Ted support
This new theme I have going on… it doesn’t work. That is to say there is a glitch on the other pages (Blogroll/About/A cry for…) in that the comments have vanished into thin air. The comments are enabled, they’re still sitting in the database, they’re just invisible. I can’t figure it out.
So… I downloaded another theme which is even prettier still.
This afternoon found me pulling my hair out, trying desperately to decipher PHP and CSS files in order to tidy the page up a bit and eventually I won. I went back to the home-page to admire the view and found that the entire header had… vanished.
What the f…?!?!
Brain approaching overload, I just stared at the server for a while and watched the pretty letters milling around in their little nonsense convention. That’s when Ted caught my eye.
Now I would, until recently, have been slightly unnerved by grown men with teddy obsessions… take The ChrisD’s Baby Bear, for example. But!!! This is not regression or the display of a softer side, it is pure common sense. Teddies are problem solvers, but it takes an open mind to understand this. They’re inanimate, they’re stuffed with fluff, but their power is never to be underestimated.
Me – “Hey… Ted, I have a problem.” Puppychild glanced at me and agreed, but for different reasons.
Ted – “…”
Me – “I can find the header image file in the server and I can find the scriptish file that tells the image what to do, but something else is cancelling it out and I can’t figure out what it is.”
Ted – “…”
Me – “Does WordPress have a CSS file?”
Ted – “…”
Me – “No you’re right, that’s stupid. Sure why would they give a gobshite like me access to it?!”
Ted – “…”
Me – “There must be a setting somewhere on the Dashboard that’s screwing things up, but I didn’t touch anything there. I don’t get it.”
Ted – “…”
Me – “But I don’t want to go through those files again… that language is a pain in the ass to understand. Oh hang on… I’ll try counting the files.”
Ted watched, his little cotton heart brimming with pride as I found that it was simply the fact that I’d forgotten to add a file when uploading things. He winked at me with his missing eye and revelled in my trimph at having figured it out all by myself.
-o0o-
Meanwhile, Puppychild watched me dubiously and eyeballed Ted the traitor, Ted who belongs on her windowsill with all the other (slightly less technically minded) Teds. She’ll thank him when she wants a blog someday, I know it.
For the good o' me health?
We as an Irish nation don’t complain enough.
“HAHAHA wha?”
No, it’s true. We’re a nation without much backbone… all the complaining we do is to the wrong people entirely.
In England perhaps, a person might skip the queue, and will get a severe “Oi mate!!! Sling yer ‘ook” from people standing further back. Here in Ireland, that person would hear nothing but whispering and low toned grumbles. We make our discomfort known by osmosis which is grand in a post office, but in a bigger picture, it’s completely useless. Our higher powers are getting away with murder, because grumbling is a noise that’s easily ignored.
I’m a grumbler too, but if there’s a petition going around or an opportunity to write filthy emails I’ll hop on it. Many voices preaching ‘Oi Mate‘ in print makes a slightly bigger impression.
This particular rant is about health insurance, and the fact that I and two million other people in Ireland are forking over a massive levy to cover the Governments asses and keep things the way they are. That’s hard to swallow. Things are crap the way they are.
The new levy, effective as of January 1st, 2009 looks like this:
‘€160 per adult & €53 per child with a consequent increase in health insurance premiums‘
Hibernian Aviva Health has created the “Axe the Levy” campaign, believing that we should all be given the right to affordable insurance at a time when the public health system can’t handle its volumes and everyone else is losing their jobs rapidly.
“Hibernian Aviva Health is seeking for the health insurance system to be properly, equitably and effectively regulated, ultimately leading to the ability of all health insurance providers to offer better prices and benefits, drive innovation in the market, and cover new and emerging treatments for all consumers.”
That sounds about right.
So… go, click on the link and fill in your name. Tell the ‘boys’ in graphic detail where they can stick their levy.
AXE THE LEVY PETITION
Pubescent blog
So this blog is almost 2 years old now, in blog years that’s 14, which means it’s hit puberty.
It almost has complete control over itself and therefore has begun experimenting with piercings and tattoos and hair colour changes as you may or may not notice.
It also thinks it knows everything, but is aware of the fact that it probably doesn’t, so it’s going to try it anyway… plenty of tantrums to come I’m sure, but sure isn’t that half the fun of learning?!?
