One box of Milka marshmallows, as we call them, that's chocolate tea-cakes to everybody else, at least six bags of Tayto smoky bacon that I brought back from Ashbourne, probably six bags of Skips, six bags of Rancheros and by the end of it eight bags of Meanies, in other words a family box of crisps plus some. Two tubs of Ben and Jerry's ice-cream (Phish Food - forget MSG, I'm convinced there is something much more addictive in Phish Food), two large tubs at that, two Galaxy bars, a Galaxy ripple, a chocolate muffin, a chocolate pudding thing of some sort with three generous scoops of raspberry ripple ice-cream, and on Christmas day itself half of a decent sized Superquinn chocolate pudding, again with three generous scoops of ice-cream, that could possibly place itself at the top of my "most divine chocolate dessert ever" list. Thankfully not much booze, only a tumbler of Baileys and maybe two large bottles of West Coast Cooler.
Aha, therein lies part of the reason why my MEDIUM MENS Nike tracksuit bottoms are bet onto my thighs, so much so that they resemble skipants. Nonetheless all the sh1t above has to be run off so out I go in broad daylight dressed like that. I have a hoody on that covers my ar$e and in my deluded head I seem to think it also covers the thunder thighs.
Jees it is some sort of cruel and unusual torture choosing to punish myself with the four miles to the beach and back on my first day out A) since I ate all of the above and B) in my new Asics. The new Asics will be my saviour. I know they will. Those bad boys will call me each evening just begging me to take them out for a run.
On the way to the beach, my mind starts wandering as always when I'm plodding. I think it has to do that to distract itself from the pain travelling up and down my legs with each step. One side of the brain says to the other "distract the lazy beeyatch with anything you can. Use any and all available tools, otherwise she'll halt after five minues when she thinks she's literally dying from the dull thudding pain that's everywhere." So the auld brain kicks into action and comes up with this:
A silver fox drives by in a 03 Merc. I notice it has a palindromic number on the number plate. The guy must think he's auditioning for the Streets of San Francisco the way he takes the ramps. I hope he's flucked up his chassy. I figure he's going to one of the SIX local golf clubs, but there's no sign of his car at the first one I pass.
I could be a professional golf player. Don't know how much those women make but I could take them. I won a few trophies and a rather nice crystal clock playing pitch and putt in my day. Mind you that was mixed foursomes and Dad was telling me where to hit what and he can't be my caddy from the sky.
Jees, never mind my legs, I've got a huge poxy stitch under my left oxter. It's so bad that I seriously think that my left lung could deflate, and then what would I look like, an overweight woman jogging brazenly in skipants with her left breast after going in under her arm, like she's hiding a balloon in there, 'cos her left lung has deflated. How stupid would that look? How stupid would it look, is it even possible, you stupid sack of sh1t, keep going!
Ah would you look at these mofos with the horses, tell me they are not bringing them on the beach at this hour of the day, sure there'll be loads of kids down there in the freezing cold with hats, scarves, wellies and buckets and spades. Nah, they seem content to just stand around waiting.
Finally the beach at last. And the vista, Malahide and Howth Head to my right, Lambay is it, not too far to my left, and the hotel to my immediate left. Never mind all that, THE rock. Such a convenient location, just perfectly placed for me to recover for the way back and to have a song or two to relax and recuperate to. Jays if I stop here for too long I won't be able to get back up.
I don't know what I was thinking with the choice of songs. All that talk of pimps and hoes angered me enough to get me to the shagging beach but the choice for the way back was just plain thoughtless of me.
First off, "we get to carry each other, carry each other". I tell you what, at this point in time I'd probably do anything if someone offered to carry me anywhere never mind Bono. I didn't realise that jelly legs could carry so much weight without withering.
Ah would you look at that... typical. I'm doing well enough to actually entertain thoughts of jogging the two miles back home when this one comes running towards me in a t-shirt and those skimpy little running shorts with leggy legs that make MY jaw drop never mind the lads who are still messing around near their horse box. Are they ever going to take the blooming horses out? All I can think of is a prize mare, or you know whatever is going to win the Cheltenham Gold cup, striding out and some piebald pony plodding along after. I'm officially morto.
And then, great bass line to open up, nice drums, followed by "Ooooo, aaaaaa, ooooo, aaaaaa. I'm ready, I'm ready for the laughing gas. I'm ready for what's next." Bring on the laughing gas, I'll need it for what's next. I've one boob under my arm, one deflated lung, and one bandy leg that keeps clicking. If ever I needed the laughing gas...
"See the thorn twist in your side." Blah blah blah. "On a bed of nails she makes me wait." I actually am convinced that I'm running on a bed of nails. I'm giving it all and I don't think I have any more... without me then I guess.
Ah the Cornflake Girl. Now if I had only eaten cornflakes. If I had forsaken the Weetabix and toast, the rashers and the sausages, not to mention the fried mushrooms and the half bottle of ketchup, if I had just stuck with the cornflakes, I'd be the Cornflake Girl and four miles would not cause me to go half crazy.
