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I’ve been wondering how often to update this. Do I update it after our first, Mr G free, dinner party? (The one where curry was on the menu, leading Ms A, our token Irish friend, to reinforce all negative stereotypes by asking if Pakora was “Indian for chicken”) Or should I update it with more household appliance disasters? (Flooded the kitchen again with the washing machine – turns out that leopard print bikini didn’t help much after all) Or should I wait for some inspiration? I opted for the latter. It seems that good things come to those who wait…

Long story short, well, short-ish:

First and foremost, Miss Rants a lot is the luckiest unlucky person in the world. Bad things happen to her but they’re never accompanied by the expected bad consequences. For example: I’ve fallen in the canal and come out perfectly dry! Managed to land on the tiniest patch of grass; I’ve left my handbag on a bus twice – and got it back twice! (Although the West of Scotland crime statistics beg to differ, Glaswegians are very honest people); a lorry crashed into a bus I was on, smashed the window where I was sitting and I emerged without a scratch! I lost my passport in the airport, got it back! The list is endless. HOWEVER, yesterday was, without doubt, the strangest yet…

Ms J, her friend (Miss S) and I were getting on the metro, heading into town. As the train doors opened, we walked forward to get on, as one does. Goodness knows how but after Ms J and Miss S had stepped on, I slid off the platform so that one leg was on the train and the other was firmly wedged between the train and the platform! I glanced to the end of the train, truly believing that this may be how I’d die, especially when I realised that the driver hadn’t seen me and began to close the doors! Thankfully, Miss S has an incredible inner strength that she saves for emergencies and she managed to pull me onto the train, just as the doors were closing; although saving my life came at the expense of my shoes. As the doors were closing, my ‘slip on’ shoes ‘slipped off’ onto the track. Ms J’s dramatic, futile leap forward to save them, accompanied by her screaming “your shoooooooooooooes” only added to how surreal the situation was. Honestly, Hollywood couldn’t make it up. (When I figure out how to, I’ll upload the picture. It’ll definitely teach you to ‘mind the gap’) 

Yet in true “luckiest unlucky person ever” form, everything turned out ok. Minus an incredibly bruised ego and leg, I’m fine. I even managed to get my shoes back! Although, where do you even begin to explain (in Spanish) to the worker who had salvaged them from the tracks, when she looks at you in complete bewilderment, asking “can you tell me how you managed to lose your shoes …?” FML.

Miss rants a lot x


Is stupidity contagious?

That just about sums up life in the flat to date (“life”-all 5 days of it!) Good news first though, we discovered that girls aren’t that bad at DIY after all! Bad news, finding out that things you were trying to “fix” were never broken in the first-place. *facepalm*

After yet another call/email to the landlord about the broken oven, he replied on facebook (quite frankly, I’m surprised he’s still my ‘friend’, maybe he’s yet to find the ‘unfriend’ button). His reply? “Have you turned on the timer? I think that will make it work” *facepalm* Didn’t we feel stupid when we found out that, yes, it did indeed work with the timer! This wouldn’t have been so bad if we hadn’t spent an hour slowly pulling the oven out to look at the wires, which were worringly stuck together with tape, then struggling to fit it back in its space again. I swear, the more the sun bleaches my hair, the more my IQ suffers.

Pretty much the same thing happened with the washing machine (if he wants to leave us with pre-historic appliances, he’s going to have to deal with two ranting Scots and that’s never a pretty sight). However, Ms J and I managed to, kind-of, sort it ourselves! Girls -1 DIY- 0. After a few tugs, pulls and “oh my God, why the hell won’t this thing move?”, we got the washing machine out and bravely turned some knobs. Thankfully, there wasn’t an explosion like the boiler. We did however, make the water flood out the machine. We managed to stop it though and in the end, much to the relief of our shrunk, twisted, discoloured laundry, we got the clothes out clean and soaking. Soaking to the extent where, after having rinsed out the water in the shower, they’re still not dry 2 days later. Seems we haven’t quite perfected the use of the caveman’s kitchen but we’re getting there. Next time, I’ll try to do some washing in my leopard print bikini, it might inspire me to think like our predecessors (the awkward moment when you look up a word in Google because you don’t want spell-check to judge you…)

Anyway, I think I should shut up. WordPress is asking me if I “know that blogs don’t have to be long?” You know it’s time to shut up when even your computer’s getting sick of you! Better go anyway, got some lessons to prepare: in Miss Rants a lot’s messed-up mind, it makes perfect sense to be an English teacher, move to Spain and teach someone French! Wish me luck with that, we practiced saying “quatre” (four) at least 15 times today, to no avail. *facepalm*

Ciao, Miss Rants a lot x

Things can only get better!

