirting in the Withdewrespect household!

That's all for now folks, ketchup with you later (sorry, couldn't resist).

Status pending

Any discerning withdewrespect reader understands my love-hate (mainly the latter) relationship with Facebook but I was astounded this week to check my profile and spot that, according to the social media giant, my kinship / genetic association with my firstborn has a large question mark hanging over it.

It links my profile with that of Teddy Ferreira, detailing, Relationship: SON (pending).

Clearly my history of antics as a football mum are causing him to publically deny our blood bond.

I just don't understand it. For example, only last week I was perfectly dignified on the side-line.

I had bought myself a cup of tea from Costa on the way to his game.  While the teams were warming up, I sat in  my car and picked up the cup from the drink holder. Oddly, tea was streaming out of the bottom of the cup and soaked my legs, coat and seat before I opened the door and put the cup down on the floor outside the car. 

I cleared myself up the best I could, reached down to pick up the cup, got out and set off walking only to take two steps before squealing in pain as a sharp object pierced through my wellington boots, ski socks and inevitably, my skin.

I hopped around with the leaking cup of tea in one hand, trying to remove the sharp object from my flesh and pull off my boot and sock with my other hand;  I'm such a cool football mum.

The mysterious spikey object was from a stash of drawing pins that I keep in the car for displaying signage on my clients' noticeboards.
And, to add insult to clearly very un-di

gnified injury, it was the very same drawing pin that pierced the cup and then (after I put the tea on the floor) fell out of the cup and I pierced my foot as I stepped on it!

Once again in my quest to become super-cool-mum, I've gone and put my foot in it.

Looks like my bid to attain motherhood status will remain 'pending' for a while longer.

 

A pedestrian life

My part-time 'for the love of it' job in Box Office at my local theatre is a daily source of gems for withdewrespect, unfortunately most of them practically unprintable they are so ridiculous.
Here's a common one.

Customer: "I've got a query about my print-at-home ticket."
Me: "OK, how can I help?"
Customer: "Do I need to print it at home?"

Tip of a very big iceberg of customers with queries on a sliding scale from dumb to dumber.

Home is no respite from the bizarreness.

Daniel (the 9-year-old, hollering from his bedroom): "Mum, guess what? I don't have an egg to spawn a horse but I can ride on an out-of-control pig."
Me: "That's nice son."

By choice, I'm a pedestrian more often than a passenger or driver.

And I find that we're a dying breed, a rarity on the streets and very much second fiddle to the chunks of metal with whom we share the highways and byways.

Cars reluctantly and impatiently slam on their brakes at pedestrian crossings, their drivers glaring as you cross the road in front of them.  The risk of getting caught on camera and penalty points on their licence being the only reason they hold back from ploughing you down for having impeded their journey.  The fact that you've been stood there for ten minutes in the pouring rain, repeatedly and ineffectively pressing the button is of no matter.  Traffic light settings are always biased towards keeping the traffic moving and the pedestrian waiting.

And don't get me started about pavement parking where drivers think the 'kerb' is just a small step to a great place to park, or at times, even drive.

Even the word pedestrian has a derogatory co-usage, the adjective meaning 'lacking inspiration or excitement, dull with synonyms including plodding, tedious, monotonous, tiresome, lifeless, unimaginative, uncreative and dry'.

Seems harsh, I just like walking.

I'm thinking of taking up Nordic Walking,  both as a way to keep fit and to ensure my children have just one more reason to be thoroughly embarrassed by their mum.  See next blog for further examples.

I like the sound of any activity which requires equipment and prompts a trip to Go Outdoors.  This is commonly and swiftly followed by a week spent on Ebay selling all the impractical items I have purchased (for further reference read my previous blogs of a Carry on Camping nature, or should I correctly re-order, a right 'camping carry on'!)

Fudge for breakfast

So, who was it said, "man cannot live by chocolate orange, heroes, wensleydale with apricots and mince pies alone'?
Well, they couldn't have been more wrong.
This has been my staple diet for more than a week now and I'm still alive and kicking.
I may be the size of a small island in the Indian Ocean, with more spots than a Dalmatian, more wired than Michael McIntyre on speed, and hysterically prone to spouting comic references to poor-diet-induced side effects, but I am still breathing nonetheless.
Actually, was it "bread"?
Whatever!
Quite frankly, it's my blog so I'll just make it up, I'm too tired, bloated and malnourished to care so you'd better not argue with me or I'll sit on you.  Or I would, if I could actually get off the sofa.
It's January 2nd, my 'healthy eating' resolution went out of the window on January 1st when I started the day with, erm, rum and raisin fudge.

For a while last year, I suffered from vertigo and splinters in my behind while I sat atop of the fence, soaking up the barrage of dubious facts and figures from both sides in the run-up to the EU referendum.
I weighed up the pros and cons and quite frankly, I can see good and bad in everyone, oh wait, is that just a line from a dodgy 80s song?
I know it's taken me some time to get on my soap box about this but, to be honest, it took a while to climb down from the fence and then I started on the wenseydale.....
In summary, there was an election, closely followed by mass hysteria on Facebook and an unprecedented outpouring of hatred, name-calling and rudeness, branding out-ers as simple-minded, racist, coffin-dodging psychopaths.
I understand the stakes (or at least, as much as anyone can without a crystal ball or a time-machine) but I genuinely think the backlash was uncalled for and shouting, 'let's vote again' was akin to a bossy boots kid in the playground doing 'rock, paper, scissors' again and again until they're not out.
You know what, we're six months on, the world is still turning.
I may not have much of an opinion about the European Union but I do have an opinion about people sulking just because not everyone agrees with them.
We all see things differently at the end of the day, surely that's the beauty of being an individual, with unique thoughts and respectful of other people's opinions with regard to religion, politics, the EU, Victoria Beckham's OBE, Marmite.
For example, there were some fireworks on the television on New Year's Eve and my friend said they looked like curly fries, I thought they looked like sperm; we didn't fall out.

Teddy, now a teenager, is usually to be found in his bedroom doing what teenager boys do best (don't ask me).  Just before Christmas, I walked in unannounced and he quickly hid something behind his back and went bright red. Alarm bells rang and I suspected the worst, especially when I glimpsed the glue stick.
The next day he came down with a present he'd wrapped for me, he couldn't find the sellotape so he'd tried to use Pritt Stick bless him.
Today's motto; always look for the best in people without presuming the worst, whatever they vote and whatever they are doing with the glue.

My blog wouldn't be the same without a Daniel-ism and he never disappoints, especially on the football pitch.  Playing in goal the other day, his manager shouted and gestured for him to use his hands and pick up the approaching ball up.
Not hearing properly, he misinterpreted the coach's gesticulations and, complete with actions, shouted, 'what do you mean, jazz hands?!'