Ah Mr. Petty, I'm sure you're free falling but I am literally close to crawling after the falling. And what kind of a good girl is this one he's harping on about anyhow? She puts her Momma, fair enough, Jesus, have to hedge your bets, but horses, America and Elvis all before her boyfriend? I don't know what's going on there... and her friends, there's no mention of her friends. A girl could go insane without her friends. Says a lot for where I am now. I'm not FREEEEEEE and I want to fall over and have the ground swallow me up before my cheeks get any ruddier. Have to stop and walk for two minutes as literally my legs are killing me. Something is gnawing at them from the inside.
Ah that's more like it. "I'll keep this world from dragging me down. No I won't back down. Hey baby, there's no easy way out. I'll stand my ground." Keep running for fluck sake. Do you think you'll ever get close to the C&C girls records for the mini marathon if you don't push yourself a bit? Not a bleeping chance. Btw, C&C aren't those cider-making dudes, they're the Cork and Cavan ladies. Sonia and Catherina.
"So take this wine and drink with me, let's delay this misery." Screw the wine, I'll take the West Coast Cooler, and lots of it, tonight, in front of the telly. "It ain't easy to say goodbye. Darling please, don't start to cry, 'cos girl you know I got to go." I know you do. I know the muffins have to go, the crisps have to go, the ice-cream has to go. All of it has to go. But sure I might have one last hurrah tonight, sure I've just run four fecking miles!
Sunday 30 December 2007
Saturday 29 December 2007
Fantasy Football Messing
The flucking fantasy football team is gone to pot this week. Well actually it's like three weeks rolled into one with deadlines left, right and centre.
My strike force is up shit creek without a paddle. Actually calling it a force is taking the mickey a little but still, I live in hope. Bleeping Rooney has a virus or something; either way he wasn't in the the fray. Benjani couldn't muster a goal against Middlesboro(if that is in fact how you spell it). Nobody in Portsmouth managed to do it. Christ on a bike, all I'm left with up front is Santa Cruz for Blackburn. I've just bought him in and made him captain, they are playing Derby after all. Given the run I've had this week, it wouldn't surprise me if Derby kick their asses.
Three of my midfielders are on tomorrow so there's no point in wasting words over them, yet. And I got 0, 1, 2 and 3 points for my defenders and goalie! Thus you know, bad day at the office! Roll on the New Year and an end to the silly season and it's messing around with squads.
My strike force is up shit creek without a paddle. Actually calling it a force is taking the mickey a little but still, I live in hope. Bleeping Rooney has a virus or something; either way he wasn't in the the fray. Benjani couldn't muster a goal against Middlesboro(if that is in fact how you spell it). Nobody in Portsmouth managed to do it. Christ on a bike, all I'm left with up front is Santa Cruz for Blackburn. I've just bought him in and made him captain, they are playing Derby after all. Given the run I've had this week, it wouldn't surprise me if Derby kick their asses.
Three of my midfielders are on tomorrow so there's no point in wasting words over them, yet. And I got 0, 1, 2 and 3 points for my defenders and goalie! Thus you know, bad day at the office! Roll on the New Year and an end to the silly season and it's messing around with squads.
Friday 28 December 2007
Tidying my ar$e
So much for the Christmas tidying spree! I have searched high and low and I cannot find sight nor sound of some vouchers for Arnotts and my hubby wants to buy an "end table" in the sales for a lamp that we got as a wedding gift. What a pain in the ar$e! Both him going on about his end table and me losing the vouchers. At least when I'm untidy and my room is like a pigsty, I know where everything is. I've even emptied out a bag of rubbish I had amassed but to no avail. I vaguely remember having the voucher in my hand and putting it somewhere for safekeeping. Damn it, we're going to miss the sales and pay through the nose for a blasted end table that I don't even think we bloody need! The blooming lamp sits lovely as it is on the shagging floor!
Racism?
Whilst perusing the top news stories from 2007 this afternoon, I reread the story about the Educate Together school in Balbriggan. The majority of pupils in the Junior Infants class were of an African background. There were very few white faces to be seen.
I've read bits and pieces about how Africans were treated in America, how Aborigines were mistreated in Australia and I've always abhorred it. I've admired from afar the Rosa Parks', the Nelson Mandela's, the Martin Luther King's of this world, and the unknown names and faces who have had to put up with all sorts of crap from white people for so long and have found ways and means of overcoming those struggles.
And now I look at myself in the mirror and wonder, am I racist? I pose this question because I have a two year old daughter and I have her on the list for the local Catholic school since birth. Not because I am a particularly religious person at this moment in my life, but because I feel there will be less African children and other children of foreign nationalities. And that is not for any blatant racist reasons rather that it has been suggested that children of immigrants in general don't have English as a first language, and as a second language, it ain't great either. There is also a local Educate Together school and I don't have her name on that one. Before I had any children I admired the ideologies behind the school but now that I am considering education prospects for my first-born, I am a little more selfish in my views.
I worry that too much time would be spent teaching these children English thus holding up the rest of the class. In reality I know that kids pick up languages pretty quickly but still it is a concern. So am I even more of a bigot? Not your normal racist, just a sneaky one, who hides their racism from the world at large. I don't know. I don't know what the solution is to best include immigrants into our society. Generally inclusion, not exclusion is the key to success in these matters. These kids are entitled to an education just the same as my kid is. They don't deserve to be ghetto-ised at such a young age. Perhaps English lessons for all immigrants should be compulsory. It sounds a bit nanny-state-like though. I have no answers. All I know is that I need to look at myself a little closer.
