K8 the GR8

I’m surrounded by concrete.

It’s true what they say about green spaces. If you don’t have a green space near your home to stare at periodically, you’re screwed. I am, anyway. That’s the saving grace of this hell-hole I live in. There’s a square meter of grass right at my front door, which I’ve filled with wild flowers and sweet-pea. They attract wee flying beasties that make sweet little un-concrete-like noises through my window. If that’s not enough, you can go upstairs to the computer slash junk room. This is where I’ve been sitting for the last hour, staring at the sea and it’s hypnotic windfarm.

It’s a very strange state to be in, this boxed-in concrete feeling. It’s been crawling all around me for weeks, pushing me out the door to be anywhere in the world but home. I’ve tried many ways to escape it, but loading the family into the car for random spates of retail therapy or friend/family/duck visitations just doesn’t cut it for some reason.

The closest thing that came to that wonderful ray of light shining between the prison bars came to me on a forest walk with Wouldye. I’d picked up a stick and had thrown it as far as I could (Wouldye fetch that for me Wouldye!) only to have it land in the most amazing tree I’d ever seen. It was truly knarly at the base of it’s trunk, and it’s branches weaved into an appealing ‘climb-me!’ pattern to reveal a plateau a little way up. A few planks, nails, and a hammer would make you a pretty great haven to hang around in. (It’s been a dream for TAT to undertake a project like this. I think he was inspired by the Glen of the Downs hippies.)

Perfect.

When I snapped out of this daydream, I figured that it must be this whole convenience thing dragging me down. I realised it was just a pure need to go camping. There are those of you who find a plush hotel and chilled champagne a luxury, to get you out of the mundane. I don’t get that. For me, luxury is losing convenience for a day. Boiling a jug of hot water on fire you’ve made from logs you personally dragged down a mountain makes for the best cup of tea you have ever tasted. Fighting midges with your bare hands and chasing cold bottles of beer downstream (beer isn’t a convenience, it’s a necessity) makes you appreciate your bed and bath with renewed vigour.

You won’t find wankers either, when you’re roughing it. Men are men, and women are women. There’s no advertising, no modern world of possession and false beauty. You pass a person on the street, you stare at your feet. Pass a person in a forest, you get directions to good wood piles and invitations to neighbouring campfires. Weird and wonderful people hang out here, the likes of whom you’d never ordinarily bump into.

I’m lucky to have TAT for the way he likes camping too, though it’s tough getting him to relinquish his camping chairs, mini-fridge, gas cooker, duvet and inflatable couch. If somebody figured out a way to plug a playstation into a tree, he’d be laughing. He never gets the irony when I point this out.

So that’s it then. Next weekend will hopefully find a small family nested in Knockree starting fires, peeing in public and paddling semi-naked in the river. Basically any activity that would get you arrested on O’Connell Street, is all good in raw nature. Especially cow-tipping.

If it rains, I’ll explode.

Drastic Ending Loser’s Lament

As I stared through windows gray,
Thoughts went wild with sheer dismay.
All keys I tried so cruelly mocked;
The doors were clearly staying locked.

Hair pulled cleanly by the root
Frustration blooms with each reboot-
Shameless threats remaining moot
With every failed three flange salute.

How I wished I’d listened closely!
Should’ve learned what mattered mostly…
Should’ve driven hard to C:
My own infallibility.

What to do?

Life’s interrupted.

My hobby crushed, collapsed,
***corrupted***

Grab a hammer? Smash to vapour?

Start afresh with pen and paper!

The phone rang when I least expected it to.  I was having an anti-social kind of day, the kind of day happily spent playing solitaire on the computer and going slowly crazy in between rounds of half-assed house cleaning.

“Who the f..? *click* Yell-low?” I was ready for entertainment, not serious conversation.

A man’s voice spoke, it was as lyrical as an Australian accent, but soft with a slightly Welsh tinge.  I’m guessing New Zealand.  He was very easy to listen to.  So easy, in fact, that I wasn’t really paying much attention to his words. 

He started his conversation by asking me if I was still in the *mumbledy* recource group, that he was from some local paper or other.

“Yeah!  Sure, why not!”  I said. 

