K8 the GR8

I meet an abundance of very interesting people in this job.

I met one particular person in the first few days of taxi-driving, someone with whom conversation came easily and made the job a lot easier.  We soon became friends… I give her lifts to work, and she supplies me with the most potent and delicious damn coffee I’ve ever tasted.

We swapped numbers, and enquired about each other’s online status, only to find that I’d found myself a bonafide bebo chick.  I explained what a shallow and anonymous gig this Bebo lark is, and explained the theories of blogging. I reluctantly handed over my blog address which is something I hate doing - I like to keep the virtual and the real totally seperate for embarrassment purposes, but something in me sensed that this girl had something to say.  A genuinely sound person with a dark and twisty edge needed a blog of her own, don’t you think?

So, I turned her.  I bit and infected a civilian and now her thoughts are immortal.  (Bwah hah hah hah)

Without further anything else, I introduce you to:

Vagab0ndage

Welcome to the blogosphere, Vicky!

For some reason, other taxi drivers on the rank at the Dart station find me very amusing.  They like to stand in groups and watch me parallel park which fucks up my concentration and gives me the shakes and ultimately leads to embarrassment.  They give me occasional lectures about smoking in my car (technically the cigarette is outside!) and tell me my brake lights need work with much nudging.  It’s definitely not a place for a lady.

That’s why today I was extremely excited to find the rank deserted.  I pulled up first in the queue and seconds later my rear door opened, but when I turned around, there was nobody there.  My rear view mirror told me that there were two little old dears hobbling towards my car however, one supporting the other like best friends. 

They were very happy to see me, being that they’d just been told by another cab company that they’d have to wait for 25 minutes in the pissing rain for another taxi. 

“Ooooh!!  A lady driver!!!  How nice.” the lady in the backseat exclaimed as she fought her stubborn legs into the car.  I get this a lot, it’s a nice buzz.  The other lady plopped herself in to the seat beside me with no effort at all.

“Right.” says she.  “We want to go to Monkstown, and then on into Dublin.”

“Certainly, ladies.”  *WOO-HOO!!!* I thought inside my little head.  Having just come back from the airport, I felt rich.  Sundays are good days for me.

I stuck on some music from the ‘Classycal’ folder on my SatNav and took off.  The lady beside me was quite attractive with her hair-mac off… she wore a bronze bob and posh sunglasses with sparkly flowery stuff on the sides and had on her Sunday best.  She prompted me for personal information which I always give out far too freely and we complained about the weather, all the way into Monkstown.

We pulled up outside an old Georgian house, and I helped the back-seat lady to her feet.  I offered to help her across the road and up the steps (heavily prompted by front-seat lady) but to no avail… she got quite annoyed and said “don’t mind her, I’m fine!  She’s always babying me!” then waved at me and headed off.

Then there were two. 

There was some silence, then…

“Ahh lookit, I’m nearly falling asleep here, have you any dacent music?”

“Sure!!!”  I racked my brains, and waited for a stop-light.  I then began to scroll down the music folder and play snippets of songs for her approval.  Paul Simon?  No.  The Waifs?  No.  Blind Melon?  No.  I cycled through until she stopped me, at Soundgarden’s Black Hole Sun.

“I love his voice!  Yes I like this, keep this on.”

I was confused.  Time passed.  To make conversation, I mumbled something like;

“It’s lovely of you to have such concern for a friend, you’re a credit to her.”

“She’s my little sister, sure I worry about her… there were eleven of us to start with, but there aren’t many of us left.”

Now I’m really confused.  I begin to wonder if the lady in my car isn’t extracting the urine.  The lady we’d just dropped off had to be at least 85 years of age, but I couldn’t ask the question.  I knew she was itching to tell me anyway, which she was.

“I’m in my ninety-second year” she said with a grin.

Now, there aren’t many statements that will warrant my taking my eyes off the road for more than two seconds, but this one was an exception.

“Fu… I mean… You can’t be serious?!?!”  I normally hate the ‘guess how old I am!!!’ statement from a fellow female.  It’s a deliberate fish, but this one warranted true amazement. 