I've read bits and pieces about how Africans were treated in America, how Aborigines were mistreated in Australia and I've always abhorred it. I've admired from afar the Rosa Parks', the Nelson Mandela's, the Martin Luther King's of this world, and the unknown names and faces who have had to put up with all sorts of crap from white people for so long and have found ways and means of overcoming those struggles.
And now I look at myself in the mirror and wonder, am I racist? I pose this question because I have a two year old daughter and I have her on the list for the local Catholic school since birth. Not because I am a particularly religious person at this moment in my life, but because I feel there will be less African children and other children of foreign nationalities. And that is not for any blatant racist reasons rather that it has been suggested that children of immigrants in general don't have English as a first language, and as a second language, it ain't great either. There is also a local Educate Together school and I don't have her name on that one. Before I had any children I admired the ideologies behind the school but now that I am considering education prospects for my first-born, I am a little more selfish in my views.
I worry that too much time would be spent teaching these children English thus holding up the rest of the class. In reality I know that kids pick up languages pretty quickly but still it is a concern. So am I even more of a bigot? Not your normal racist, just a sneaky one, who hides their racism from the world at large. I don't know. I don't know what the solution is to best include immigrants into our society. Generally inclusion, not exclusion is the key to success in these matters. These kids are entitled to an education just the same as my kid is. They don't deserve to be ghetto-ised at such a young age. Perhaps English lessons for all immigrants should be compulsory. It sounds a bit nanny-state-like though. I have no answers. All I know is that I need to look at myself a little closer.
Thursday 27 December 2007
Benazir Bhutto and patriotism
Another martyr was created today when Benazir Bhutto was slain. Yet another wasted life. Yet another country possibly descending into riotous behaviour.
In my ignorance of Pakistani politics I hadn't realised that her father was hanged almost twenty years ago. She's lost two brothers, one in suspicious circumstances in France. And now another member of the family is gone. You have to wonder did she really think she could make a difference? Was she smart or stupid? Sounds crude, but if she'd succeeded in the elections in the spring, I'd say smart. Now, I'm not so sure. She was certainly brave and convinced of her path. I would have stayed in exile.
It is a funny thing, nationalism. This feeling of a loyalty to a country, to a peoples. It makes people the world over do crazy things. I do not understand it, but then I have never had fight for my vote. I've never had to queue for four miles in searing heat at a polling station in fear of my life. People in generations just gone by removed that fear for me.
I saw Ms. Bhutto interviewed earlier in the year when she returned from exile. The interviewer suggested that she was mad to come home. She said she missed the grass, the sky over head. She missed her country. The country that took three members of her family, I thought to myself.
I have no such sense of patriotism. It has caused such grief in Ireland that in many ways I abhor Irish patriotism. I hate when people stand up drunkenly at the end of a disco or a wedding and put their hands on their chests like it means something. Yet when Sonia O'Sullivan is racing I want her to win. When John O'Shea is going for a header I want him to score. What does this say about me?
I wonder about our country and our patriotism and what it really means today. I always thought it was a dirty word associated with thugs in the north killing innocent little kids in Canary Wharf. Now, I think maybe I was a little ignorant. Maybe there is something there to be proud of. I don't know really.
I know this; I often wonder about our neutrality. I thought it was great when I was a teenager. I hated the way the US stuck their nose into everybody's affairs. In fact, I still do. But I wonder about our neutrality and is it just an easy way out? Are we like the other kid in the yard at lunchtime who sees the bully hitting the smaller kid but just chooses to be afraid and not to assist the little kid? Who keeps their nose clean so as to get on in this world? Who ignores the violence in the house next door so as to protect their own family?
In my ignorance of Pakistani politics I hadn't realised that her father was hanged almost twenty years ago. She's lost two brothers, one in suspicious circumstances in France. And now another member of the family is gone. You have to wonder did she really think she could make a difference? Was she smart or stupid? Sounds crude, but if she'd succeeded in the elections in the spring, I'd say smart. Now, I'm not so sure. She was certainly brave and convinced of her path. I would have stayed in exile.
It is a funny thing, nationalism. This feeling of a loyalty to a country, to a peoples. It makes people the world over do crazy things. I do not understand it, but then I have never had fight for my vote. I've never had to queue for four miles in searing heat at a polling station in fear of my life. People in generations just gone by removed that fear for me.
I saw Ms. Bhutto interviewed earlier in the year when she returned from exile. The interviewer suggested that she was mad to come home. She said she missed the grass, the sky over head. She missed her country. The country that took three members of her family, I thought to myself.
I have no such sense of patriotism. It has caused such grief in Ireland that in many ways I abhor Irish patriotism. I hate when people stand up drunkenly at the end of a disco or a wedding and put their hands on their chests like it means something. Yet when Sonia O'Sullivan is racing I want her to win. When John O'Shea is going for a header I want him to score. What does this say about me?
I wonder about our country and our patriotism and what it really means today. I always thought it was a dirty word associated with thugs in the north killing innocent little kids in Canary Wharf. Now, I think maybe I was a little ignorant. Maybe there is something there to be proud of. I don't know really.