Servers. How lovely they are, with so much potential for destruction in the hands of an over-enthusiastic domestic engineer. I’ve no idea what to do with it. I wonder if I can control the fire sprinklers in the White House from here? Tune in to CNN to find out…
Xbox4TaxiFare
TAT and I share an hour’s overlap in the mornings, just as I wake up and he returns from work. This gives us enough time to catch up on each others news and provide a redux of the things that need knowing. It would be much nicer quality time if mommy wasn’t such a grumpy bitch at that hour, but I do my best.
“I ordered a tank of oil, the cat’s been fed, and I’ve left the ESB bills out for sorting. They’re over there.” He gestured with his cigarette.
“Umm.” I mumbled into my coffee cup while half-tuned to CNN.
“Oh, and there’s an Xbox over there”
“Umm?” My attention reefed from the telly, I looked over my shoulder and sure enough there was indeed an Xbox console sitting on the kitchen table. “What the…”
TAT regaled the tale of a rather ostentatious young man who’d been kicked out of a bar at silly o’clock this morning for being a pillock. No other driver would take him, given that he was pretty belligerent and was whingeing about wanting to be let back in. He got into the cab, and by the time he’d finished moaning and ranting about the bouncers they were almost at his destination, at which point he confided in TAT that he had no money, that he’d left his jacket behind in the pub.
Potentially €30 down, TAT began to grow pretty belligerent himself and told the kid that in no uncertain terms was he getting away with a free ride, that collateral would do until funds became available.
The kid disappeared into his house, and returned cradling his Xbox.
“This is my baby, man, I’ll be wanting this back, ok? Seriously. It’s the love of my life.”
“That’s up to you, mate.” TAT supplied receipts and did everything but write his number on the kid’s forehead. He drove away, baby on board.
Oh don’t look at me like that. If that’s not a Call of Duty then what is?!
H2SO4
Water is bad for you.
Back in the other house, the water was soft and pure. Here it’s hard as nails and smells funny. Probably from all the rusty cars and Grandad’s tourist dump sullying the groundwater.
AND it’s costing a fortune. I have to use more shampoo to get a lather up, more washing up liquid, more bubble bath (as soon as I clear all the boxes out of the tub) and I fear my kettle and washing machine will threaten to defect if I don’t start buying those rip-off calcium tablets.
From now on I’m protesting… no more washing, no more drinking re-cycled wee-wee.
It’s Vodka for me from this point forth.
*hic*
Ancient history
I went Dolmen hunting today. There are rumours around here that there is one hiding in one of four potential spots, so I covered two of them this morning, primed with Google Earth and a SatNav programmed with various coordinates relating to spurious grey patches on the satellite image. Fuck all use that turned out to be.
I did find an abandoned farm with a collie puppy chained to a wall, whom my dog made friends with instantly. Car parts were scattered everywhere and somebody had sprayed the message ‘The road ends here kids” on a dilapidated wall. I climbed gates and trudged through marshes, I climbed up and down various hills and had a dodgy encounter with a deer (when is rutting season anyway?). I found a swamp full of cars dating back to the 50′s, and an upside-down bus in a gorse patch in the middle of nowhere, roughly around the same time I realized I was completely lost. It was quite a surreal little adventure.
The thought occurred to me that I could have been standing on top of the dolmen at any point, given that thousands of years have past. It’s quite likely that I’d never find it, but I had it in my head that it would be an amazing project to discover it and rally the help of a few locals to clear it up and get it registered.
I wish I’d paid more attention to those Archaeology lectures, I might know now what signs to look out for. I wish Google Earth had a rock density gradient built into its programming.
Right now though, I wish for a dry pair of socks.
How to make pizza from scratch
The inspiration for this blog post comes from Hails at Coffee Helps, and her list of 101 things to do in 1001 days. This list is pretty inspirational, if you think about it. It’s an excellent way to boost self esteem, to tick off all those things you’ve always wanted to do but never got around to doing. Ticking things off is always therapeutic… that feeling of There! I did it! I’m not such a waster after all!… is pretty satisfying, especially if the task was particularly tough.
A sample of Hails’ list might look like this:
4. Record one thing a day that has made me happy, for thirty (not necessarily consecutive) days. (Underway at http://itjustmakesmehappy.wordpress.com (1/30))
16. Smile at absolutely everyone I meet for a week. (0/1)
28. Climb a tree. (0/1)
49. Read at least five classic novels from this list, including one by Dickens. (0/5)
61. Learn how to say hello in 50 different languages. (Underway at http://boutye.wordpress.com (8/50))
73. Milk a cow. (0/1)
But the one that caught my eye was No. 42:
Make pizza from scratch. (0/1)
If you’re a fan of pizza (and who isn’t?), the best thing you can do for yourself is learn how to make one from scratch. They’re better for you, and the addition of your own blood sweat and tears makes it taste nicer than anything you’ve ever tasted before. Okay, so it’s time consuming, but after a few attempts it becomes second nature.