“What’s your secret?”

She giggled, and said “I have a good life. I’m well travelled, and I smoke 20 a day.”

“Fair play!!!” I stated. “Where have you been?”

“Everywhere… Germany, France, America, Mexico, Brazil, last year I went to Amsterdam and it was really very excellent indeed!”

“I’m sure it was!”

“The only places I haven’t been yet are Australia and China.  Sure there’s plenty of time for that yet, I suppose.”

Ninety one years old!!!

I was unable to say another word for the rest of the journey, the woman had me speechless.  I dropped her off at her batchelor-ette pad and thanked her for her generous tip as she walked away.  She has made me re-think old age completely, blown my pre-conceived ideas right out.  Maybe I won’t bugger off to Africa where I’ll no longer be a pain in the ass to anybody!  Maybe I’ll follow the advice in a poem my mum told me last week: 

When I am old I will wear purple. 

Yeah!!!  I’m gonna live it up!!!  I’m gonna have impressive stories to tell taxi drivers when I’m 91 years old coming home from the pub too, and demand that they play The Beastie Boys while we talk.

I officially, from this moment on, do not want to hear anybody complain about being old, because you’re not.  When you’re 93, come back and talk to me, then I’ll listen.  Right now, I’m well impressed.

So I was sitting at a taxi rank today reading my paper, and I looked up to see a very common sight.  Bodalorna wrote about it yesterday, it’s a sore subject with many obviously enough, and normally the sight of a grown woman putting a bag of dogshit in her pocket would make me point and laugh, but today I was inspired.  Today I had to write a song about it.

Here’s the first draught:

Little Brown Bag

Six legs walkin’ down the street
Four small paws, two runnered feet
I got my choons, he got his scents
Together we got confidence.

The time is nigh, I know his game
I look away to spare him shame
Sure enough he squares the squat
And gives it everything he’s got

Here it comes, his face is pensive
Squeezing out his best offensive…

(CHORUS)
You, my doggie dude, I’d do anything for you
I sure as hell will hold your poo
I’ve a wee bag here just for you
Just for you and your special poo

People look and laugh at me
Pickin’ up so dutif’lly
I wonder if they’d be so smug
With dog shit smeared on their new rug?

(CH)

I got a smelly pocket but it’s alright,
Me, my dog and my bag o’ shite.
It’s really gross but you know it’s right,
Me, my dog and my bag o’ shite.
Me, my dog and my bag o’ shite.

I believe that if you give respect, most of the time you’ll get it back, hopefully with tips!  I’m trying to teach this to my kids but there’s no way to explain this in pre-schoolspeak, so I lead by example.

The thing is, I’m having problems.  I came home after a work shift recently, exclaiming that men don’t like to be called ‘Sir’ anymore.

“You call them Sir?!” Xboxboy seemed more than surprised.

“Yes, if I don’t know their name, I’ll call them Sir.  Not all the time, just sometimes.”

“But you’re not below them!!!  Never call anybody Sir… it’s demeaning to everybody!”

“Eh?”

I don’t understand this, but it’s true.  Also, instead of calling my mechanic ‘Bert’, a few weeks ago I called him ‘Mr. Byrne’, and he was horrified.   He instantly exclaimed “Jeeeeesus stop!  Mr. Byrne is my father’s name!”.  This is a strangely common occurance among men of all ages… they evade chivalry as though it were an insult.  Did I miss something?

Can somebody please explain to me why ‘Chivalry is dead’, or ‘So-and-so is the last true gentleman’, or ‘Kids have no respect for their elders these days’ are all such common gripes of adults today when all they need to do is accept a bit of respect?

My kid is watching me and learning that the word ‘Sir’ evokes a similar reaction to the word ‘Shit’.  Such surprise and chastisement her mother gets!  Better not do that so.

So what do I do now?