I know this; I often wonder about our neutrality. I thought it was great when I was a teenager. I hated the way the US stuck their nose into everybody's affairs. In fact, I still do. But I wonder about our neutrality and is it just an easy way out? Are we like the other kid in the yard at lunchtime who sees the bully hitting the smaller kid but just chooses to be afraid and not to assist the little kid? Who keeps their nose clean so as to get on in this world? Who ignores the violence in the house next door so as to protect their own family?
Local killing
I grew up in a small village, Ashbourne, in Co. Meath. A young man was stabbed to death there on Christmas night. A murder in Ashbourne; it beggars belief. I extend my sympathies to his family.
I have often heard people say, oh Ashbourne is getting so rough these days, what with all the foreigners and people moving out from Finglas. If there was ever a fight after the nightclub closed, it was probably those lads from Finglas that started it, or those Eastern Europeans, sure they are all ex-army... yadda, yadda, yadda.
As usual in these sad circumstances the rumour mill goes into overdrive. I don't know what happened and I don't wish to speculate. I will say this; there is an increasing number of late night violent incidents occuring in Ireland today, and so-called respectable neighbourhood dwellers are as culpable as foreigners and other blowins. Alcohol is a great fuel and education is no load.
I have often heard people say, oh Ashbourne is getting so rough these days, what with all the foreigners and people moving out from Finglas. If there was ever a fight after the nightclub closed, it was probably those lads from Finglas that started it, or those Eastern Europeans, sure they are all ex-army... yadda, yadda, yadda.
As usual in these sad circumstances the rumour mill goes into overdrive. I don't know what happened and I don't wish to speculate. I will say this; there is an increasing number of late night violent incidents occuring in Ireland today, and so-called respectable neighbourhood dwellers are as culpable as foreigners and other blowins. Alcohol is a great fuel and education is no load.
Friday 21 December 2007
The Rap formula
I'm a fan of anything with a good bass line and people talking over it... as my friends describe some of the music I listen to.
Anyways I was writing the last post and listening to one of my playlists on iTunes when The Game came on. Talk about using a formula: dragged yourself away from the gangs, got shot, it changed your life and here you are enlightening the rest of us, shagged someone before you left the house, doggy style of course, drop a few names and Bob's your uncle. Surprisingly there was no mention of reminiscing...
So I counted, and not including people he mentioned twice, he's dropped 20 names on us in one song alone, The Documentary! Sweet jebus! Does this guy feel so little about himself that he has to use all these other people in his ryhmes to generate a little heat. Oh and he doesn't take pop shots at legends... not half.
If you want a bit of name-dropping, listen to Christy Moore doing Lisdoonvarna!
Anyone for the last few choc ices? Wawawa!
Anyways I was writing the last post and listening to one of my playlists on iTunes when The Game came on. Talk about using a formula: dragged yourself away from the gangs, got shot, it changed your life and here you are enlightening the rest of us, shagged someone before you left the house, doggy style of course, drop a few names and Bob's your uncle. Surprisingly there was no mention of reminiscing...
So I counted, and not including people he mentioned twice, he's dropped 20 names on us in one song alone, The Documentary! Sweet jebus! Does this guy feel so little about himself that he has to use all these other people in his ryhmes to generate a little heat. Oh and he doesn't take pop shots at legends... not half.
If you want a bit of name-dropping, listen to Christy Moore doing Lisdoonvarna!
Anyone for the last few choc ices? Wawawa!
Lady wins award, people speculate on her sexuality...
I am SO behind the times recently. Too much work, not enough time is preventing me from having a good old surf at lunchtime so this post is about three weeks after the event, but how and ever...
Was out with the work crew on Wednesday night and a colleague mentioned that a certain Hollywood actress has finally come out. I'm like, I doubt it very much, it's nobody else's poxy business but she assured me that no, she thanked a lady in her speech and thus she's outted herself.
So, and I might add, very hypocritically of me considering what I'm about to moan about, I google "blah blah award speech", and sure enough nine of the first ten links pertain to her thanking some woman. Thus she's out obviously. Good night Ted.
My point, finally, is this. What's the big news? Who cares if she has a partner and that partner is a woman? She's an actor, right? I've read some of the bullshit about male actors can't come out as if they were to play an action hero, nobody would take them seriously. But they'd be acting wouldn't they? Playing a role. Pretending to be something they're not. Which they are probably pretty good at considering they are probably pretending to be straight. Such hypocrisy from the viewing public pisses me off. Do we not pay money to see people play a role?
And another thing... Google. I google "blah blah award speech" and this woman has won two oscars and only one of the first ten links relates to one of her oscar wins. How does that figure?
Was out with the work crew on Wednesday night and a colleague mentioned that a certain Hollywood actress has finally come out. I'm like, I doubt it very much, it's nobody else's poxy business but she assured me that no, she thanked a lady in her speech and thus she's outted herself.
So, and I might add, very hypocritically of me considering what I'm about to moan about, I google "blah blah award speech", and sure enough nine of the first ten links pertain to her thanking some woman. Thus she's out obviously. Good night Ted.
My point, finally, is this. What's the big news? Who cares if she has a partner and that partner is a woman? She's an actor, right? I've read some of the bullshit about male actors can't come out as if they were to play an action hero, nobody would take them seriously. But they'd be acting wouldn't they? Playing a role. Pretending to be something they're not. Which they are probably pretty good at considering they are probably pretending to be straight. Such hypocrisy from the viewing public pisses me off. Do we not pay money to see people play a role?
