Chick clicks

One of my favourite things about this blog is finding out what people ask Google in order to end up here. For those of you who are actually looking for my blog, THANK YOU. I really, really appreciate it.

For the rest of you, I am sorry that my website does not help you IN ANY WAY.

But you know what? I’m going to try to help you, too. Below are my answers to some of the most Googled questions that (wrongly) lead people to My Chick Lit Life.

How do I dress up a brown brick house?

I am so surprised by how many people type this one, and end up clicking here. Do the previews of my rants about shoes and booze REALLY make you believe I’m going to be a renovation expert? Anyway, here’s my tip:

Paint it pink!

The walls, the doors, the windows, everything. Pink is the best! It makes you happy and crave sugar all at the same time. Imagine, the whole of London, pink-ified. It would look like Barbie-land!

A cat bit my chick

Oh my God. Chick, like your girlfriend? Or chick, like you have baby chickens in your house? Either way, I AM CONCERNED.

We’ve already discussed the danger of cat rabies in much detail on this site. It’s a real thing, apparently! So get that thing CHECKED OUT. NOW.

Cake with pink slippers and lipstick

You are a genius. MAKE THAT CAKE.

Australian girls and the consumption of champagne

Please, PLEASE do not use me as an example. I would hate for my obscene love of bubbles to reflect poorly on my home nation. My relationship with champagne is so skewed, I ACTUALLY believe a glass of prosecco can cure an oncoming cold. And I actively rage against the concept of a Bucks Fizz. Why dilute the champagne happiness with orange juice? I don’t care if it’s 10am, that is WASTEFUL.

Fear of moustaches

We should all fear moustaches. They are hairy and scary. Thank you for Googling this. I now know I am not alone.

Why is Ireland so obsessed with potatoes?

Because potatoes are the BEST. Duh.

My Doc Martens are making my pants bunch

Oh, that sounds unfortunate. Did you know, in England, ‘pants’ means knickers? It’s been a problem for me, as someone averse to wearing pants. And by pants, I mean trousers, slacks, jeans etc. I find them restrictive, uncomfortable, and not nearly as pretty as dresses. But when I tell someone here I don’t like wearing pants, they get all gross and leery. Where are YOU from? ‘Cos if your shoes are somehow making your knickers bunch, you have a real problem.

Pink shoes with butterflies on them

Don’t buy them. They sound terrible.

Spice Girls themed dinner menu

May I PLEASE come to dinner?

Who is the girl in the pink pants story so far

I really have no idea what you’re talking about. And why not dabble in question marks? Punctuation is FUN!

How do I get my chick to experiment with other girls?

Despite your appropriate use of question marks, YOU ARE A TERRIBLE PERSON. If my blog could punch you, it would.

A whole street that is naked

You are similarly terrible.

Single bed sex

Seriously?! This comes up EVERY DAY. There are thousands of people typing this into Google, and ending up here. It’s the biggest driver of traffic to my blog.

Guys. I am going to tell you once and once only, if you think there are special rules for sex in a single bed, YOU ARE DOING SOMETHING WRONG. IT IS STILL A BED. THERE’S JUST A LITTLE BIT LESS SPACE. If you were looking for instructions for shower sex, or I dunno, SEX IN OUTER SPACE, I understand the need for a little bit of Google help. But sex in a bed a little smaller than a normal bed? COME ON.

Googling My Chick Lit Life

This post is just going to drive more crazies to the site, isn’t it?

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Almost famous

This week was a big one for my little blog.

I got ‘Freshly Pressed’.

It sounds kinda sexy, and indeed, it is. My post on my unsociable fear of pets was featured on the WordPress website, and brought hundreds of new readers over to My Chick Lit Life to have a look. And apart from the slightly depressing fact that it’s made all my other stats look puny and pathetic, it’s by far the best thing that’s happened for the blog.

The feedback has been hilarious. A lot of people have given me serious advice on how to correctly approach cats (apparently scratching under the chin is the secret to getting a cat purring. I will not be doing that). I’ve been confidently told my life will not be complete without a dog. I’ve been assured that ‘cat rabies’ are not a big problem in the UK. Guys, I didn’t even know cat rabies was a real thing. I thought I’d made it up! But now, I am legitimately afraid of cat rabies. THANKS A LOT.

In all seriousness though, it’s been really exciting. I’m thrilled that so many people have read at least one chapter of my chick lit adventure. I hope a few stick around.

