Well Done Google

Now I know I've written about it before, so it will come as no surprise to any of you that I have a stat counter on this blog. Before you all gasp in middle class horror and nod knowingly to each other that you always knew that I was the type, I know a lot of you have them too. You do, there are ways you see of telling, not least because most of us can't resist putting the live feed box onto our blogs. Ha! Got you, so no more smirking at the back please and you can remove yourself from Judgement Corner before I do it myself with force and a threat of no pudding after tea (dessert after dinner to my American readers, I'm harsh but fair).
Anyway, as most of you know, this little stat counter can tell you all sorts of things, the most intriguing, and downright entertaining being the google search words that people put into the search engine and thereby find your blog. As I recounted in A Rose By Any Other Name many of these are downright inappropriate and excitingly pornographic, and again I can only extend my heart felt apologies to anyone coming to this blog (sorry) via such searches as housewife tied to stool with dog or housewife beating milkman with bamboo for the banality you are faced with (you are facing the computer aren't you? There's no panting sound track with this blog, yet another disappointment, I suppose I could record the dog after a run if this would help?).
The thing is, after a while you get a bit immune to these searches, even a little bored. There's only so many times you can snigger at sex-with-a-housewife requests before you begin to tune out and hum a little tune at the ordinariness of it all. Surely, surely someone can come up with something better? Something to brighten my day a little? Something a little more imaginative than plain old sex?
Well, they did. Today, just now in fact. And for reasons that will become clear, I am a little concerned. Scanning down the Google searches in a quiet moment at my laptop, looking for the pathways of readers (only out of interest you understand, although Nunhead Mum of One I notice you've been absent for a while, twenty lines please: I must read Millennium Housewife every week, everyone else, take note), there it stood, in italics:


I Shot Myself.


I shot myself? Who? What? The cliches are running out of my mouth before I can stop them (although this image may please some of the porn searchers out there). Who on earth thinks: oops I just shot myself, I'll just boot up the computer and check the symptoms on Google before calling an ambulance? It's obvious isn't it? I'm not mad am I? It is you not me isn't it? You don't need to google the symptoms, the diagnosis is right there in front of you. You shot yourself. Therefore you have a giant piece of pointy metal somewhere in your body. The clue as to where could be the great gaping hole spurting blood, the one that looks a little worse for wear. In fact if you're feeling a little dizzy, this may be another clue and I'd dial the hospital quite quickly.
What did they expect? Did google answer with a concise and neat link to selfdiagnosis.com? Or perhaps bring up a lesson in self bandaging and bullet removal? No. Of course it didn't, because Google would then be sued for allowing someone stupid enough to shoot themselves to find a website that stupidly advises on self-removal of a bullet in a stupid manner. And Google isn't stupid.
Instead, of course it sent them to me. So, err, sorry about that person-who-shot-themselves. Sorry if you've just read all the way down to this bit while bleeding, possibly to death, only to find I'm not going to advise you on bullet removal. I'm also sorry about the calling you stupid bit, especially if this is the last thing you ever read. I feel a bit bad about that. Still, if you survive, you could always sue Google for not providing you with the life saving website you were looking for, that might be fun. If you're still able to read at the moment try calling 999 if you live in the UK, or 911 in America, I'm afraid I don't know any other emergency numbers for other countries, even though I live in Europe. But that's a debate for another day.
So, as you can see, this is why I'm concerned, what happened to the person who shot themselves, no one that stupid could possibly survive could they? (again sorry if it's you and you're still reading, I'm presuming you're on the floor right now). And what about me? Was that the highlight of my google searches? Am I doomed forever more to dog and housewife couplings, never again to be enthralled, delighted and disturbed in equal measure at the horror of the story unfolding on my stat counter. I hope not. Poor me (and poor you if you're the shot-one, and well done for bothering to read the post, there's lots more if you care to scroll down).

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

• Hi darling, how was your day?


• Oh good


• What's that?


• That box you're carrying


• Ooh goody I love surprises


• All for me? wow


• I wonder what's inside


• Ooh what is it?


• It looks like socks


• Yup, definitely socks


• White socks at that


• Should I stop now or will further delving simply reveal more white socks?


• Oh I see, more white socks


• 100?


• Ooh you really pushed the boat out this time


• I'm not being sarcastic, it's just that it's a hundred white socks


• Well what does one say about one hundred white socks?


• Right


• Well


• Errr, thankyou


• Where did you get them from?


• If a guy at work is closing down it usually means his products aren't selling


• Well, I'm saying that if no one in the world wanted to buy his socks, why on earth did you buy them?


• They were free?


• So my present is a hundred pairs of white socks that you got for free from a guy closing down a warehouse


• What do you mean they're a size nine?


• I'm a six


• Well you know my bra size


• Yes I'm sure it's much more fun shopping for bras


• What do you mean you have your hands to help you remember the size?


• Please don't tell me that's how you shop for bras


• The assistant will understand the size, you don't have to cup your hands


• Well how would you like it if that's how I shopped for your underpants?


