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  • Awkward British Problems

    AWKWARD BRITISH PROBLEMS:

    🇬🇧Staring at your phone in silent horror until the unknown number stops ringing

    🇬🇧Hearing a recording of your own voice and deciding it’s perhaps best never to speak again

    🇬🇧The relief when someone doesn’t answer their phone within three rings and you can hang up

    🇬🇧Filming an entire fireworks display on your phone, knowing full well you’ll never, ever watch it again

    🇬🇧 Mishearing somebody’s name on the second time of asking, meaning you must now avoid them forever

    🇬🇧 Leaving it too late to correct someone, meaning you must live with your new name forever

    🇬🇧 Running out of ways to say thanks when a succession of doors are held for you, having already deployed ‘cheers’, ‘ta’ and ‘nice one’

    🇬🇧 Changing from ‘kind regards’ to just ‘regards’, to indicate that you’re rapidly reaching the end of your tether

    🇬🇧 Realising you’ve got about fifty grand’s worth of plastic bags under your kitchen sink

    🇬🇧”You’ll have to excuse the mess” – Translation: I’ve spent seven hours tidying in preparation for your visit

    🇬🇧 Indicating that you want the last roast potato by trying to force everyone else to take it

    🇬🇧 “I’m off to bed” – Translation: “I’m off to stare at my phone in another part of the house”

    🇬🇧 The overwhelming sorrow of finding a cup of tea you forgot about

    🇬🇧 Turning down a cup of tea for no reason and instantly knowing you’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake

    🇬🇧 Suddenly remembering your tea and necking it like a massive, lukewarm shot

    🇬🇧 Waiting for permission to leave after paying for something with the exact change

    🇬🇧 Saying hello to a friend in the supermarket, then creeping around like a burglar to avoid seeing them again

    🇬🇧 Watching with quiet sorrow as you receive a different haircut to the one you requested

    🇬🇧 Being unable to pay for something with the exact change without saying “I think that’s right”

    🇬🇧 Overtaking someone on foot and having to keep up the uncomfortably fast pace until safely over the horizon

    🇬🇧 Being unable to turn and walk in the opposite direction without first taking out your phone and frowning at it

    🇬🇧 Deeming it necessary to do a little jog over zebra crossings, while throwing in an apologetic mini wave

    🇬🇧 Punishing people who don’t say thank you by saying “you’re welcome” as quietly as possible

    🇬🇧 Loudly tapping your fingers at the cash point, to assure the queue that you’ve asked for money and the wait is out of your hands

    🇬🇧 Looking away so violently as someone nearby enters their PIN that you accidentally dislocate your neck

    🇬🇧 Being sure to start touching your bag 15 minutes before your station, so the person in the aisle seat is fully prepared for your exit

    🇬🇧 Repeatedly pressing the door button on the train before it’s illuminated, to assure your fellow commuters you have the situation in hand

    🇬🇧 Having someone sit next to you on the train, meaning you’ll have to eat your crisps at home

    🇬🇧 The huge sense of relief after your perfectly valid train ticket is accepted by the inspector

    🇬🇧 The horror of someone you only half know saying: “Oh I’m getting that train too”

    🇬🇧 “Sorry, is anyone sitting here?” – Translation: Unless this is a person who looks remarkably like a bag, I suggest you move it

    🇬🇧 Worrying you’ve accidentally packed 3 kilos of cocaine and a dead goat as you stroll through “Nothing to declare”

    🇬🇧 Being unable to stand and leave without first saying “right”

    🇬🇧 Not hearing someone for the third time, so just laughing and hoping for the best

    🇬🇧 Saying “anywhere here’s fine” when the taxi’s directly outside your front door.

    🤣🤣🤣

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  • Please Do Not Buy A Rare Coloured Bulldog

    Still thinking about buying a “rare” coloured bulldog? Well think again!!!! This is what your money is funding.