He went on to describe how this local politician was whingeing in his earhole about the N11.  Apparently a bunch of locals are getting together to stage a protest about this road.  He asked me if I knew anything about this.

The N11, for anyone who doesn’t know about it, is the main road that runs between Dublin and Rosslare, the two main ports on the Republic’s east coast.  It hasn’t been redesigned in many decades, so is totally inadequate for the volume of traffic it gets.  Holiday campers heading south for the weekend may as well walk.  There is also a bottle neck at the worst possible spot that leads to a stretch of road which is riddled with tight bends.  Almost every weekend, you’ll find a car or a truck has overturned into a ditch, thus increasing the pandemonium.

Seeing as the powers that be seem to be ploughing all their funds into the city center these days, it’s hardly surprising that there’s unrest around this neck of the country.  It’s nothing new. 

“A protest?  Nah, I’d no idea, but I’m not surprised.”  I told him.

“Really?  So this has happened before?”

“Are you shitting me?  The road’s a joke.  I just thought people had given up by now.  Everyone knows that the powers that be aren’t worth the paper the statistics are printed on.  Anyway, the traffic itself isn’t a problem for us around here.  We just use the back roads.  You’d want to be doolally to use the main road.”

“So why do you think these people are protesting if they can use alternative routes?”  He asked.

“I dunno.  Only a pure gobshite would go anywhere near that road at rush-hour.  It probably has more to do with the fact that so many cars roll on the Ballynameesda bends, but sure politicians don’t seem to care.  They use it as a Darwinian tool to eliminate drink-drivers.”

“Are you serious?” He exclaimed.

“Yeah, but you’re seriously asking the wrong person here.  I don’t know anything about anything.”

“No, it’s okay, you’ve been more than helpful in this!  Thank you for your input.”

*click*

I stared at the phone for a few minutes.  The man’s tone had been quite serious in hindsight, almost as though the conversation had been staged, possibly recorded.  I hope he didn’t assume I was somebody influencial, because he sure did treat me that way.  These people shouldn’t assume that everybody in local resource groups are intelligent leaders of society.  I’m only in it by accident, purely for the free coffee, caught in a decidedly un-quotable mood.

After a while of wondering how this chap got hold of my mobile phone number, a very clearly defined headline began to swim in the waters of my confused mind.

LOCAL HIPPIE CHICK BEHIND BARS FOR UNMITIGATED SLANDER

I suffer from a strange affliction that so far, I haven’t seen others admitting to.  In fact, I don’t recall ever hearing anybody else talk about it.  I don’t talk about it.  It’s very strange and inexplicable.

Ever since I was very tiny, I’ve had this strange affection for inanimate objects.  It started with an inability to throw away things like sweet wrappers or receipts.  It progressed to severe hoarding and a disgraceful hazardous mess in my room.  Having moved house several times since childhood, I’ve since discovered the lack of sense behind this and came through a weird rite of passage cleanly.  I can now fill a bin-bag with crap I don’t use, as long as the binbag leaves my property immediately with no chance of re-claiming said junk.  I know I’m not alone concerning hoarding, it’s just that my reasoning might be a little bit peculiar.

It feels to me as though inanimate objects absorb a part of the person who uses them.  For instance, I remember when I was an ankle-biter, my mum drew a picture on my chalkboard.  I had to leave it there for weeks, unable to erase the picture, unable to play with the toy at all.  I still can’t throw out the reams of pages my two year old has scribbled on, and if I do manage to, this strange pain develops in the pit of my stomach.  I feel like I’m throwing away a part of her spirit.

Worst of all, perhaps, is when I find myself on a road, gazing with heartbreak at an old discarded teddybear in a ditch.  Some child loved that bear, then lost it.  It takes all the self control I posess not to pick up that bear and bring it home.  Films like ‘Toy Story’ really don’t help my situation at all.  Then again, perhaps this is why footage of disasters are infinately more upsetting when it contains abandoned toys.  We all have a deep-seated need to protect innocense perhaps.