And another thing... Google. I google "blah blah award speech" and this woman has won two oscars and only one of the first ten links relates to one of her oscar wins. How does that figure?
Large department store selling items with the Playboy logo in the CHILDRENS section
As I perused the childrens section of a well-known department store, while Christmas shopping, I saw girls clothing with the Playboy bunny logo for sale! I'm still shocked about it and haven't written a letter to the family-owned chain yet but believe you me, I will. I was absolutely disgusted and flabbergasted!
Even worse, there was a young-ish granny with her daughter and they were commenting on how lovely the dressing gown would be for presumably their granddaughter\niece.
What kind of message does that send to ten year old girls? Hey, it's cool to wear the Playboy bunny, a symbol that universally signals slappers willing to get their kit off for oogling men. Sick, I was absolutely sick at the thought. Sounds daft, but buy a Playboy dressing gown for your ten year old now and end up with a pregnant fifteen year old in five years time.
Even worse, there was a young-ish granny with her daughter and they were commenting on how lovely the dressing gown would be for presumably their granddaughter\niece.
What kind of message does that send to ten year old girls? Hey, it's cool to wear the Playboy bunny, a symbol that universally signals slappers willing to get their kit off for oogling men. Sick, I was absolutely sick at the thought. Sounds daft, but buy a Playboy dressing gown for your ten year old now and end up with a pregnant fifteen year old in five years time.
Tuesday 11 December 2007
Unisex toilets - why?!
I work in a fine little company in Glasnevin. The only annoying thing about it is that it is in a building that houses four or five other smallish companies and all of them have unisex bathrooms. It is SO annoying!
Firstly, there are two toilets that we use, only one of which contains a sanitary bin. Come on lads, what's that all about?! So you go down to the loo at that time of the month, you try the first one, it is locked. There is no point in going to the second one as there is no sanitary bin so you can't dispose of your tampon wrapper. What are you supposed to do? Put it in your pocket and bring it back up to the bin beside your desk, I think not!
Secondly, lads seem not to have an issue with privacy. A couple of weeks ago one of the ladies walked in on a dude, presumably taking a dump, as he was sitting. Not only that he was yabbering away on the phone. He looked up nonchalantly. She screamed! He continued to chat. I had a similar experience myself a few days ago. I walked in on a bloke standing up peeing, as you do, and as he half-turned around to see who was invading his privacy I could hear the splish splash of his urine hitting the tiles on the floor. DISGUSTING!
The creators of Ally McBeal have a lot to answer for. Some gobdaw obviously thought that if he built unisex toilets then they would come. By they I mean the beautiful Portia de Rossi types who swing their blonde manes in wide circles in such an alluring manner. He obviously hadn't counted on me dressed like a knack ambling in on suckers who've left the door open!
Firstly, there are two toilets that we use, only one of which contains a sanitary bin. Come on lads, what's that all about?! So you go down to the loo at that time of the month, you try the first one, it is locked. There is no point in going to the second one as there is no sanitary bin so you can't dispose of your tampon wrapper. What are you supposed to do? Put it in your pocket and bring it back up to the bin beside your desk, I think not!
Secondly, lads seem not to have an issue with privacy. A couple of weeks ago one of the ladies walked in on a dude, presumably taking a dump, as he was sitting. Not only that he was yabbering away on the phone. He looked up nonchalantly. She screamed! He continued to chat. I had a similar experience myself a few days ago. I walked in on a bloke standing up peeing, as you do, and as he half-turned around to see who was invading his privacy I could hear the splish splash of his urine hitting the tiles on the floor. DISGUSTING!
The creators of Ally McBeal have a lot to answer for. Some gobdaw obviously thought that if he built unisex toilets then they would come. By they I mean the beautiful Portia de Rossi types who swing their blonde manes in wide circles in such an alluring manner. He obviously hadn't counted on me dressed like a knack ambling in on suckers who've left the door open!
Is technology making me doubt myself?
The unfortunate answer is a resounding YES! I've heard it said that once you use those SatNav systems you come to rely on them constantly and having visited a place once, you are unlikely to remember how to get to it as you were looking at your SatNav system and not out the window at landmarks such as churches and pubs etc. I know that feeling having taken many wrong turns on the way to basketball matches on the south side of the city only to remember the exact way the next time, it being clearly moulded into my head.
I think that dictionary.com is my SatNav experience... I used to be a very good speller. If I were a sad nerd I would say I once won two fancy pencils in primary school(thanks Mrs. Glacken), when fancy pencils were the cool thing to have. I now find that when I'm typing emails in Hotmail, or for instance posts on this blog, I'm now double-checking words far too frequently on dictionary.com! What's that all about?! Well firstly, I don't trust anything free, no such thing as a free meal and all that (point well-received that dictionary.com is in fact also free), and secondly, sure when it's there I might as well use it, as I wouldn't want to be seen to be a bad speller in public! I simply hate receiving emails with spelling mistakes. It's like going to a unisex bathroom and seeing the splashes the male occupant before you has left for your amusement... which shall lead me nicely to my next blog.