Dear diary,

Today was the second full day in the flat and, although I don’t feel great, I’m pleased to say that things are much better than they were on Thursday night.

So…Thursday night’s entry to the flat was rather eventful, when I say eventful, I mean disastrous. Whilst I’m all for women’s rights and equality, it appears that where D.I.Y’s concerned, we’re really not up to the job. I got prizes for wood-work at school, was a right little feminist but in this instance, and only this once, I’ll admit defeat. As Ms J and myself were moving our things in, we noticed how dirty the flat was (ie: a rotting potato under the cutlery) and when we went to clean up, we found that there was no hot water. Miss Rants a lot, never being one to pass up a challenge, thought that she could fix the problem by turning the “little blue thingy” under the boiler. Bad, bad mistake…

Water went EVERYWHERE! The walls, the floor, the table and not to mention me! Unfortunately,not many people believe you when you tell them that “honestly, the big wet patch on my crotch was from the boiler”. The ten foot radius of people avoiding me attested to that.  Ms J, ever her helpful self, refrained from laughing during this little episode for fear that I may have started to cry, which is actually quite a feat. If the roles were reversed, I’m not sure I’d have been able to control myself.

We then complained to the landlord that the flat was falling apart, the blinds were broken and that the shutters weren’t working (in Spain, every window has a shutter. Even on the 10th floor, you can never be too sure that someone won’t be trying to break in through your windows!) We had to take back our words as it turned out that if we’d pulled the cord on the blind, it’d open and that if we’d pulled the shutter a little, it’d close perfectly fine. We also found out that it wasn’t supposed to be the “little blue thingy” that we turned on the boiler, rather the metal one on a nearby pipe: easy mistake /  lesson learned the hard way.

Life lesson #24: If you need D.I.Y done, get a man to do it (after all, what else are they good for?) If there aren’t any available, change it to mean Destroy It Yourself and you’ll be sorted.

Miss Rants a lot x

He may ruin our lives but he’ll never take our freedom!

After numerous rows, empty threats of eviction, explosive arguments and a girlfriend(or two) becoming permanent features in the flat from hell, Ms J and myself  have finally parted ways with Mr G. We’ve found ourselves our own little flat, where we’re free to speak after 11pm, turn on the lights when it’s dark, turn on the central heating when it’s cold, use the oven when we’re hungry and, wait for it, close doors with one hand! It’s the little things in life that keep me going.

Back to the matter at hand, Miss Rants a lot doesn’t want to, well, stop ranting!  So just because Mr G’s not in the picture anymore, she’s not leaving that easily. I should probably revert back to speaking in the first person now. Basically, I don’t want to leave the land of blog because of my deprived childhood. Yup, you read that right. I never had a diary as a child, so it’s about time I got one! Albeit, a very public one which kind of defeats the point in it being a diary; however, in times of financial crisis, paper diaries cannot be readily bought.

So this time around, there won’t be just ranting – though I’m pretty sure that’ll feature a lot – but it’ll also contain the many ridiculous situations which we seem to get ourselves into. So much so, that if someone carried a camcorder around with them (camcorder? Stuck in the 90’s much?) You’ve Been Framed would’ve made us millionaires by now!

Welcome to my diary you lovely folks and to the adventures of J&J…

Miss Rants a lot x

A sticky(notes) situation

Well it appears that Mr G has a love for post-it notes. They keep popping up everywhere: the kitchen; the living room; the bathroom… anywhere he deems suitable to spread his propaganda. The first one greeted us as we arrived home after a night out.

Sticky note 1: “Girls, I’m sleeping so be careful opening the doors. Good night.”

Be careful opening the doors? As opposed to opening them carelessly? I might not be the smartest but I thought there were only two ways to open a door – push or pull, not gently or harshly. However, it’s early days, so let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe he’d been watching a horror movie and was trying to protect us from the deadly beast on the other side.

On to number 2, Ms J was very ill – not self-inflicted I should add! – and the contents of her stomach had decided that they’d like to remove themselves in a rather violent fashion until 7am.  Note only did Mr G inform me that she’d thrown up 7 times and that the last time was 40 minutes ago (ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a stalker), he’d decided to leave the poorly Ms J a little a post-it on the bathroom door.

Sticky note 2: “Ms J, please take more care closing the doors. Use both hands to avoid disturbing the others”.

This man simply radiates sympathy! It doesn’t matter how ill someone is, as long as they die quietly, that’s fine by him. Moreover, what is with this guy’s obsession with doors?