HOW TO MAKE PIZZA FROM SCRATCH
Preheat your oven to a medium to hot temperature.
To make the dough:
-Sift 150g flour into a bowl, and add a pinch of salt and a sachet of dried yeast (I like this stuff).
(Tip: try adding flavouring to the flour at this stage.. pinch of dried herbs, or a tsp chilli powder!)
-Stir 2 tablespoons of olive oil into the flour with a wooden spoon, blending well.
-Melt 1 teaspoon honey into a cup of warm water (sugar works just as well – yeast needs something sweet to develop doughy bubbly goodness), and gradually mix into the flour to bind it together. If the mixture becomes too sticky, add teaspoons of flour until the dough becomes manageable again.
-Extract your ball of dough from the bowl, and turn it out onto a floured board. Knead the dough for at least three minutes… think of it as being like chewing-gum… the longer you maul it, the more elastic it becomes. The dough’s elastic quality is what makes it rise when it’s baked.
-Place your kneaded dough into a bowl and cover it with clingfilm, then let it rest for at least 20 minutes.
-(Start the tomato sauce now.)
-When you come back to the dough, you should find that it’s already expanded quite a lot, at which point (and this is the most satisfying part) you can punch the dough and feel the risen air escape. Roll it out on the floured board to your required shape, and place onto a baking tray. Curl the edges around if you like, stuffing the edges with cheese is time consuming but an interesting touch! Pierce the dough several times with a knife, and bake the dough on its own until it starts to turn brown, then remove it to cool. This gives you seriously delicious crustiness.
For the tomato sauce:
-Dice up a clove of garlic, and one medium onion. Lightly fry them together in a saucepan with a little olive oil, until the onion becomes translucent.
-Throw in the contents of a can of chopped tomatoes and reduce the heat to a simmer. Add salt and pepper, and herbs like basil or oregano (or both) and maybe a bit of chilli to give it a kick. Tomatoes are very bitter by nature… if you like, add 1 tsp sugar to counteract this – the calories are worth it.
-Simmer this sauce until the liquids boil down, at which point you can blend the sauce or leave it as it is. Happily, by the time your sauce is ready, the dough should be risen and ready for rolling.
For the topping:
This part is up to you, and whatever tickles your Nancy. Some suggestions are:
-Chopped mushrooms, lightly fried chicken pieces, diced peppers, olives, pepperoni slices, sweetcorn, cubed ham, sliced tomatoes, diced avocado… be inventive! I once fried cubes of lamb’s liver in a bit of olive oil and balsamic vinegar and added it to the topping and it was feckin’ lovely.
-Cheese: 100g grated cheddar does the job nicely, but the addition of fresh Mozzarella is gorgeous, as are slices of Brie.
Summary:
This is a whole lot of recipe and I know it looks quite daunting, but when you get into the stride of preparation it’s very easy. Knock the dough together and place it into a covered bowl and while it’s rising, make the tomato sauce. When the dough has risen, roll it out, score it and bake it to form a good crust, then remove to cool. Smother the base with tomato sauce, your toppings of choice, and a good layer of cheese, then bake the pizza until the cheese has melted and begun to brown. (Usually 15 minutes)
Enjoy!!!
January's Dog's Bollocks
I’m going to try and keep this short and sweet, but you must understand that there’s a lot of passion being supressed. This post could go on ’till next Autumn for all the potential content involved, but time’s short and the Chinese is on its way, fair play to him.
January’s Dog’s Bollocks award goes to Mr. Rick O’Shea.
Rick’s radio show has been my touchstone for humanity for the longest time. He saw me through freezing weather in my forlorn days of window cleaning… his banter kept my soul nice and toasty. It also broke the ice somewhat given my situation – a bunch of belligerent blokes with a female driver, my territory here (you understand) was somewhat ‘spurious, but Rick levelled us to the same domain with perfection.
