I am sailing, I am sailiiiing..

Please, please, I beg of you, please share with me in the hilarity of this video:



(Courtesy of LiveLeak via The Bloggess)

I made a video of it. It was that bad.

Last night I had to knock myself out just so I could get some sleep.

My sister who I share a room with had a friend sleeping over and this friend snores like a train. I had to be at work at 9am later that morning. By 3am I was desperate.


Snoring. Grr. from Nicole Smith on Vimeo.



Woe is me. Being all quiet and courteous whilst this bulldozer of a child keeps me awake.

UPDATE: So, I didn't lose my job. I got my contract extended again. Can I get a hell yeah?

Eat my shorts.

The Simpsons/Family Guy is what my family aspires to be, I think. Sometimes.

I've seen an episode of The Simpsons at least every other day for most of my life, my sister has possibly seen more, and my parents have too. Same with Family Guy. Same with Futurama.

So it's a pretty standard thing in my household to hear quotes from The Simpsons, Futurama and Family Guy in my family. I don't even notice anymore, but my friend stopped by the other day and she professes that her mind was BLOWN.

"Nicky, can you open the car hole please?" (Garage)

"DAD! BENDER BURNT THE FOOD AGAIN!" (Oven)
"Kill him! Stun him! Turn him off!"
"How do you do that?"
"Ask your mother."
"MUM! HOW DO YOU KILL BENDER?!"

"What language are you learning this month?"
"Robonian. The language I didn't make up."

"Hello. Where's Mum?"
"I dunno."
"Mum! Mum! Mum! Mum! Mummy! Mummy! Mummy! Ma! Ma! Ma! Mamma! Mamma! Mamma! Ma-"
"WHAT!?"
"...Hi."

"Hey look! Hot-air balloon!"
"Hey there, blimpy boy..."

And so on.

I'm telling you this because The Cleveland Show has just been aired in the UK, and my sister and dad? They love it.



It's so weird it's kinda awesome.

(And I've totally called someone 'chocolate person' before. I was four. It happens. I'm sorry.)

Love actually isn't all around.

I have noticed something appalling.

Out of the people in my troupe of oddballs I am persistently 'The Responsible One', also known as 'Grandma', or even 'Oma' if we are feeling our inner German (oo-er). I supply the condoms, explode at people if they, say, let their sort-of-not-but-still other half go around stealing things from HMV (though after this week's incident I'm feeling more forgiving), I roll my eyes when people go all mushy with each other, and perhaps storm off if I'm having an off day (5 out of 7 days a week).

But then I suppose that when you're perpetually single you tend to err on the side of 'aged' and forget how to act your age until someone shoves ice down your bra and you are forced to fight to the death on a trampoline for the sake of your pride, or lack of it.

Wait, what was I saying?

Ahh yes. I'm getting old. See? Senile dementia, right there.

Maybe that's an overstatement. I'm like a spinster - Bridget Jones without the capacious knickers.

And according to Love Actually and Bridget Jones' Diary, love can only occur inside of London, and as a Northerner, I know this would never work, because there is a North-South language barrier to consider on top of lots of other things, like congestion charges and Prince Charles.

However... I have a plan to conquer this. It is a proven fact that if Person From England goes over to America, they find Person(s) From America and live happily ever after. It's true, it was on Love Actually AND The Holiday, and if that's not solid proof I don't know what is.(And also to a lesser extent, this occurred on Sky Captain And The World Of Tomorrow, but we needn't go there. Ever. No matter how much Jude Law there is.)



So this is my plan. Like Colin Frissell himself said, "American girls would seriously dig me for my cute British accent".

Well, not girls.

No, really.

Ah, fuck it. I'll just go celibate with Susan Boyle.

If the weather doesn't know what it's doing, neither do I.

I'm going on strike until the weather decides which element suits its lifestyle best (is sun going to be this season's newest fashion?) so I'm going to leave you with a video.

Trust me, it's a good'un. You will never think of Autumn/Fall in the same way again.

C'mon, it's less than a minute long, you can spare me that, can't you?

Suicidal Leaves by Monty Python (Taken from 'The Meaning Of Life')



Classic.

The English are coming! The English are comiiiing!

[Second Twitter-inspired post of the week... Guess how much free time I have these days, Yaaay!]

I twatted twot about my sister's truly, madly and deeply irrational fear of air raid sirens on Wednesday with the promise that I'd have as much fun with this as possible.

Sadly I couldn't go all-out with hand grenades, shrapnel and awesome lighting as I'd hoped (Imagine something similar to the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan), but I still had my fun...

Enjoy!



[Apologies if I sound all bunged up - I have swine flu. I know it. I just do.]

Something like crazy.