J.R.R. Tolkien was a very religious man, though this isn’t a well known fact. I read a biography of his lately entitled ‘The Secret Fire’ which describes Tolkien’s inspiration for his many amazing stories, and how he believed that God speaks to us not through prayer and sacrifice, but through music and nature… secret zephyrs and sun rays for your eyes only. When we feel inspired by these things, or feel raised goosebumps on our skin as a result of something beautiful, this is God speaking to us. I would love to go into more detail because it really is an excellent read, but I won’t, instead I urge you to add it to your reading lists.

~o0o~

A very strange and wonderful thing happened last night.

The Cologne New Philharmonic Chamber Orchestra performed in Wicklow Town’s Parish Church. The Chinese would tell you that anything set at 8:00pm on 08/08/08 would be a very auspicious event indeed so it felt right. It felt right, in fact, from the very first moment I laid eyes on the advertisement several weeks ago, but I don’t know why. I just knew that I had to go, and that I had to bring Laughingboy with me.

We sat on an empty pew right at the back of the church beside an open side-door. Cool air flowed past us, smelling of wood and stone and Wicklow harbour, and the crowded temple shuffled in anticipation. It all began with ‘Summer’ from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. (Listen to it here)

I was so delighted they started with this… it’s one of my favourites.  As you might know, the first movement is very quiet, with awe-inspiring violinny bits intertwinkling with the theme. Laughingboy’s ears pricked up and his eyes brightened the instant it started… the high pitches of the violins spread huge grins across his face and he began to move his arms about conductor-style, his heels tapping against the footrest of his wheelchair as he kicked and jigged.

The second movement ended and deafening silence ensued, broken by a sudden long and loud giggle from the happiest child in the world. This sound blasted its way up to the rafters and then bounced around the stone walls for a bit.   A sea of heads turned, and I gave them the thumbs up and a big grin. I was happy too, just watching the impact of this beautiful classical music on my son.

The third movement began suddenly with an excited torrent of harmony, and Laughingboy jumped. His arms and legs froze and his eyes grew wide, I thought he was going to cry from the shock but he didn’t, he just stayed frozen. I lifted him out of his chair and cuddled him on my lap so that I could tap the beat on his knees, and then it happened.

He leaned backwards and locked his gaze with mine, his eyes dark and intense (his pupils alarmingly dilated), but his face wore an expression of pure love. He then began to pour God into me undiluted. I felt my soul fill up faster and faster and I thought I was going to explode - tears brimmed in my eyes and my heart raced, every tiny hair on my body danced as I accepted this pure love… no, it was more than love, I can’t explain what it was, but when I looked up from Laughingboy’s gaze, I saw colours shine through the stained glass window that I’ve never seen before. The music became so clear, like it was as natural as a breeze rustling through long grass in the summertime - I could sense the pain and the happiness in the people around us and I loved them all just for being alive.

Instead of exploding however, I felt as it all began to slowly soak through me and radiate from us both as we sat, bathing in the energy, cuddling and bopping for two hours, floating out of the church when it was all finished. I pushed Laughingboy really fast… running all the way up the hill back to the car like a madwoman. We laughed belly-laughs as on-lookers stared and smiled.

~o0o~

When I got home, I found that I was interrupting a Wii night in with the Lads, but the Wiimotes were suddenly forgotten as they flocked to Laughingboy like moths to a flame. One of the lads - a regular visitor of Medjugoria and follower of all things God - stood beside Laughingboy for a long time, watching as he flapped his arms and legs and contorted his face into all sorts of grins and smiles. We spoke about autistic children having extra sensory abilities and put a heavy bet that Laughingboy was a definate contender for the theory, and agreed that there was something new about the kid, a fresh energy, knowledge… who knows what. It was certainly something amazing and I felt it, it’s still there, topping me up every now and then… it’s so hard to explain.

I finally found a way to communicate with my son and I’m the happiest mother alive. That’s all I know.

There are some fierce creative memes flapping about recently, aren’t there?  This one is from Squidward and here are the rules:

If you had to select celebrities/actors to play the parts in the story of your life today (including yourself!), who would it be and why - this can be based on looks or personality!