    There’s no such thing as a rare coloured bulldog only backyard breeders conning members of the public into believing they have something special. As with any rarity, animals that are exceptional seem to have a priceless appeal and it seems as if everyone in this market are willing to accept any cost to acquire a bulldog with a remarkable and striking hue. The craze is much the same as in everything else on the planet, supply and demand transcend precious metals, food, and yes even animals.

    This is not special this is horrific and there’s not a single dog on this planet that deserves this, cross breed or not 😡😡. This poor dog is now in the care of rescue and is getting treatment for wounds he sustained from being attacked by other dogs in the breeders kennels. Wounds that should have been treated as soon as they happened but obviously that costs money and money is far more important than a dogs health and welfare

    The lure is the same as owning any rare item, it is a status symbol. Numerous individuals are purchasing these bulldogs essentially and solely for their remarkable hues and appearance. They are charmed to own something very few have but then getting to the attention for themselves is priceless. Different reproducers and companions are the ultimate conversation piece. Certain uncommon hued bulldogs are likewise elusive or breed, bringing about their canine and proprietor to make a “one in a million” bond with their dogs.

    Joint Health Problems in Rare Color Breeds:

    Canines experience a genuine measure of anxiety every day, from pursuing tennis balls, to playing a basic diversion with their proprietor in their patio. One particular article in Autry Hills Kennel explains how this has a direct impact on rare breeds who are genetically compromised. For a few puppies, the tedious weight on their joints can turn into an issue.

     

    Credit Tracey Jayne Rowell

  • STOP FORCING YOUR CHILD TO BE SOMEONE THEY’RE NOT, BECAUSE THEY WILL GROW UP TO RESENT YOU

    STOP FORCING YOUR CHILD TO BE SOMEONE THEY’RE NOT, BECAUSE THEY WILL GROW UP TO RESENT YOU

    Let’s address this not-so-problematic problem that keeps popping up here and there then, shall we?

    Buckle up, folks, because this is going to be a long one.

    Now… I consider myself a good parent I suppose – I love my children, I cook healthy meals, I clean, I educate them, I encourage them to help around the house, I make sure they know right from wrong, that they’re polite, kind and are thoughtful of other people around them.

    I’ve also taught them that they can be whoever they want to be because I will love them no matter what… which is how any parent should feel, correct?

    Incorrect. (Apparently)

    I once (well, maybe a few times) allowed my son to dress up in pink and leave the house because he loved the colour and it made him feel good. In turn, that made me feel good that he was comfortable and happy expressing himself around me, and more importantly, he was totally okay with being himself around other people because, you know, that’s what we constantly preach to others, right?

    Wrong. (Apparently)

    As true as I’m writing this now, I got a truck load of shit for it and I couldn’t understand why.

    “Why are you dressing him up as a girl?! You have a daughter to dress up!”

    “Do you want him to grow up being confused?” 

    “People are going to make fun of him! You’re sick!”

    Can we just get one thing straight, here?

    The people and parents who behave this way are the ones damaging our children psychologically, not us.

    I know this because I’ve been there.

    My father wanted me to do ballet, I played football. I had to be quiet in his presence, I wasn’t allowed to express myself through fear of him being embarrassed or being punished for it.

    I was bullied for most of my life because I had no voice; I didn’t know who I was then and I still don’t now… because someone I looked up to told me to keep my mouth shut because of what others would think.

    I developed a personality disorder, Body Dysmorphic Disorder and an eating disorder because I had to be someone I wasn’t.

    I was a pressure cooker waiting to explode and I’m now a product of everything my father hates which has a strain on our relationship and any other relationship I’ve ever had.

    I’m ‘damaged’ so to speak.

    So, back to where I was – I couldn’t give a flying fuck what my children want to leave the house as to be honest, because if they’re HAPPY then that’s all that matters.

    My son has his nails painted, he wears makeup sometimes and pushes a pushchair around if he feels like it, because, actually, one day he may be a father.

    You wouldn’t laugh then, would you?

    He was invited to an Elves and Fairies party recently and guess what he wanted to go as?

    A fairy.