Btw, for those of you who hate bad punctuation as much as I hate bad spelling, I'm afraid I wasn't listening when the lesson on where to place commas was being taught. Back then I was pretty much a black and white type of gal, liked maths and accounting because there was always a right answer, had no time for the creative side of me or the world and thus tended to switch off during English class. I believe I once got a C on a paper, understandable really since it contained the words "hopped on Banquo". I don't remember who hopped on Banquo or why they hopped on Banquo. I distinctly remember three friends pissing themselves laughing at the line as I bemoaned my C. I digress as always. Punctuation lovers, I apologise! Feel free to correct, or not, I do not take kindly to criticism or should that be critique? :)
I think that dictionary.com is my SatNav experience... I used to be a very good speller. If I were a sad nerd I would say I once won two fancy pencils in primary school(thanks Mrs. Glacken), when fancy pencils were the cool thing to have. I now find that when I'm typing emails in Hotmail, or for instance posts on this blog, I'm now double-checking words far too frequently on dictionary.com! What's that all about?! Well firstly, I don't trust anything free, no such thing as a free meal and all that (point well-received that dictionary.com is in fact also free), and secondly, sure when it's there I might as well use it, as I wouldn't want to be seen to be a bad speller in public! I simply hate receiving emails with spelling mistakes. It's like going to a unisex bathroom and seeing the splashes the male occupant before you has left for your amusement... which shall lead me nicely to my next blog.
Btw, for those of you who hate bad punctuation as much as I hate bad spelling, I'm afraid I wasn't listening when the lesson on where to place commas was being taught. Back then I was pretty much a black and white type of gal, liked maths and accounting because there was always a right answer, had no time for the creative side of me or the world and thus tended to switch off during English class. I believe I once got a C on a paper, understandable really since it contained the words "hopped on Banquo". I don't remember who hopped on Banquo or why they hopped on Banquo. I distinctly remember three friends pissing themselves laughing at the line as I bemoaned my C. I digress as always. Punctuation lovers, I apologise! Feel free to correct, or not, I do not take kindly to criticism or should that be critique? :)
Hypocrisy...
While the linked communiqué (http://www.catholiccommunications.ie/pressrel/23-october-2007.html) was no doubt well meaning... in my mind it reeks of hypocrisy. Particularly the lines:
"Those with information have a duty before God to pass it on to the Gardaí or PSNI. The tyranny of violence and intimidation must be defeated."
What has incensed me was the news on Radio1 this evening of the horrific abuse that defenceless children were subjected to in a school run by the Brothers of Charity in Galway. This is not the first time that members of a religious order in Ireland committed such felonious acts. It has been well documented in the past how religious clergy men covered for one another by hiding members of their church in other jurisdictions only for those same men to rape and pillage again at will. Where was the "duty before God" there I wonder? The only items defeated there were the spirit and innocence of children.
I had a fantastic childhood. I was truly allowed to be a child. The wonder of this time of year and all the other fantastic sacrifices my parents made for me are too numerous to list here. Suffice to say that the thoughts that any child could be taken to a laundry room and beaten with a wooden shelf, for gratification of some sort, abhor me and make me sick to the stomach. What kind of beasts did we raise? And it begs the question, are we still raising them?
"Those with information have a duty before God to pass it on to the Gardaí or PSNI. The tyranny of violence and intimidation must be defeated."
What has incensed me was the news on Radio1 this evening of the horrific abuse that defenceless children were subjected to in a school run by the Brothers of Charity in Galway. This is not the first time that members of a religious order in Ireland committed such felonious acts. It has been well documented in the past how religious clergy men covered for one another by hiding members of their church in other jurisdictions only for those same men to rape and pillage again at will. Where was the "duty before God" there I wonder? The only items defeated there were the spirit and innocence of children.
I had a fantastic childhood. I was truly allowed to be a child. The wonder of this time of year and all the other fantastic sacrifices my parents made for me are too numerous to list here. Suffice to say that the thoughts that any child could be taken to a laundry room and beaten with a wooden shelf, for gratification of some sort, abhor me and make me sick to the stomach. What kind of beasts did we raise? And it begs the question, are we still raising them?
Tuesday 4 December 2007
PS...
Moaning pays! I'm getting a fifty squid voucher from the scanner dudes for the inconvenience of having strawberries residing under a constant blast of hot air thus rendering them mouldy AND they are going to move the strawberries to a refridgerated area soon!
If only laptops worked in the bath...
My having a bath of a Tuesday night is not just a rarity; it's unheard of. That it had it's genesis this morning at Mam's back door just as I was leaving for work is still a source of annoyance. She asked me if I was pregnant?! So, I have a slight bit of a belly and am the heaviest I've ever been, still there's no need to go for the jugular! Anyhow I was pissed off all the way to work and Operation Shit Slow did nothing to enhance my mood.
