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?!'

D for Denial

OK, so this Pride thing, where do I sign my son up?  Is there an application form I can pick up from the Post Office?  I don't want to miss the deadline, he's nearly 9, should he be on the waiting list yet?

Daniel has been round at our neighbours and the 13-year-old daughter has put make-up on him, much to his delight.
That's not unusual about that, I hear you cry.  He's a boy, having fun with his friend, messing about.

Quite right.  My point is that when he came back, it took me and his brother half an hour to even notice he was wearing make-up!!

I suddenly understand what people who have male and female offspring are banging on about when they brag, 'oh, I'm so pleased, I have one of each'.

Daniel has a tendency for 'breaking wind' when he's having a giggling fit and I always worry that he may, erm, follow through, shall we say'. The other day I told him to calm down: "Be careful Daniel or you might come out."  (oh well, I thought, save you doing it when you're 24)

Speaking of form-filling, I took Daniel and his friend to their athletics training the other day and had to fill in a medical form for both of them.
I asked his friend: "Have you ever had any illnesses?"
Friend shook his head but Daniel piped up: "Yes you have, you had shingle bells once."

Greeting the aforementioned adorable little boy when he came home from a day at his friend's house yesterday, I said: "Hi Daniel, I missed you today."
To which he retorted: "But dad's been here with you."
"Well, yes I know, but he was busy working in the other room."
Daniel: "But, you've got the TV."
"I know Daniel but I didn't want to watch anything."
"Well, you've got the washing machine and ironing and washing up."

Silly me.

I've decided that in our house, OCD has two acronymic variations.

For me, it stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, so out of the closet and comfortable with my D for Disorder that I'm sat on top of the closet, clad in my Marigolds and proudly waving my duster (but will have to get the Dyson out to clean up from after all the duster waving).

My dear husband, however, is still inside the closet, hanging his hangers the same way round and, in his case, the D of OCD is for Denial.

The other day I momentarily abandoned some crumbs on the worktop.  In the split second while I turned to take some cutlery to the sink, he pounced like a hungry crumb-eating tiger.  I jumped in front of him and mentioned the D word (Disorder) and he completely Denied it.

I challenged him to leave the crumbs to which he scoffed that it wasn't a problem.  So I left the room, admittedly twitching slightly myself, but like I say, I'm healthily embracing my 'hygiene issues' (once I've wiped them down of course).

My back was scarcely turned and the crumbs were gone. Sigh.

The 'baby on board' sticker industry has gone bonkers. Now it's personalised 'Samuel and Maisy on Board', 'Alfie's Little Sister on Board'.  Before it's even born the baby's presence in the vehicle gets a proud sticker mention as the other say I spied 'Mum-to-be on Board'.  Cue more sighing.

Hey, what about taking it back a step further; 'Get Out of the Way, Horny Male on his Way to have Sex with his Bird and perhaps get her Knocked up on Board'.  (sorry about that, but the 'twinkle in his eye' pun is just a bit too tame and dated in a post-Jeremy Kyle era)

I need one for my car. 'Slightly Depressed, Slightly Overweight, Very Overworked and Very Underpaid Middle-aged Mum-of-two and Wife to one OCD-inflicted Husband on Board'.

And then I want another sticker under it saying 'GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY (as Kathy Bates said in one of my favourite films Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café), I'm older and have more insurance.'

From the mouths of babes and teenagers

The other day, my younger son's school was celebrating the Queen's 90th birthday with a red, white and blue-themed non-uniform day.
On my walking bus-run to school, I overheard one of the littlies behind me say to her walking partner: "The Queen is coming to our school today."
Her friend scornfully replied, : "Pfft, don't be so silly, no she isn't, she's in London and very busy!!!"
Girl 1: "Busy doing what?"
Girl 2, (deadpan): "Ruling the world."

Something has dawned on me.

Blogging suits me more than other forms of social media for the following reason:  It suits people who like to rant on a bit, air their woes, rail against the world (and, quite frankly, some of the annoying people who live in it), protest about personal injustice, injury (or a bit of a cold), without having people listen / read, nod /click 'like' and then proceed tell you their bloody story!

I understand that the 'exchange of stories' concept makes up the essential elements of 'conversation'; one person says something and then another responds. However, why is it that when you share that you've got a headache, someone else has a 'migraine', when you've been to Brid, they've been to Bali, when your kid has scored a goal, they know somebody, who knows somebody who knows somebody who works for Richard Branson? Yes, even totally unrelated one-upmanship!

Then there's the opposite direction, where you one-downmanship someone in the vein of the Monty Python's Four Yorkshiremen (Google it if you've under 40).

Non-blog forms of social media are OK for having a random moan (or show off) but there's that sneaky 'comment' button which means people just can't resist having their two-penneth.
Thus, the best thing about blogging is being able to show off, whinge, moan and be opinionated at will, and nobody gets to reply!!!  (OK, thank you so much voice in head for pointing out that nobody actually reads my blog and therefore I whingeth in vain but, hey, you're talking to someone who believes passionately in the cathartic powers of putting fingers to keyboard so shut up voice in head!!)

So, to write an (allegedly) humorous blog, one needs inspiration of a humorous nature and with the passing of my father in January, funnily enough, life hasn't been a barrel of laughs recently.

It's been quite the opposite actually and I seem to be swirling around in a pit of general down-ness and therefore blog inspiration has been lacking.

Low mental health tends to send me in the direction of the doctors where I have a penchant for self-diagnosis and tend to walk in, sit down, gabble out my symptoms, suggest a cause and cure and write my own prescription before they can even ask me to take a seat.

So for want of humour, I'll self-style a 80s Crack-a-Joke Book opener 'the other day I went to the doctor......'
And I said, 'doctor, I think I've got a malignant tumour (whisper) down below' (I'm British, avoiding genital terminology at all costs is what we do best).

Turns out it was an ingrowing hair.  Ba dum tss!

A tingling left arm, pins and needles in my hand and shortness of breath turned out not to be, as predicted following in my father's footsteps of a mid-life stroke and is in fact, an anxiety attack. Who would have thought?  Well, clearly a qualified medical professional, rather than a Box Office Assistant.  I'll stick to the day job.

Speaking of learning a new life-skill, such as DIY medicine, Teddy (The Teenager) was asking me about driving lessons the other day.

"Mum, when you're having driving lessons, do you need to have an instructor with you?"
"Yes darling, why?" (ask a silly question)
"So if you want to go to the shops you have to call the instructor and ask him to go with you?"

Teenagers have selective hearing at the best of time but here was a peach.

Me: "Teddy!!!" shouting through the ever-closed bedroom door, "there's some post with your name on it."
Teddy: "Eh, toast with my name on it?"
- Yes Teddy, I turned into Tony Hart (or for a younger audience, the Art Ninja) and skilfully carved your name into the jam.

I find soap and water is a good remedy for such hearing issues.