The Rules!

1. List the people who would play you, and the key people in your life.
2. Give credit to the person who tagged you.
3. Link your answers to the original blog, that’s here (http://www.iRamble.co.uk)!
4. Tag four new people to participate.

-o0o-

Right so…

I’d have Mary-Louise Parker play myself (as long as she can do me accent!),  because I related to her character and her family in ‘Weeds’ a little bit too much.  It was quite scary how similar we seem to be, except that she can give a mighty verbal ass-kicking which is a subject I am studying.

-

The Accidental Terrorist would be played by Keith Duffy, because no foreign actor could act a true Irish lad’s lad, the type of lad that you find annoying at first until they grow on you and you find out that they’re great craic after all, and are handy with a spanner. 

-

My father would be played by John Cleese.  I often wonder if they’re not one and the same person in fact - Grandad’s blog-vs-John Cleese’s blog… see?! I am Cleesedad’s offspring.

-

My mum would be played by Brenda Fricker because she would nail the part.  She has that earthy mammy quality about her, but with a dark and twisty edge.  I yearn to be a Fricker type lady when I grow up.

-

Laughingboy and Puppychild are tough, that kid Emma Bolger is one amazing actress, but too old for the part.  I suppose we could just use sound-effects for Puppychild, maybe a Jack Russell?  Otherwise she’d have to play herself which she’d probably love.

Laughingboy would also have to play himself (unless there is one extremely talented 7 year old out there?), but his story would be amazing on film if he had a voice-over… an inner monologue maybe.  I crave a voice-over of his inner-monologue in real life more than anything else in this world, and I reckon Daniel Day Lewis is best for that part.  No, I’m not taking the piss, My Left Foot is pure coincidence I swear.  That lad can act.

-o0o-

I hereby stuff this meme in a bottle of petrol, light it and throw it at:

Baino… English Mum… From the Living Room… and Xbox4NappyRash.  Suck it up!

A few weeks ago, the acc. terrorist bought one of those flashy LED thingys that scroll pre-programmed messages for the back of our taxi - he’s a sucker for shiny stuff.  It’s pretty much exactly a bit like this one:

You can pre-programme up to 50 messages to display, controlled by an extemely complicated looking remote.  I reckon I could get the hang of it!  I’m trying to think of stuff to display, though I’ve only mustered up these ones so far:

- Thanks!
- Hang up and drive. 
- Turn your f***ing lights down.
- Keep tailgating me, I need the cash.
- Jesus is coming, everyone look busy.
- Remember: Stop Lights Timed For 35mph Are Also Timed For 70mph.
- Warning! I brake for hallucinations.
- Is this a rhetorical question?

I need 42 more.  Give a girl a hand?

-o0o-

What a response!!! Here’s the follow-up:

From Thriftcriminal:
- Awww yeah, overtook your sorry ass!
- Seen the film ‘The Hitcher’?
- Mr. Hanky, the Christmas poo, he loves me and I love you, therefore vicariously he loves you, even if you’re a jew.
- Exterminate! Exterminate!
- Make it so!
- Rigormortis makes me hard

From Me Ma:
- Supercalifradgealisticexpealidocious
- Don’t push yer Granny off the bus
- Free perks on monday - neck massage with every ride

From Me Da:
-Danger! Driver has P.M.T. (predictable but accurate)

From Baino:
- Get in, sit down, shut up, hang on!

From Warrior:
- Imagine, it could be you in this car.
- If you can read this then tell me what the previous line was.
- What are you doing looking at this, look at my brake lights… oh too late.
- Boo!
- You are alone, I am alone, give me a tenner to pay for my petrol, you can walk.
- If you stop following me I won’t tell your wife what you did last night.

From Jefferson Davis:
- Get the f**k out of my way!
- Feck off! (Nice and to-the-point, this one)
- Don’t dare skip on the fare
- No lip, just a tip
- Hire these tyres

From Doc:
- I got some bad ideas in my head
- You talkin’ to me?
- Pssstt… what does the yellow light mean?
- Driver speaks no English
- I knew at an early age I wanted to act
- How’s my drinking?!