Then came my taxi driving boredom. From hackney to cabbie, the lost hours… those spent biting nails and scanning newspapers, waiting desperately for someone to fancy the thought of being driven anywhere… somewhere… the suspense of the next fare was healed by Rick O’Shea and his inane questions – questions that levelled Ireland to the same base instincts, the same issues, the same mistakes. I felt so at home, so entertained… I actually cursed fares that interrupted my concentration on Rick’s show between 2pm and 5pm.
Now it’s gone.
This is the facebook protest if you’re into that sort of thing. (I hope the link works!)
2fm have seen it fit to call a halt to chat radio. They seem to think that they’re the only radio station playing pop music, that they have the edge on popular radio, but the sad thing is (from my point of view), is that the only thing they have going for them is Rick, and Nikki Hayes, the popculture guru that can be heard before Rick’s slot. These are the shows that determine real entertainment, something worth listening to. They call out to the general public, they hand the day’s subject matter to us, to you and me, and in my opinion it’s genius.
“What’s the last thing you tore up?”
“When’s the last time you told someone you loved them?”
“What’s the most embarrasing thing you’ve ever done?”
It’s the closest thing to a radio blog… inviting the public to create an atmosphere that nobody else can match… it grounds us all and lets us know that we’re not alone, that we’re all human underneath. I miss it so.
Rick’s slot is not gone yet, but his show is now lacklustre. He has no more questions, he plays music that everyone else plays, his voice carries dampened undertones as though his baby has left home for good. I hope he doesn’t mind me saying this, but his show (since he returned from New York) has joined the ranks of banality and I sense that this isn’t his fault. He’s been shot down.
Why?
Fuck knows.
Cut Gerry (perve) Ryan’s salary, bring back Rick. Oh ok, I love Gerry too, but seriously… he’s not worth that much. Ray D’Arcy fills my slot far more adequately most of the morning time, so to speak.
Long live Rick O’Shea, he is indeed the Dog’s Bollocks.
Goodbye 2fm, you’ve lost a listener.
I met my pet on the internet
Nah, not TAT… I met him in a bar-room brawl in Finglas.
English ‘Dangerous’ Dave is the most socially unpredictable person in Wicklow Town if not the world. Instantly friendly without a malicious bone in his body, he’s a sort of hero of mine. To speak to him, you’d be reminded of Captain Jack Sparrow, that slightly ‘touched’ sort of free-spirit who acts as a magnet for free-floating loopers such as myself. When I meet him out and about, I pry him for lyrics he’s written (usually by the seashore under a full moon under the influence of God-knows-what) because they’re familiar, funny, and always original; made extra cool by ‘is fick Landon accen’.
This music video below tells you exactly what I’m on about, and it’s a testament to the fact that even though a chap has no money, it doesn’t mean he can’t write, produce and sing on his very own video on the internet. He’s got great friends and he’s loved, and that’s all he cares about. Watch all the way through, it’s pretty damn funny with some excellent effects given their financial restraints, and the song ain’t too shabby neither, guaranteed to stick in the head.
‘I met my pet on the internet’
Dangerous Dave and the Side Effects
(‘Avin trouble wif de lyrics? Here ye go:)
This is a tail, about a young man, looking for, companionship, on, the, in, ter, net.
I was looking for some fun, a little one-to-one
When I saw her ad, she was BAD, she had to be had.
We never met before, ‘coz she’s from Dublin 4
Me I live in Wicklow, I thought I’d say a quick hello.
She’s my pet, I met her on the internet
Her profile, an’ it drove me wild (x2)
I was lookin’ for a Leopard, but I got a German Shephard.
She’s a little moaner, ‘coz I’m her seventh owner.
She’s my pet, I met her on the internet
Her profile, an’ it drove me wild (x2)
She’s never alone with her mouldy old bone
That thing it keeps on minging, me I keep on singing. (x2)
She’s my pet, I met her on the internet
Her profile, an’ it drove me wild (x2)
It seemed just fine and dandy, not to mention bleedin’ handy
Three clicks, one bitch, washed down with a bottle o’ Brandy.
But now I’ve sobered up,
I’ve realised I’m not ready for a pup…
So I left my pet on the internet, I left my pet on the internet
I left my pet on the internet
I left my pet on the internet… I’ll never forget… MY PET!
Keep an eye out for Dave’s dad who makes a brief appearance somewhere around 2:46 in the song – the chap with the tambourine. Seriously, there’s something in the water in that town.
The child that almost was
This is a post about miscarriage. It’s not maudlin, I’m not looking for sympathy, it’s just that it’s a subject that a lot of us come across many times in life that isn’t spoken about much. It’s awkward, it’s deeply personal, and it sends people running. If you would like to run, now’s your chance!
