The often dubious, politically incorrect and mainly humorous musings of Ms Jane Turley, (Ex) Housewife Extraordinaire.
I thought why not just post a piccy of myself! This photo has not been photo-shopped. However, I cunningly instructed the boys not to get my stomach or legs into the shot: a woman’s got to have some pride. Admittedly, I don’t have that much pride (bearing in mind I’ve just eaten one piece of flapjack and two chocolate chip cookies.)
I’m going to have to jump into the affray with the ridiculous terminology Gwyneth has assigned to her separation from Coldplay’s Chris Martin. You just know when you’ve heard an expression like concious uncoupling that it’s been coined after a minimum of twelve weeks counselling. Most likely in a room overflowing with scented candles and where all the furniture faces east. You can also be pretty darn sure that when the terms of the conscious uncoupling have been agreed, the concious couple will have wound down with a “fun” yoga session and a dinner of spinach parcels and deep-fried Quorn. Tasty. In a sort of bland vegetarian way. Now, when I was vigorously researching this post (Daily Mail) I also stumbled upon this article at The New York Times. Apparently, the term concious uncoupling was not coined by Gwyneth but by a psychotherapist called Katherine Woodward Thomas who, at the time of
Yesterday, I had one of my “moments”. So the boys were nagging me for a McDonald’s on the way back from a late-night tennis practice. So being a kind mother, we pulled into the drive-thru, ordered shakes and burgers, paid at the cash desk and pulled up at the delivery hatch. Whereupon, Master Ben requested that I asked for a sheet for him to stick on some stamps for a competition McDonald’s are running to win various goodies. The assistant duly handed the sheet to me with the shakes and I hand them to Master Jacob who was sitting in the front seat. Big mistake. Because Master Jacob has Master Ben’s sheet and Master Ben has the stickers. They started to argue over who was going to stick on the stamps to win the Mini Cooper. I closed the window, regretting I ever had children, and drove-off. After a while,
So here’s a question – what is a Janerism? I’m not entirely sure. I’m somewhat confused. But apparently it’s something I do a lot. Now this description has been assigned to me by author, Karen Wyld, from my writer’s group on Google +. I’m slightly worried because the term reminds me of a Malapropism. Now if you’ve not heard of the term Malapropism before -basically it’s derived from this mad old bag who was in Richard Sheridan’s 1775 comedy The Rivals. Again, I’m slightly worried. Now, because I am a discreet and subtle person, there’s not many pictures of me on the net. But I have this awful feeling that people think I look like this: Well the hat’s not far off the truth. On a cold day and with a hangover. Or maybe they think I look like this: Well she’s a cheery looking lady. In a sort of weird
So I was “kind of” an author before, but now I’m on Amazon it’s official isn’t it? I am an author! If any of you good folks are tempted to buy and review – remember be generous in your praise – you don’t want Mrs T turning into one of those depressed writerly types. That would be so not good – I’ve only just got over finding a hole in my tights. At present, A Modern Life is only available on Kindle but don’t forget if you have a computer, tablet or mobile you can download a Kindle App and read it that way. It will be available on other e-readers and in paperback in due course. Enjoy! A Modern Life on Amazon.co.uk A Modern Life on Amazon.com
So recently, my ISBN (international standard book numbers) finally arrived. These are the numerical codes that identify individual books and generate the barcode that you see on the back of books. By assigning ISBN numbers to my books, it means they will appear in industry catalogues and be available for retailers to purchase. It’s taken much longer to get this point than I imagined. However, it does mean that the publication of A Modern Life on Kindle is days rather than weeks away. It will follow shortly after on other e-readers and then in paperback in early April. In between all the preparations (which being a bit brainless I had not thought through – like tax requirements, setting up a business, blah, blah, blah) I have written a new story which I am going to include as a last minute addition to my short story collection. It’s called Pork Chops and
I live fairly near Luton, in fact some of my most embarrassing car-parking moments have been in Luton, nevertheless when I saw this on Facebook it brought a big, big, smile to my face. Enjoy!
I made the mistake a while ago of syncing the boys ipads with my computer using the icloud. So, for anyone not familiar with Apple products, this means instead of plugging in the ipads to my computer to transfer songs, films and pictures it does it automatically. I’ve no idea how but it’s genius. It also means I get to keep an eye on what the boys are doing in a Big Brother type of way. Or maybe that’s a Big Mother type of way. *Looks at thighs* Yeah, okay. It’s a Big Mother type of way. Now initially, I turned on the icloud because I was fed up of updating all our gadgets with our shared music which is stored on itunes. The Big Mother aspect only dawned on me when I started to get notifications of new photographs arriving on my computer. These photographs were kinda shocking. (It’s
Now, I am sure you folks out there know how patient we Brits are about standing in queues. I’m not sure where all this patience originates from because personally I’d like to club some of the people standing in front of me in the supermarket queue. You know the ones – you’ve been standing in the queue for twenty minutes and the person in front of you announces they’ve forgotten something and heads off to the meat counter and doesn’t return for ten minutes. Meanwhile, you’re still standing in the queue watching the hands of your watch tick away like an unexploded bomb knowing that you’ve got pack, pay and repack the groceries into your car and drive across town pick up your kids in less than ten minutes. Then, of course, when the customer finally returns from their sojourn they forlornly announce that the turkey mince they wanted for
Now before I get started on this post properly, I need to say that I know the two “ss” of “Fuss” in my title should be one of squiggly things that looks Kim Kardashian’s boobs from the side view. However, I’ve no idea how to get a squiggly boob thing and life is too short to worry about it. So before any of you language teachers (that’s you Susann Fruendt) make any formal complaint I’m lodging my excuses now. Okay? Right, so the background to this post is that I stupidly said to my writer’s group that if anyone spotted a typo in my last post I would write a blog post of their choice. Now, I had already self-flagellated as a result of spotting two typos in the first line so I didn’t think it could get any worse. I was wrong. Because language teacher and writer Susann Fruendt
Have you heard the tragic news, readers? Kevin Pietersen has not been selected for the next English cricket tour. His career with England is over. Okay, a quick explanation for my American friends: Kevin Pietersen is to English cricket what Michael Phelps is to USA swimming. Only Kevin doesn’t pee on the pitch like Michael pees in the pool and Kevin has a bigger mouth. Right, so Kevin has not been selected to play for England. I am disgusted, mortified, shocked, sickened, etc etc etc at this decision. Now I’m not even going to mention Kevin’s vital statistics (rumour has it they’re pretty darn good – even the ones with his bat) but, in addition to his stats, Kevin is “hot”. I mean seriously “hot” and we ladies, who must suffer hours of watching international test cricket, need something decent to look at every now and then. And, believe me,
I was going to write a post about the awful weather in the UK at the moment but then I read this article in The Daily Mail and decided it was way more interesting and deserving of some serious analysis. So to sum up the article there’s a woman called Kim Anami who, supposedly, can lift a 12kg kettle ball with her vagina. I can lift a HB pencil with mine. Which is handy because if I ever have my hands amputated I will still be able to sign my name. Now I don’t want to cast doubt on the strength of this woman’s vagina but whenever I read stuff like that two words cross my mind. They are “mentally” and “unstable.” Now I regularly lift an 8kg kettle ball (with my hands) as part of my on-going fitness drive and whilst this has resulted in many things (a broken