Christicles. I am NEVER taking a night off from blogging again. It's taken me three hours to get through my blogroll.

Let me tell you that the last three days have been the peak of my fortnight off.

Wednesday: I saw Marley & Me. It's a great movie, it made me laugh like a loon. I zoned out towards the end though because I was too busy telling myself to 'stop crying you pansy' to pay attention to the last two minutes.

Yesterday I lost my pride from 6.5 feet in the air.

Do witness...



And Tilda somehow still managed to label me as 'graceful' or some such nonsense.

But it doesn't matter too much because I found out that I was a god of some sort.



Well I can see the resemblance, anyways.

(Also, that man has tiny junk.)

(Just thought I'd point it out.)

(Because he certainly isn't going to.)

(Hmm... Maybe God is pointing it out, and the man just misinterpreted the body language - I hear men are good at that.)

(Anyway, Anna has much bigger balls than me... Maybe.)

But I think I digressed.

Friday was traumatic... After having breakfast tragically cut short by my mother's horrendously good timing, I was whisked away to my SIL's house where it was announced that I would be the 'model' in my mum's new campaign.

Please note that this was a teenage parents campaign.

I already knew I'd be made to do it, but this was crippling to my ego.

I was handed Rhiley (baby nephew) and suddenly I was staggeringly grateful that my 25-year-old brother wasn't there. Now that would have been painful.

So the photographer bloke* arrived with one of those HUUUGE cameras that are made to scare the model stiff and my mum started teaming up with him and saying 'Oh, Nicky, we don't want to see your face for this, pull your hair down'.

Queue the mother of all disparaging looks.

My SIL was fabulous as always, making sure Rhiley kept laughing and smiling ('The baby needs to look happy.' The cameraman said. 'The mother needs to look stressed and tired.') and I just sat pretty and felt my mental age - somewhere in the mid-forties.

It was over in ten minutes, but BELIEVE ME they were the longest ten minutes of my life.

In other news Hitler my drama teacher has called rehearsals after school next Wednesday. No doubt I'll have tales of utter joy to tell then.

[* The photographer bloke was actually really nice even though this is all EXACTLY what happened, I'm just being an arrogant bitch here.]

Shut up and eat your eggs.

For the last two or three days I have been fighting a losing battle against HTML on behalf of mankind. I've screamed, I've shouted, I've typed my poor little fingers (useless trivia: I have small hands) to the bone and then I sent off the codes to Matt who fixed them in 0.2 of a second which is just a typical example of my stunted life.

Fuck you, man.

But, you know, thanks.

So I've re-done the whole of the Urban Family Blog* to look icky and twee and then slammed in some of Anna and Ashley's handy work in the banner to highlight the only rational fear there is.

Man-eating horses.

The sign says so, so it must be true.

Then I realised that the U.F. blog doesn't really get much done to it, because I'm the only consistent blogger out of all of us and they're bound to get bored of my nagging them at some point.

So I added a new feature, which I'll post here too because this was too funny, even if it is kind of an in-joke.

Urban Family Movies: Matt Fails Easter.



Enjoy!**

---

* Urban Family is the general name for myself, Matt, Tilda, Anna and Emma... Snagged the name from Bridget Jones' Diary... so sue me.

** I am not a sexy nurse and I never plan to be.

Sipping tea and trying to remember how to speak English-like

Did I tell you that I speak American-ish?

Yeah. Such is the effect of reading so many American books/blogs and watching too many American films.

Oh, and I know more about baseball than I do about cricket.

Basically, I rock.

It annoys a lot of people though, mostly because I keep calling everyone 'Dude'.

Anna is now known as Dude. She hates this, she may even highlight this in the comments, but maybe not... I think my American-ness is the real reason that she is refusing to elope to the USA with me and Tilda to set up a tent on top of here because we are mere immigrants that are too poor to pay rent and I'm pretty sure that no one person owns the Seattle Space Needle.

Regardless, that's what's happening. Hit me up in a few years.

Back to the point, even my mother has become Dude. She's indifferent, mostly this is just because it's really not worth questioning my dizzying logic. And considering how much I do for her (see below) I'm kind of at liberty here.



Yeah. What wouldn't you do for a daughter like me?

I mean, I come with a free PediPaws kit! (<--- READ THIS: I thought it was pretty hilarious...)

(P.S. I'm fully aware that this post is full of cringe-worthy stereotyping.)

Why you should never celebrate too soon:

Bowling with Mum and Cleo from Nicole Smith on Vimeo.

'Now Nicole goes up for a second ball, tension is mounting... Go, go Nicole as she stoops to conquer, completely misses and has a hissy fit'

My brother on Christmas day.

Christmas in the loony bin. from Nicole Smith on Vimeo.

Blimey, you can hear how Northern our accents are can't you?