Alanis Morissette got me through the day. Boy that gal has had a shit load of not so nice boyfriends by the sounds of it. Still, nothing like angry fem. music to make you feel better when you're in the doldrums. I ate healthily all day, nothing to do with the pregnancy jibe, just day four of the "I'm going to endeavour to eat healthily in the run-up to Christmas so that I can really splurge during the festive season" nonsense. Is it just me or does nature make it really difficult to choose the healthy option? Mars Bar in one hand. Open the wrapper, devour. Three mandarins in the other. Peel them in such a way so as not to get juice all over the keyboard at work(nobody likes a sticky keyboard), chew carefully so as not to choke on a little stone thing. The lying bastardos said they were "seedless". Seedless my ar$e! At the end of three mandarins, still hungry. Move to strawberries. Wash said strawberries to get rid of insecticides as too scabby and cynical to pay for the organic variety. AS IF, they spend all that time doing all that nurturing stuff to the strawberries, I guarantee you that half of them just spray them and then label them "organic" and the problem is you can't tell which is which so you may as well go for the cheapest option and scrub like a mofo before you eat them. And the eating of them is a pain as you have to get rid of the green stalky thing. No, give me a Mars Bar any day. Full, satisfied, craving over in all of like ten seconds.
I digress. So eating was good today. Think of food as fuel. No that's not really a good idea as I shy away from that super stuff and always go for the cheapest unleaded. Anyway, got home, had dinner, decided to go for a run. I've been gradually getting about one to two runs a week in for the past while, weather and laziness permitting. But today, propelled in no small way by the p-word, I reached a milestone of forty, that's right, forty uninterrupted minutes of plodding. And it wasn't just about the forty minutes of continuum. It was forty minutes of not visualising all the body parts that I could "feel". The dodgy knee here, the sore ankle there, the my God what in my pelvis could possibly be hurting and how? Mind you I couldn't have done it without the sultry sounds of Nina Simone, the headbanging of Nirvana and the street-wise soul of Common. (Note to self: how did they end up in the same playlist?)
What's amazing is I came home feeling elated. Elated and lungs slightly deflated but a fantastic feeling nonetheless. I may not feel the same tomorrow morning. Kudos to those endorphin thing-a-majiggies. They really exist! They led me all the way up the stairs to the bath. Oh it was an absolute pleasure to sit my flabby ass down in that hot bubbly water. I lay there ensconced in Nuala O'Faolain's memoir for another forty minutes. There's a bit of symmetry in that. So thanks Mam for making me get off my fat ass. And thanks Nuala O'Faolain for making me ask the question am I somebody? Feck it, I won't get any sleep tonight! Jays, I thought I was going to end on a positive note there for a minute!
Alanis Morissette got me through the day. Boy that gal has had a shit load of not so nice boyfriends by the sounds of it. Still, nothing like angry fem. music to make you feel better when you're in the doldrums. I ate healthily all day, nothing to do with the pregnancy jibe, just day four of the "I'm going to endeavour to eat healthily in the run-up to Christmas so that I can really splurge during the festive season" nonsense. Is it just me or does nature make it really difficult to choose the healthy option? Mars Bar in one hand. Open the wrapper, devour. Three mandarins in the other. Peel them in such a way so as not to get juice all over the keyboard at work(nobody likes a sticky keyboard), chew carefully so as not to choke on a little stone thing. The lying bastardos said they were "seedless". Seedless my ar$e! At the end of three mandarins, still hungry. Move to strawberries. Wash said strawberries to get rid of insecticides as too scabby and cynical to pay for the organic variety. AS IF, they spend all that time doing all that nurturing stuff to the strawberries, I guarantee you that half of them just spray them and then label them "organic" and the problem is you can't tell which is which so you may as well go for the cheapest option and scrub like a mofo before you eat them. And the eating of them is a pain as you have to get rid of the green stalky thing. No, give me a Mars Bar any day. Full, satisfied, craving over in all of like ten seconds.
I digress. So eating was good today. Think of food as fuel. No that's not really a good idea as I shy away from that super stuff and always go for the cheapest unleaded. Anyway, got home, had dinner, decided to go for a run. I've been gradually getting about one to two runs a week in for the past while, weather and laziness permitting. But today, propelled in no small way by the p-word, I reached a milestone of forty, that's right, forty uninterrupted minutes of plodding. And it wasn't just about the forty minutes of continuum. It was forty minutes of not visualising all the body parts that I could "feel". The dodgy knee here, the sore ankle there, the my God what in my pelvis could possibly be hurting and how? Mind you I couldn't have done it without the sultry sounds of Nina Simone, the headbanging of Nirvana and the street-wise soul of Common. (Note to self: how did they end up in the same playlist?)
What's amazing is I came home feeling elated. Elated and lungs slightly deflated but a fantastic feeling nonetheless. I may not feel the same tomorrow morning. Kudos to those endorphin thing-a-majiggies. They really exist! They led me all the way up the stairs to the bath. Oh it was an absolute pleasure to sit my flabby ass down in that hot bubbly water. I lay there ensconced in Nuala O'Faolain's memoir for another forty minutes. There's a bit of symmetry in that. So thanks Mam for making me get off my fat ass. And thanks Nuala O'Faolain for making me ask the question am I somebody? Feck it, I won't get any sleep tonight! Jays, I thought I was going to end on a positive note there for a minute!
Sunday 2 December 2007
Directory Enquiries
These ads. on the radio the moment for the directory enquiry numbers are ludicrous. I heard one yesterday on Radio1... they text you the number for FREE but you've to ring another number to find out how much they charge for ringing them for the enquiry. Like hello people, who is actually going to do that? Plus it was an 1890 number which means they charge you to find out how much they are going to charge you IF you decide to ring. Makes no sense at all. As Andy Millman would say "You 'aving a larf?". Seemingly 71 cent a minute(according to 11890.ie) is the cheapest rate for these calls thus I'd say they are laughing all the way to the bank.