From John Braine:
- I’m not getting another ticket just for you.  So back the f**k off!

From Xbox4NappyRash:
- So it goes ‘Accelerator, brake, clutch… I think.

From La Vepista, herself: 
- You are being watched.
- Slow down, cops ahead!

From a bored person: (Whos style I like!!!)
- Don’t make me go Psycho-Bitch on your annoying ass
- You say I’m a Bitch like it’s a bad thing!
- I’m sorry. My fault. I forgot you were an idiot
- Amazingly enough, I don’t give a shit
- Admitting you’re an asshole is the first step

From Moo Dog:
- You’re so close and ugly, I can tell that your Spitting Image puppet would actually be good looking. Ya prick ya.

From Maxi Cane:
- Baby on board… last person to cut me off in boot!
- Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need roads.
- Giving me the finger won’t turn the roof sign off!
- I’m not a real taxi, I borrowed the sign off Michael O’Leary
- Guess who I had in the car last week… your ma!

-o0o-

*CALCULATING…*

That’s 51 messages!!! Fair play to you all. That’s fucking team-work.

I ashamedly didn’t own an English-Irish dictionary until a few weeks ago.  (My school copy is in attic limbo somewhere…)

Then, just as I was agreeing with TAT that we should at least make some sort of effort to re-engage the language in our lives, I found one amongst the other old free books at our local recycling centre.

This poor Irish-English dictionary has been gathering dust on my shelf until tonight, when I opened it to help me with the translation of Íomhá an lae, an excellent blog written as Gaeilge.  It makes me want to learn all over again, and I’m delighted that there is such a funky resource out there to help me.

I opened the front cover of this old book, to see if there were any scribblings to show its history (as you do), and was bowled backwards to find this:

It’s hard to read, but it looks like the owner of the school dictionary had a friend called Rosie, who wrote something along these lines on the 6th of February 1976 to what I assume is her best mate:

Hi gorgeous The word gorgeous is scribbled out in red ink

I’m going to write you a memo.  I don’t know exactly of what, but don’t worry, I’ll think of something.  As you see I had the foresight to right this in pencil as you can rub it out.  Imagine having this scrawled indelibly *BRAINS* (I’m not too sure if you can say that or not, but not to worry!) How’s the crack?  OK, so that’s a stupid question; I hope your nerves regarding Sunday are a bit better than what they were when I was last talking to you - it must be nearly 2 hours.  Such a parting!!  Seeing as this is a memo I suppose I’d better make it one, if you follow my logic!!  In memo of being in 6th year, that should last you all your life!  Five months we’ll be left school for good and i’ll be exactly 18.  Gee whiz, ah!!!  Even be aible to vote - don’t mind the gammy spelling.  Ciao baby.  

Rosie

This discovery means a lot to me, recently my own best mate from school called me to tell me she’d found a stash of passed notes from school… she assures me that I was just as mental then as I am now… that’s very comforting, I’m glad it wasn’t a result of all the drugs I took in later years.  She had me in stitches with the memories.

I hope Ann and Rosie are still friends.

Do you have any written records of conversations with your buddies from your school daze?

“Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.” - Henry Ward Beecher

I think blogging is a type of art form.  It’s not a skill or an ability, it doesn’t require practice, it’s simply words typed into a text-field that represents the thoughts of the writer.  Good grammar is a boon, but not that important to the overall message, especially when that message is interesting and real.

Blogging is about information, the search for answers and the discovery of the unusual.  An exceptionally good blogger wins praise (and awards!) for constantly producing insightful content in a way that the rest of the world can relate to and enjoy.

Now… I’ve only been blogging for a year and I know that my content has gotten neither better nor worse, but at least I understand blogology a little bit better.  There are un-written rules that state that you shouldn’t slag another blog without good reason because that would be like betraying one of your own, but I’m going to do it anyway.