The Accidental Terrorist, however, is far more realistic.  He will happily ignore or even aim for toys left discarded on our road.  So many times have I heard that sickening crunch as a child’s toy or skateboard gets instantly converted to junk at the mercy of his tyres.  He has even done this in front of children.  So many times I’ve watched a child fall to pieces as it witnesses the demolition of it’s prized fire truck, it’s cries falling on the deaf ears of adults who are sick and tired of telling these children to tidy up after themselves.  I wonder sometimes how TAT can be so smug about torturing children like that, but I can see his point - let alone the funny side.  Sometimes I even envy his callousness.

I just can’t help but wonder what on earth this emotion is useful for.  My friends have witnessed my stepping on a toy and have heard me apologising to it.  Some people laugh, others take two steps backwards, others give me a hug. Some people even use it to change my mind about something.  ‘Do it or the bunny gets it!’ is a highly efficient negotiating tool with me.  A pair of pliers and a lost fingernail I can handle… a large scissors and a teddybear and I’m anybody’s.

I’m sure you’ve seen films with characters who have lost the plot, who host tea parties with their dolls and confide in their teddybears.  You might wonder how such a poor sod came to be.  Let this be an insight to you.  On the outside I’m calm, cool and collected… on the inside, I’m a stark raving lunatic.  Sometimes I think that all it will take is one more discarded teddybear perched on a set of railings with a spike up it’s ass to send me over the edge.

Here’s the twist… ironically, I find real live objects are quite easy to kill, as long as their death serves a purpose.  I’ll catch a fish and brain it on a rock quite happily, as long as I get to eat it with lemon and some fava beans afterwards.
Yesterday, I spent a full half hour hunting earwigs, chasing them into cups, then feeding them to my carniverous plants.  Watching them drown in extra terrestrial plant gunge can be strangely satisfying which is, grantedly mildly horrific, but then again, nature can be pretty horrific sometimes.  I’m just helping it along.

So, there you have it.  Two sides to a strange coin.  More aesthetically useful than practical really, like a kitten.

Or like a teddybear with one eye missing.  That’s me.

Going Like Sixty would say… SHIT.  (Sure happy it’s Thursday!)

Today though, is POETS day, as first coined by TAT after a long day of abusing squeegies.  Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday!

There are some advantages to weird Irish weather.

“We have not the reverent feeling for the rainbow that a savage has, because we know how it is made. We have lost as much as we gained by prying into that matter.” 
 
~Mark Twain

Whoa.  I’ve just learned a totally new word today that sounds even cooler when you say it with a headcold!

I didn’t look it up, I didn’t have to.  I’m robbing this from me daddyo…

schmooze or schmoose also shmooze
v.intr. To converse casually, especially in order to gain an advantage or make a social connection.
v.tr. To engage in schmoozing with
n. The act or an instance of schmoozing.

Here it is!  My schmoozing award!

Jefferson!

Bertie’s 3rd nipple!

Thanks dudes!

I really like this idea.. it means that you’ve been appreciated as a bonifide citizen of the blogging community, not out for personal gain as such, more to make friends and share in the spirit of the atmosphere.   It’s not easy blending blogging with real life sometimes.  There are so many friends and sources of inspiration out there among you that I’ve found, and I try to catch up with them as regularly as I can, but some of you are just so dang fast!  I’ve fallen into a sort of pattern now of three days reading, and one day writing posts of my own while being a busy mum too, so it’s lovely to be recognised for that.

Hop over and read Jefferson’s post, he has a much better description!

This is going to be tough, this bit.

I nominate in turn:

The Humble Housewife; I’m so glad our paths crossed.. your recipies are yummy and you’re like a kindred spirit on here

Mammy; This one’s a cunning fox.  I’m glad you found an outlet for your writing… (this woman’s been published, k’now!)  Keep it up! 

Grannymar; Because you’re such a motherly spirit around here.. your posts are warm and familiar, and you always find time to comment, which ain’t easy!

Stupid Irish Daddy; Definately the prince of schmooze.  And of weirdness.  The good kind.

Right.  It’s been put upon me to organize a table-quiz.  I’m a very disorganised person, so this should be either very interesting or very embarrassing.  I’m going to start by finding 80 excellent quiz questions and 10 ‘who is this?’ photos.

If anyone’s ever organized anything like this before, I’m begging you… share with me!

Robert’s on the ball!

My question to him (see last post) was answered with a very good question in turn.