Saturday 1 December 2007
Kanye in the Marquee
JAYSUS! I'm getting old... way too old. Went to see Kanye in the Marquee in the Phoenix park. Thankfully the crowd was pretty young so was able to park on Chesterfield Ave., but the lashings of rain weren't pretty.
Anyways, it was odd. The "Marquee" reminded me of the Duffys Circus big top and the acoustics were a bit weird as the sound bounced all over the place. I was surprised at my carry-on though or lack thereof. I've lost the appetite for the old push and shove that goes on in the crowd.
Back in the day I'd be up for it big style. As soon as the crowd starts to jump, push your way through them while they're up in the air to get as close as possible to the front. I was once within striking distance of Coolio. But last night was just bizarre. Normally someone hits me and I really shove them back, or give them a sly dig in the ribs as they brush past me. You know the spot; right under the oxter, where it really hurts, but last night I was actually making space for people to get by me. And I could feel my legs burning after an hour, and my lower back was at me, and I thought I was going to wet myself if I jumped too much and I not having had a shed load of the old WCC. I was stone cold Steve Austin, I mean sober. Granted the ten billion suicides that our bball coach made us do last night didn't help with the aching legs but still... wtf???
And then it hit me... I'm getting old and lazy and cranky. Fluck sake! I was thinking I'd actually rather be sitting upstairs in the Olympia in those tiny poxy seats than grooving in the crowd to Kanye. Ah jebus! Plus there was a gang of rowdy TALL lads beside and in front of me who lit up and were waving their arms and fags like they just didn't care and I couldn't let go as I was afraid I'd go up in a puff of smoke.
For a man who buried his mother last week, Kanye was pretty good but still I thought there was something missing... I just didn't feel the love. I wasn't getting down tonight. Was it him or was it me? The only saving grace was Common... and he was wasted on the obnoxious teenagers who brought handbags and backpacks to the concert, all the better to hit me in the stomach with, who were waving their phones at the stage when he said "show me some light"... fluck I'm pushing on!
Anyways, it was odd. The "Marquee" reminded me of the Duffys Circus big top and the acoustics were a bit weird as the sound bounced all over the place. I was surprised at my carry-on though or lack thereof. I've lost the appetite for the old push and shove that goes on in the crowd.
Back in the day I'd be up for it big style. As soon as the crowd starts to jump, push your way through them while they're up in the air to get as close as possible to the front. I was once within striking distance of Coolio. But last night was just bizarre. Normally someone hits me and I really shove them back, or give them a sly dig in the ribs as they brush past me. You know the spot; right under the oxter, where it really hurts, but last night I was actually making space for people to get by me. And I could feel my legs burning after an hour, and my lower back was at me, and I thought I was going to wet myself if I jumped too much and I not having had a shed load of the old WCC. I was stone cold Steve Austin, I mean sober. Granted the ten billion suicides that our bball coach made us do last night didn't help with the aching legs but still... wtf???
And then it hit me... I'm getting old and lazy and cranky. Fluck sake! I was thinking I'd actually rather be sitting upstairs in the Olympia in those tiny poxy seats than grooving in the crowd to Kanye. Ah jebus! Plus there was a gang of rowdy TALL lads beside and in front of me who lit up and were waving their arms and fags like they just didn't care and I couldn't let go as I was afraid I'd go up in a puff of smoke.
For a man who buried his mother last week, Kanye was pretty good but still I thought there was something missing... I just didn't feel the love. I wasn't getting down tonight. Was it him or was it me? The only saving grace was Common... and he was wasted on the obnoxious teenagers who brought handbags and backpacks to the concert, all the better to hit me in the stomach with, who were waving their phones at the stage when he said "show me some light"... fluck I'm pushing on!
Yet more shopping woes...
Ah the usual... I won't name the supermarket in question but let's just say it resides in the Pavilions and you can use a scanner... you get my drift? I just want to know when I can go down and peruse the strawberries that are ingeniously placed under the barrage of heat at the front door without coming across mouldy ones? How hard can that be I ask myself? I sent a strongly worded email to the generic "manager" address today. Can't wait for the response if there is one... gimmicks or not, this wouldn't have happened in Feargal Quinn's day. Christ on a bike, I sound like an auld one!
Operation Freeflow...
Supposedly Freeflow began in earnest sometime last week. I don't know when exactly but I know for sure that nothing flowed freely on Thursday or Friday apart from a smattering of expletives. They rolled off my tongue as turn after traffic-dodging turn yielded nothing but long queues of irate drivers.
Whereas normally a plethora of fresh-faced Templemore types lurk at each yellow box and at the top of each bus lane, I saw the grand total of one Garda over the two-day period and that is both to and from work. Shockingly lacking in freedom or flow of any kind. Kind of like Vanilla Ice rapping really.
Whereas normally a plethora of fresh-faced Templemore types lurk at each yellow box and at the top of each bus lane, I saw the grand total of one Garda over the two-day period and that is both to and from work. Shockingly lacking in freedom or flow of any kind. Kind of like Vanilla Ice rapping really.
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