    Would he look at another child and laugh for how they’re expressing themselves? Absolutely not – he’d join in because I’ve taught him that we all express ourselves in different ways and that there is no right or wrong in how we dress, what we wear or what we’d like to be when we grow up because it’s how we treat people that reallycounts.

    My son asked for two birthday parties this year – one where he could be himself and one where he had to pretend to be someone else because he knew other people wouldn’t ‘approve’.

    I was gutted for him.

    All he wanted was to have a good time – he shouldn’t be having to lie and make such grown up decisions at such a young age, just because one person had told him that “boys don’t behave that way”.

    For as long as he’s with me, he can be whoever the fuck he wants and that’s not going to change. He knows that, my daughter knows that and I’ll take on anybody who disagrees.

    So, to the parents who teach their children to laugh at other children, to encourage racism, hatred and snigger at others… FUCK YOU.

    YOU are what’s wrong with the world.

    Children don’t know hate, racism or mocking someone for being ‘different’ unless we tell them and I refuse to enforce that upon my children just because the majority of the population are uncomfortable with being different.

    I know how this affects children because I was one of them – I’m sure as fucking hell never going to put my child through that.

    Why would anybody want to?

    Encourage your children to be different, be their number one fan, cheer them on, even if it makes you feel slightly uncomfortable because they need you to be there for them emotionally.

    You are all they have and if they don’t have you, who do they have?

    The Unicorn in Black

    Please following the amazing writer at The unicorn in black https://m.facebook.com/theunicorninblack/

    https://theunicorninblack.com/2018/11/01/stop-forcing-your-child-to-be-someone-theyre-not-because-they-will-grow-up-to-resent-you/

  • Why I Will Not Judge Your Parenting

    WHY I WILL NOT JUDGE YOUR PARENTING ❤️

    I’m too damn busy.

    I’m too busy making mistakes and praying my kids turn out alright anyway.

    I’m too busy looking at my musty smelling laundry pile and wondering if I should fold it or light it all on fire.

    I’m too busy teaching my kids good work ethics which means saying “stop playing and keep cleaning” over and over until everyone is crying.

    I’m too busy yelling that everyone needs to STOP YELLING and then wondering if I will ever be able to stop yelling. It’s not really looking good for any of us.

    I’m too busy letting my three-year-old use a pacifier and my six-year-old wear Cinderella underwear as a bathing suit.

    I’m too busy trying not to fight with my husband in front of the kids even though sometimes we make each other crazy (ESPECIALLY IN THE CAR). I say trying, because last week my three-year-old asked me why daddy and I sometimes argue like little kids.

    I’m too busy wondering if that wet spot is from water, juice, or urine.

    I’m too busy trying to assess if that Pterodactyl scream was a “we’re having fun” scream or a “blood has been shed” scream.

    I’m too busy making risky calls like should I let my son wear that shirt with spaghetti sauce on it to church, and do I tell my girls that it’s actually a “vagina” not a “bagina”, even though bagina is way more awesome?

    I’m too damn busy apologizing to my kids. I’m apologizing for misunderstanding them, for getting grumpy, for bumping their head on a doorway, for not believing them that their tummy hurt until they projectile vomited, and for throwing away that ginormous popsicle stick art project they brought home from school.

    I’m too busy apologizing FOR my kids, like, “sorry they ate all your snacks and asked you if there’s a baby in your belly”.

    I’m too busy being overwhelmed by the fact that it’s already dinner time AGAIN and the food is still at the grocery store.

    I’m too busy because this parenting gig is flying by at lightning speed and I’m hanging on for dear life, hoping that when it’s over they will look back and say “we were loved”.

    I’m not going to judge your parenting because IT’S HARD and YOU are the qualified one.

    I’m not qualified because I don’t worry about your kids like you do. I don’t lie awake at night wrestling with decisions about schools, and friends, and behaviors, and obstacles in their precious lives. I don’t love them, ache for them, feed them, or say sorry to them like you do. I don’t know them. I don’t know their dreams or what makes them tick.