And in a classic chick lit twist, all this online attention and excitement has come during a week when THE INTERNET HAS STOPPED WORKING. I’ve had to bask in my online glory over a 3G connection, huddled over my phone screen. Honestly, it’s like it’s 1993 in our little brown-brick house at the moment. We haven’t had a connection in more than a week. And we’re all starting to go a little mental.

I, for one, don’t know how much longer I can last. Right now I’m pretending to be the world’s oldest university student, just so I can use a lab computer at a friend’s workplace. And just being in here, I’m starting to feel like I have an assignment due and a pimple growing. It’s tense stuff.

Apparently, it’s getting fixed tomorrow. Cross your fingers for me and my internet connection, dear readers! And, in the meantime, THANK YOU for reading My Chick Lit Life.

Technology’s a bitch

Twitter is playing matchmaker. And I don’t like it.

Every few weeks, Twitter sends me an email. The email suggests people I should follow, people that Twitter, in all its technological wisdom, thinks I have a lot in common with. That I would get along with. And you know who tops the list every single time?

My ex-boyfriend.

Yes, Twitter, I KNOW. We have a lot in common. We are friends with the same people. Our profile pics look good together. I certainly thought we were a good match, BEFORE HE BROKE UP WITH ME.

And you know what, Twitter? For months after we split up, I still had myself convinced he was the only man for me. It took a long, long time for me to get over it, to tell myself there might be someone else out there, better suited to me.

IT DOESN’T HELP IF YOU KEEP TELLING ME THERE’S NOT.

Twitter, why tell me this? If you’re so invested in us being together why don’t you bother HIM instead? Send him a memo. Hell, tweet him! Break the cold, hard truth to him, in 140 characters or less.

Idiot. You guys are a perfect match. Apologise, buy her many pink things and promise never to buy a dog. You’re welcome! #TwitterKnowsBest

And, it turns out it’s not just Twitter that’s playing back-to-the-future-matchmaker. I was complaining about the latest email to my housemate, when he told me about his experiment with internet dating. Turns out, of the thousands of women looking for love in London, the dating website hooked him up with not one, but TWO ex-girlfriends.

So what’s the deal? Is the internet REALLY unimaginative? Or have my housemate and I both missed out on the bona fide, technologically-proven person for us?

While you ponder that depressing thought, why not follow me on Twitter?

Making a connection

It’s been too long since I last wrote… but that’s what happens when you don’t have an internet connection.

But I have an excuse – I moved house! Yes, this chick lit novel now has a setting. A brown brick semi-detached house on the top of a hill in north-west London. It’s too small and too far out of town but it’s got big windows and a big backyard and I already love it.

I’ve got flatmates, too. One of my best friends from Australia has already been here four years – she’s the wise Londoner guiding me through this crazy adventure. She organised the place – I’m living with her, her rock star English boyfriend, and HIS single best friend. I KNOW. THIS CHICK LIT NOVEL IS WRITING ITSELF.

So obviously, I’m going to end up with this guy, right? I mean, it’s so predictable. Even more predictable, because I really don’t think I will. You know how in the chick lit novel, the girl doesn’t really like the obvious guy, because she’s infatuated with Mr Wrong? And Mr Obvious is clearly pining for her throughout the novel, but the Chick doesn’t really notice how fabulous he is, until Mr Wrong breaks her heart and Mr Obvious is there for her?

Well, I haven’t found Mr Wrong yet. And I’m pretty sure my poor housemate isn’t pining for me. But if this really WAS a chick lit book, I’m pretty sure that’s how it would end. I’ll keep you posted.

But back to the internet thing. You will never know just how reliant you are on the internet, until you don’t have it. And when you’re living in a new house, in a new suburb, in a new city, in a new country, you need the internet more than ever. Especially when your phone is busted.

Since I arrived in England, my phone has been on the blitz. Things came to a head last week when my Mum texted me to ask if I could Skype. Homesick, and newly depressed about my lack of internet, I sent her a long, detailed message about how crap everything was. AND THEN IT DIDN’T SEND.

It’s funny, when you’re on edge, what little things set you off. Six days of internet cold turkey, and the fact that that simple text wouldn’t go through sent me over the edge. The iPhone was thrown. There was shouting. There were tears. In the midst of my hysterics, as I listed every little thing that was wrong with my life, including my uncomfortable pillow, the fact that I didn’t know what to have for lunch, and that my hair will never do what I want it to, I added, “AND I’ve been here a month and no one’s fallen in love with me!”

After the drama had passed, a list of priorities was made. Number one on the list was getting my phone sorted. Love, I thought, could wait at least one more day. So imagine my surprise one man offered both services later that very day.

Yes, I was cracked on to by the phone repair man.

Ring a ding ding!