Sticky note 3: “Girls, there is an oil stain on the hob”.

And…? Is this supposed to mean that we should clean it, even though neither of us cook with oil? I’m not sure if he’s aware that in the absence of a cleaner, you wash things yourself. You don’t rent out  two rooms and get whoever rents them to be your private butlers! (Slavery’s been abolished for many years now in case you’re reading this Mr G,)

Sticky note 4: “Miss Rants a lot, it’s your week to clean the whole house.”

Excuse me? (I’m aware that there’s a lot of rhetorical questions here sorry, they’re needed for effect though) I took this note to confront him, to which he pulled out another “here’s one I made earlier” note : kids have comfort blankies, he has a post-it note. However, this particular sticky note was one that I recognised, one I’d seen before , the very one which I’d written on last week; signed, sealed and delivered to say that I’d cleaned the kitchen and living room, mopped the floors etc. Given that we’re working from a rota, where every week a new person is the designated weekend cleaner (laugh-a-minute in our house), I showed him that I’d done it the previous week. Taken aback, he stuttered “erm, erm… well… you didn’t fill in the date correctly so, so… I can’t do it, you must do it again.” What? Where is the logic in that? He’s only a small, black moustache and an outstretched arm away from truly completing his dictatorship.

Must go guys and gals, got myself some sticky notes to write. If it’s a war he wants, it’s a war he’ll get…


Blog Virgin

So, this is my first blog. I have no bloody idea what to do, so today shall be a trial run. Sorry to any seasoned bloggers who are cringing at the thought that someone has been clutching on to Facebook’s apron strings for so long.

I should give you a quick re-cap as to why I’ve finally moved into the twenty-first century and joined you wonderful people. I’ve recently moved to sunny Spain from not so sunny Scotland to teach some brats English. Whilst I love Madrid and the great people I’ve met, there’s just one problem: my borderline-psychopathic flatmate, Mr G. Fortunately, I also have a Scottish flatmate, Ms J, but whilst this avoids there only being Mr Screw-Loose and myself in the flat (‘apartment’ for any Americans reading this), it also means that Mr G has a larger audience to torture. Before I explode with rage, I thought I’d find a way to release it, hence why I’m here. Readers of a nervous disposition and/or who oppose the rantings of a mad woman, should look away now.

For those of you who’ve rented a flat before, you’re most likely aware of what a rental contract entails, Mr G however, is clearly not. Amongst the ‘rules of harmony’ he’s so kindly included in his contract are:

  • you may only use the oven once a week
  • in winter, you are only entitled to 1.5 hours of heating a day
  • absolutely no noise after 11pm: this includes whispering
  • you must close all doors in a certain manner, ie: using both hands to ensure no noise will be made
  • never use the big lights, lamps must be used at all times
  • never use metal spoons whilst cooking, they’ll only destroy pots
  • give a week’s notice if you want one person to come to the flat, otherwise you’ll have to pay
  • when cleaning a drinking glass, make sure you rinse it 5 times or whoever uses it next will die
  • and so on and so forth… (unsurprisingly, neither Ms J nor myself have signed the contract)

As you can imagine, such strict rules as these release your inner rebel, a kind of “do not touch this button” situation: you know it’s wrong to press the big, red button but you just can’t help yourself. So when Mr G told us he was going away for the weekend, we saw it as a great opportunity to break the rules and have a party! (if you can call an ipod, 8 people, 2 pizzas and some wine a party) We sent everyone home around 2am, bearing in mind that Spain is a country where they eat dinner at 10pm and leave nightclubs at 7am this is very early. We cleaned up, mopped the floors, took out the rubbish (garbage) and there was no evidence that there had been anyone over the previous night – or so we’d thought. Little did we know that Mr G has either been reading Sherlock Holmes or watching way too much CSI but he grilled us on whether we’d had a party,citing his evidence such as the speck of sick he’d found behind the toilet -thanks for that Ms ?, you know who you are!- and that the water in the mop bucket looked dirty and that the 2 pizza boxes were gone from the freezer (which was a double sin given that that’d taken us over our ‘once a week’ oven rule). He then proceeded to look through the bin for further evidence. If that doesn’t scream psychopath, I don’t know what will!

Anyway, that appears to be enough ranting for today. Congratulations if you’ve made it reading this far, you are a truly admirable person. Put up with me breaking my blog virginity and listened to my babbling rant. If you too know someone like Mr G, or are just intrigued to find out what this freak gets up to next, tune in soon. He never fails to provide extra writing material.

Muchos love,

Miss Rants a lot x