What do you get if you cross a dead guineapig with clock gears?
___________________
You’re still here? Good stuff. This is just my story, maybe it’ll help someday if you’re caught unaware, maybe it’ll help to know… what to say, if anything. If you’re looking for a guide to help you figure out what you’re supposed to be feeling, I’m afraid you’re on your own, for I haven’t figured that part out yet myself.
I wrapped a yellow bow around the pregnancy test, it was February 12th when it tested positive, so it went into a Valentines day card for TAT. He was chuffed beyond reason. Perhaps not the best timing for a child, but when is? I told my mother in law later that it was an intentional accident, much the same as the rest of my kids. Accident and surprise should own the same word, if you ask me.
The week before superstition would allow me to boast about my being on the bubble, it arrived. Lots and lots of blood in all the wrong places and I knew, even before I called my friend for advice, what was happening. The pain followed soon after… a milder form of labour pain but horribly evil with no possible chance of a happy ending. I slugged Vodka. I took Ponstan and Solpadeine, but nothing would take it away. No more baby. Just dead cells and intense discomfort. I had it easy compared to most, which is a horribly scary thought.
I was brought into hospital where an ultrasound told me I’d been carrying those dead cells for four weeks… nature had seen it fit to call it a halt to this kid’s development after only eight weeks of growth. Why, though? Why have Laughingboy develop to term, only to have him suffer with disability in his life? Why take this child now?
The pains stopped suddenly… so suddenly that I wondered if I’d imagined the whole thing, and ten minutes later while seeing a man about a dog, I laid an egg. Right there, into the toiletbowl – *plop*. What a way to go.
I cried, then, purely because I didn’t know what else to be doing at the time. I knew when I scooped the foetus out of the toilet bowl and wrapped it in tissue, that it wasn’t a child, that it probably never was. I wanted to keep it, bury it in a shoebox, and not tell anybody. Instead, I handed the wadge of tissue to the lady at the helpdesk who asked me if I was okay, but I couldn’t answer with anything but a limp smile. A few moments later found me spreadeagled on a hospital bed, being probed for a D & C.
“Seems you’ve done all the work for me!” the doctor smiled.
“Yeah!” I laughed. I actually laughed, as though we were speaking about furniture removal or earwax or something equally as mundane. No sadness, just emptiness.
We stopped off at a relative’s house on the way home against my fervent wishes, and I sat alone on the couch. Nobody spoke of what had happened apart from one or two statements that I really didn’t want to hear, and nobody has mentioned it since. Far too awkward. Far too scary. Get on with your life already, woman, and count your blessings.
It was when I got the letter a week later that it hit home. I was invited to a mass in the hospital for the souls of recently miscarried babies including my own. I didn’t reply. I waited as the day arrived, and as the mass began elsewhere, I suddenly felt immensely guilty, like my baby was floating in a dense fog somewhere, counting on me to release it from it’s horrid limbo. I sat on my couch and tried to ignore it, tried to pray my own prayers, but the feeling stuck. I did nothing for the soul of that child, if there was such a thing, it’s existence on this planet went totally un-noticed. Is that wrong? I don’t know, for nobody’s really given me that much of a chance to talk about it. It’s probably a question which has no answer anyway.
If you do meet someone who’s going through this experience, I can arm you with advice… just listen. That’s all you have to do. Try not to say something for the sake of breaking silence… phrases like ‘It’s probably for the best’, or ‘Sure you can always try again’, or ‘Time’s a great healer’… they really don’t help. Boxes of chocolates go down extremely well, hugs are surprising, human contact sometimes is an excellent remedy… it fills the hollowness wonderfully.
Miscarriage is one of those feelings that stays inside a person. Even though the body is gone, the memory persists, an innate feeling that one has failed in a responsibility to another human being. Somebody died on my watch. It’s a tough cross to bear sometimes, and if left to fester can cause a multitude of other problems. It needs to be let out, so let it out. Talk. Listen. Remember that tiny pile of cells to somebody else, write stories about it.
Above all, never, never feel too ashamed to talk about it.
However you find this, whether it’s by search-term or by fate, I hope it helps. I hope it’s comforting to find you’re not as alone as you think you are, male or female, brother or cousin twice removed. You’re the proud owner of a new scar and it defines who you are. Wear it. It’s beautiful in its own weird way.