• No I don't think the assistant would fall down in an impressed faint


• Or ask if you're likely to be single soon


• Although you may be now I know how you shop for bras

Ten Steps To Becoming A Better Parent

1. Keeping Mum: If you're worried your two year old is going to grass up your latest gaffe to your Husband and reveal that you let him (two year old not Husband) wee freely on the bedroom carpet, let him chew chewing gum all day. Sticks their mouth together beautifully.
2. Bribe #1: Use anything you can, sweets/magazines/DVDs/whiskey to evoke good behaviour from your offspring at all times. Whiskey is cheaper.
3. Bribe #2: A good cake or, in extreme cases Money, can be used to bribe a teacher. 'A' grades are a lot easier to come by than you think.
4. Santa or equivalent: Use him! You only have a few years with your first and even less with subsequent children due to the snitching impulse. According to you, Santa is available day and night via Skype to report on a child's behaviour. He adjusts his lists accordingly on an hourly basis. He also reserves the right to allow certain behaviours sometimes and ban it completely another. He's a fickle fellow.
5. The Tooth Fairy: A year round equivalent to Santa. It doesn't even have to be that expensive, tell your child that a 1p piece is a pound coin, cheap for you while sounding reassuringly expensive to friends. Total cost: about 20p
6. Clothing: Dress your daughter like a Bratz doll until she's ten, she'll love you. And bought love is the best. Don't forget to add the eyeliner, it really stands out in the playground.
7. Information: Answer your child's every question in great detail. Use power point and a pointy stick if you can. Include as many long and complicated words and expressions as you can. Pause frequently for effect. Take all day if you like, it'll soon put a stop to those pesky questions. That'll show them.
8. Sleep: Allow your child to sleep anywhere they choose as long as they stay in their room. A laundry basket in the corner makes an exciting alternative bed, this way they stay there. Good for you, exciting for them. Everybody wins.
9. Budget: Encourage low cost/one ball games. Discourage expensive hobbies. Tell them ponies bite/tennis players go blind/golf is a high death rate sport.
10. Care: Husband/uncle/grandparent/random stranger can all be roped in to help care for your offspring and give you a break. If fact anyone over sixteen is fair game. Just make sure they understand the above rules and have at least one finger or toe that they can dial 999 with. Under no circumstances give them your own phone number, they will only call it. The police come faster anyway.

Tripping The Light Fantastic

We went to a thirtieth birthday party on Saturday night, the thirtieth birthday party of my best friend's little sister. There is nothing, nothing more ageing or depressing than for people who you only ever saw as much younger than you hitting milestones that you're still in denial about. We were excited to be asked, of course. For a start it meant that we were still young enough to paaarrrtttaayy!-they do say that nowadays don't they? If not I fear I may have made a small gaffe jumping onto a table and yelling it through a bread stick in an attempt to get this paaarrttaayy started. But I was being young, hip, crikey we had an overnight babysitter and could deny all childcare responsibilities for at least fourteen hours. We could join the group of carefree kids tripping the light fantastic who could still claim to have some sort of a grip on the word twenty.
Deciding to deny any relationship with the big three-oh I attempted such cliches as ooh, you can't be thirty, I still think of you as eleven and I still feel sixteen ha ha ha ha ha, although I stopped short of I used to change your nappies before I shot myself (or the birthday girl shot herself at the horror). I could be twenty, or there abouts, just watch me jiiiive.
There was a difference though, it was much more civilised than I remember things. Husband and I left our social life behind at the grand old age of twenty seven, right at the height of every one's partying. Finally every one's salaries were looking up, as was their holiday allowance and consequently pulling potential. And what did we do? Have a baby. Well done. Everybody else flitted to Morocco and hugged orangutans in a forest somewhere (apparently Borneo but I saw the slide shows and it looked suspiciously like Whipsnade Zoo). We swapped Going Out clothes for jeans, trainers and Teflon coated tops, everyone else swapped Work Clothes for flip flops and a backpack. We have, in a nutshell, been absent from any kind of swinging (in the music sense, not in the car keys in the middle of the room sense) social life while we changed nappies, burped babies and negotiated school runs.
But, now we were back! The children finally old enough for an over night babysitter that hadn't had to be bribed with a holiday package and bonuses, here we were, ready to don our dancing shoes and, to be honest, get sloshed again. Whoo hooo!
Though we had you see, failed to get one teeny tiny point: while we were absent everyone else had grown up too. Rather than be greeted by shots of flaming zambucaas and vodka girls sticking alcohol down you mouth and a nipple in your ear, we all had a quiet drink and chats in a bar. We then went to a very civilised Indian Restaurant (rather than a curry house, the only one open at three am, the reason being that only incredibly drunk people would eat the food and not complain to Health and Safety the next morning). It was delightful, we felt neither old nor young, no pretending to be in our twenties and surreptitious glances saw the same creep of age on everyone as on us. Husband even spent a happy half hour chatting to every man there while chancing a quick photo on his phone of the back of their heads. He's had them printed out today and now we have a gallery of every bald spot in the place. Husband compares tolerably well and is strutting about the house like a twenty nine year old. A twenty nine year old that wears pyjamas and slippers. But twenty nine nonetheless.