I wasn’t going to do this.  I’ve wanted to do it for such a long time but was afraid that I would turn into someone’s enemy and now I see that life is not about being afraid, it’s about standing up for what’s real.  So, I’m about to do a drive-by-shooting of my own.

-o0o-

Beaut.ie annoys the hell out of me.

It’s far too pink for a start, and the content is similar to a batch of expired Gruyère.  It’s worth a try because it is - by it’s nature - supposed to improve with age, but shortly afterwards you realise it hasn’t, and now you just feel very very sick.  Why does expired cheese win awards?

OMG!!! Yeah that’s right, I’m a bitch.  But!!!  I have a defence.

Exhibit A: 90210: Fondly Remembered  - I’m sorry, but wasn’t that show fairly shite?

Exhibit B: (From Win! Cocoon Limerick Signature Treatment Facial)

Cocoon use superb cutting edge ranges like Ole Henriksen, Phyts and NVEY ECO. They subscribe to a natural, pure and totally gorgeous philosophy and “believe that the essence of a glowing and radiant complexion lies in the combination of fantastic facials using the best products and beautiful makeup”.

That sounds exactly like our philosophy at Beaut.ie!

-but wait!  I thought that the essence of a glowing and radiant complexion lies in plenty of water, a varied healthy diet and copious orgasms?  Why does everything on this site have to be chemically based with a kiss-ass review? 

I told yiz all about my encounter with the dark side of facials recently, and how it’d left my skin so sore and sensitive that I’d been slapping on the Aveeno, because anything else had caused immediate heat, irritation and redness … So then I read the press release. It appears that this stuff works because of an ingredient it shares in common with Aveeno - Feverfew. This is a little powerhouse of a plant, and it works to soothe irritations and calm inflammation. So it’s brilliant for use in skincare aimed at anyone who reacts badly to yer run-of-the-mill beauty products.

Price and availability - these babies are €13.95, and you’ll pick the brand up in chemists nationwide.

- Ok, so this lady is learning that the usual bunny torture juice she’s been subjecting to her skin is rotting her skin and robs her of her hard-earned cash, but does she stop?  Does she look for alternatives?  Nope, she’s sold out and seems committed to endless skin abuse.

From Dianne Brill Still and Fill All Night Temptation;

Ingredients include Swiss hydro apple fruit (not many of them down in Tesco), essence of snake venom, oasis cactus, vitamins and shea butter - all making this night repair cream smell absolutely yummy (think granny smiths).

-Snake venom?!?!  Cactus?!?  By jove, I think this girl’s been had!

Exhibit C: The Blather Category

365 comments?  I wander in to see what the fuss is about and find myself in a field of sheep.  They seem lost for information and dying for advice about real issues… diet, contraception, men, health… the sort of shit all us girls want to know about.  So what’s the post that triggered these questions off?

Beaut.ie Blather: Thursday

Published by Aphrodite July 24th, 2008 in Beaut.ie blather

Oh glorious Thursday you’re here already!

Let’s

Get

Our

Blather on!

Baaa.  Where’s the content? Where’s the reality, the hard-core face-it-or-die reality that is behind real beauty?  What the fuck is the point of looking like a tango’ed chemical junkie when real beaut.ie lies beneath?

I’m a girl, and I want to learn ways to make the job easier… ways to make my own shampoo, ways to understand hormones just a smidge better, ways to deal with the task of looking half-decent and feeling contented with just three hours sleep and a barrel-load of emotional baggage.  I want to see oldskool advice - advice that my mum taught me about pinching my cheeks, or relaxing my face for ten minutes to ward off headaches and wrinkles.  I want to know what stuff I should be drinking to help me understand blokes.   I want to know what’s truly good for me without the bullshit and the price-tag.  Is it so much to ask?

I do have to say Kudos to its designers (apart from all the pinkness) though, for it is an excellently navigable site, should you be arsed.

Beaut.ie is letting the side down. 

This isn’t beauty, it’s not good advice, it’s just another advertising site.

-o0o-

There I said it.