He said that if he was a woman, he’d hang around in the jacks to find out why us girlies tend to pee in pairs.  Well, dude, there’s no need. 

Here are a few of the many good reasons why ladies double up in the bog department;

1. Leaving the table in pairs gives us a chance to bitch/laugh/gossip/gush about the poor sod that’s left minding the drinks.

2. Standing in the ladie’s queues alone and watching other women preen is quite boring.

3. Standing in front of a mirror re-applying our war-paint is much more fun if there’s someone else there you can scab stuff from.

4. It’s nice to have someone applaud you for not getting the seat wet.

5. It’s handy if you suddenly find there’s no bogroll and you need some fast.

6. Sanitary towel packaging is not subtle.  Sometimes it’s handy to have a girlfriend cough during the ripping stages.

7. The locks on ladie’s cubicle doors can let you down - if there are any at all - and a guard can come in handy.

8. Being with a fellow lady while she pees can be quite bonding.  Think of a piss-partner on a camping trip, you know, someone to stand spread-eagled in front of you for the benefit of hikers.  Conversation is quite often at its best in these moments.  Some ladies even hover over the seat in pub toilets which can be quare’n entertaining after a few beers.  It’d remind you of a dog trying to have a dump on the deck of a ship on rough seas!

9. It’s good to have someone you trust walk behind you on your way back from the jax, to look out for labels showing/v.p.l./toilet paper stuck to shoe etc…

10. Crossing a large room can make a girl self conscious sometimes.  It helps to have someone walk with you and give you a good excuse to smile.

What do you reckon, girls… have I forgotten any more good reasons, or am I divulging a major secret here for which I should be hanged?

I got tagged again!  This is so great… I’ve a wicked cold at the moment, the kind where independant thought gets stuck up to its waist in brain sludge, which then oozes out of every available orifice.  Fuzzy brain, fuzzy hearing, double vision, extremeties turning black and falling off - it’s a real bacteria fest up in Kateland.

So I’m only too delighted to take up the meme.  The only problem is that it’s prompted by TJ, a new blog buddy over at Better Living Through Chemistry who didn’t know that I’d done this meme before (Nasty habits and hairy knuckles), so I’m going to take the liberty of changing the meme a little bit.

My new adjusted meme is:

‘Three things you would do if you could change sexes for the day’

1. Stay in my room for 5 hours and play with myself.

2. Track down and beat up that handful of blokes that screwed me over, broke my heart or were just too plain weird to be of any use to mankind.

3. Go out and kiss as many aesthetically challenged (how’s that for political correctness?!) or geeky girls as I could, just to brighten their confidence.

In proper spirit, I’m passing my new meme on because I’m nice like that.

Back at ya TJ! *evil laugh*

Sweetnam - you have your fair share of female hormones as you approach the huge adventure that is fatherhood… how would you fare as a lass for a day?

Brian, because you’re a confusing entity… you’re all about the ammo, yet you can cook and sew too.  I bet you could even multitask if the going got tough enough.  What would you do if you had a fine pair for a day?

By all means, if anyone else wants to take this up, please go right ahead!  I wanted to tag more of you, but in the interest of simplicity and not wanting rotten eggs thrown at me, I kept it to just three.  The only rules attatched to this meme depend on the limits of your imagination.

There’s another tag of sorts floating about… but this one is a darn good idea if y’ask me!

Going Like Sixty has given us the great excuse to repost a dusty blog post, which is something we’d all love to do without being called a cheat.  Remember the days when you first started out blogging, when post comments were slim to none?  This is your chance to regurgitate those under-appreciated posts for others to chew on for a while.

I choose my first ever post, which is ‘Spider Babies’.  I wrote it when my dad was nagging me to start blogging despite my protests.  I threw it up on the blog section of my myspace profile for the laugh, just to see what blogging was like.  I suppose it’s the post that got me hooked.

So, here’s your chance, and here are the rules;

1. Go choose one post which you would like to use as an example of your under-appreciated genius, and link it.

2. Link to the person who last suggested the ‘best shot’ idea.

3. Suggest the idea to others, then make sure you read, and comment on their regurgitated posts.

Go on then… git browsing!