    I’m eleven years in and I am now more certain than ever that there isn’t “one way” to do this well. I’m just trying to figure out how to parent my own kids and how many margaritas I can have without getting a hangover. Life is complicated.

    If we can’t be real and share the struggle, then it just doesn’t work for me.

    I’m a fan of all MOMS.

    I’m too damn busy for anything else.

    Full credit to wonderoak.com, Facebook/wonderoak/ and https://www.instagram.com/wonderoakblog/ on Instagram

  • other peoples problems vs my own … 2

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  • running away from problems

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  • running from my problems … 2

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  • Here Are Some Reasons NOT To Have Children

    If anyone here doesn’t have children and are thinking about procreation here’s about 264 reasons not to bother

    * you will on average fill yourself a bath up 4 times a week and never get to get in it

    * you will never ever have the chance to get yourself ready. One of your darling womb fruits will either shit themself puke on themselves puke on anything in a 6 metre radius and play in it thus spreading vomit around like the flu virus and putting pukey hand prints on unironed clothes you’ve laid out for yourself

    * your house will never be tidy. Imagine there’s an actual tornado twirling around your lounge dragging debris from your draws and under your sofa and you’re trying to pick it up and put it back but it just twirls and whirls and rips it all to pieces again

    * you wont ever be able to have a shit in peace. Not ever. The door will open and close on a loop the whole time you’re in there for a variety of reasons. The baby has fallen the cat is biting me where’s my bag

    *you’ll somehow find the time to have your hair done, promising to have it done every few months to keep on top of it. 7 months later you have 4 inches of dark root regrowth and the best you can do is put it into a pony tail looking like a crystal meth addict

    * your dressing gown will be your best friend. Its raining and the bins need taking out put your dressing gown on. Youve left something in the car from a week last Wednesday that someone really needs, put your dressing gown on. Someone really upsets you, put your dressing gown on. And so on

    * toilet roll. Youre probably best off joining Costco and bulk buying it weekly, if you don’t on day 3 you’ll be pretty sure people who don’t live here are coming in purely to wipe their arse holes

    * sleep. Now if you like sleep you’ll never get any ever again. Probably only counts if you’re the actual mother fathers don’t seem to have any trouble sleeping at all. Love them. You’ll be awake probably 5 out of the 7 hours you’re up there, finding dummys comfort blankets patting bottoms shooshing arrrrring and having little stubby fingers poked in your eyes. You finally manage to shut your eyes and some other fucker will make a god awful noise outside the door and you’ll start the whole process over again. Only for a about 7 years so don’t panic

    * laundry. Theres no such thing as a bottom of a washing basket. You’ll be utterly convinced people live in your house you’ve never met. Everyone will complain they have no clothes yet you spend 17 hours a day washing it drying it and putting it away.

    * food shopping. It cost the national debt. Dont think you’re being super clever by swapping certain brands for cheaper alternatives. The little fucking bastards can tell the difference immediately and you’re left with 36 fish fingers that no fucker will eat. Same applies to jam and peanut butter and pretty much everything else

    * leaving the house on time. Just forget it. You’ll plan to meet a friend for coffee at 11 and have to txt 36 times to put it back half an hour and by the time you’re ready its the following friday. The fleshy baby mammal will do a massive shit all up its back. It’ll puke projectile after ramming the tail of a dinosaur down its throat itll be hungry and then refuse to eat it so you offer it something else. You would have no doubt forgotten to do its fucking bottle because you’ve had a list of things to do longer than fucking schindlers

    * Don’t bother buying new furniture or new anything actually. They will fucking destroy it with sticky shit wet shit chocolate shit dinner shit and any other shit they can get their mischievous fat hands on

    * your car will resemble some kind of mobile recycling bin and if anyone else gets in they’ll subtly push the carnage aside with their feet. You will give up apologising. You either want a fucking lift or you don’t.

    Theres more but ive obviously ran out of time

    Youre welcome

    Full credit: Charlotte Blake