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May 17

My sweetest downfall

Posted on Thursday, May 17, 2012 in Family, Music, Philosophy, Rantings, Strange and Unusual

So there you have it! Gots me an x-ray today that says I don’t need no nasty support pins inserted into my buggered wrist. Turns out wrist is not so buggered! I started popping some homeopathic Symphytum 6c a few days ago and the weirdest thing happened… it worked. The cracks on my distal radiator have faded to thin wee lines within a week. But of course that could be a coincidence. Whatever. Four weeks left of no driving.

This wrecks my head.

No driving.

Or does it?

I’ve been pardoned from all sorts of things. Previous stresses have just… melted away. The flu that’s been farting around my chestal area has disappeared. Stressed-out-woman-flu. Gone! Baths are a pain in the ass with a fibreglass arm, but I can’t bite the nails on my right hand so they’re kind’a pretty now. Ying and yang.

I can’t look after the Accidental Terrorist in his post-operative state, though, that’s a bummer. He has to spend his birthday this weekend in an old folk’s home. I haven’t found the silver lining in that one yet, besides an opportunity for bets on aul’ones in wheelchair-races down hill-slopes.

A spare xbox would definitely cheer him up though, and I’m sure as hell not giving up mine!

Not looking at anybody.

Dad.

But the worst thing of all is that I have to give up Laughingboy. He’s booked away for ten days, umpteen bags are packed in the hallway. Nebuliser meds, feeds, kangaroo bags, tubes, syringes, baby wipes, funky rocket pyjamas… he’s been there for most of the week already, he came home yesterday temporarily and I missed him.

I put Florence and the Machine on for him and spun him ’round on his roof hoist sling even though I’m not supposed to and gave him a head-scratch with my new nails. He’s a sucker for a head-scratch.

As I tucked him in, I did the usual under-cover sweep of arms and tubes to make sure one would not reef the other causing eruptions of stomach gunge (as you do), and as I did my hand was grabbed. Laughingboy has never really done that deliberately before. He squazzed my hand tightly and gazed into nowhere and purred quietly, his gaze fixed on something out the window. Or the window itself, or a far away galaxy maybe. I stayed until he loosened his grip. The chicken nuggets got slightly burned, but it was worth it. He’s going away tomorrow, I’m going to miss him so much, the sort of hurt I wish they could put pins in.

Jun 24

Buried Treasure

I was clearing out my bookmarks this evening and looked what spilled out!!

-The Labyrinth of Genre

-Floaty-mouse images of Dublin City in June 1961 and June 2011, a then-and-now sort of collection. Look at all the dinky cars! (Stolen from Jo :)

This is what real love looks like.

-US Actress Tina Fey’s ‘A Mother’s Prayer for Her Child’; it’s as though she’s inside my head.

-10 Words You Need To Stop Misspelling Read these, and write them out twenty times, you naughty children!

-How to make a gift box out of a bank note. For when you couldn’t be arsed buying that voucher.

-Arty Bollocks Generator because everybody needs an artist statement!

Oh, and a creepy picture by Lori Nix. Click the image to magnifify it.

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Jun 1

0% of full

Posted on Wednesday, June 1, 2011 in Family, Philosophy, Taxi driving

Today is a weird day. It’s not the sort of day I’d normally blog about because its content wouldn’t be the most uplifting, but I’ve entered a pact with another blogger to match him post-for-post, in an effort to motivate each other into prolifickness prolifickity more frequent writing, so here it goes:

My husband of the Accidental Terrorism variety has suffered from a degenerative spine condition for a handful of years now. He’s had surgery before that followed pain of the most extremist type, the type that had him crawling in agony on hands and knees to the bathroom, the type that had him passing out at Christmas dinner tables, a pain that left me wretched with helplessness. Surgery eased the problem, but there came a warning with it; a warning to follow a strict routine of exercise and back care in the years to follow. The warning was forgotten, as were the exercises… and taxi driving took over.

Now, today, The Accidental Terrorist has gone to have operation number two. Laughingboy had been booked into respite. Puppychild and Sir Fartsalot were due to spend a spell in my friend’s house so that I could properly see TAT to his hospital bed and settle him in my wifey ways, but the planets didn’t want it to pass that way for some reason.

Instead Laughingboy suffers a bowel infection, Puppychild a virus and Sir Fartsalot a lung infection. All at the same time do the healthiest children in the world become sick. I find that pretty strange.

And so I waved bye-bye and stifled emotions for the benefit of the children and the heating-engineers and I stuffed it away into a container at the arse end of my soul for later consideration. I hope TAT’s friend is as good a hand-holder as I’d hoped to be, I wonder if TAT feels as lonely as I do despite being surrounded by plenty of people.

Here comes the good part:

I’m a scatty person. As is my mother, and her family… scattiness is most definitely hereditary, I don’t care what anyone says. This means that my mother’s sister’s child is bound to be the same way, doesn’t it?

She stayed with me before, my cousin Diddles. Then she moved far beyond the pale and vowed to visit again but never quite got around to it and time got away from us. It was pointed out to me that it was bad play to keep booking visits and never turn up, but I pointed it out that in the grand scheme of things, scatty people mean well because I know at first hand how it is and I understand and bear no such cancerous Irish grudge on the girl, I’ve got no time for that sorta thing.

We spoke two days ago, she and I. We giggled about willies and spoke of sickness and before I knew it, she had booked herself on the train. She’s trundling her way cross-country to me right now as I write, to come and share the burden and slap the sense of humour back into me, right exactly when I need her, because that’s what matters, right there.

Now all that’s left are the antibiotics, and the waiting…

May 30

Euro forde trolleeee

Posted on Monday, May 30, 2011 in Family, Philosophy, Something to think about

Milk
Bread
Sugar
Coffee
Butter
Nappies
Plain Flour
Toothpaste
Teabags
Tomatoes
Cabbage
SeXxXual (O)(O) Chocolate
Dog Food
Catfood
Porridge
Jam

Shopping lists have so much un-tapped potential. You’ve all found someone else’s at some stage I bet, lurking in the corner of a trolley or forgotten at the end of the packing-counter, used and unwanted and wanting re-cycling. I defy anybody to not read it in the name of good old fashioned nosiness, and I feel it my duty as a quirky citizen of the planet to at least make them slightly entertaining.

I gave this list to my husband today (his virgin shopping trip in our ten year courtship! Yay!) and as it turned out, he brought his mother.

Scarleh.

Apr 5

What does instinct mean?

Posted on Tuesday, April 5, 2011 in Family, Philosophy, Something to think about

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I could say I love instinct, but that would be a total cop-out in descriptive terms. The truth is, it mystifies me. As a female growing up I’m told that it’s one of my greatest skills, yet every time I try to use it, I fuck it up beyond belief.

Instinct- and that determined little voice that says ‘Go on sure, for the craic!’ are two totally removed entities, as I’m slowly discovering in my old age. The little voice is not to be trusted! like a child who recognises a window of opportunity in which to be silly, it makes it seem like a good idea at the time, but it really isn’t, as hindsight proves.

No, instinct seems to be that thing, that Ono-second after something bad happens when you think to yourself… ‘I knew that would happen.’

Like the following examples:

- You buy a batch of raw chicken legs from a local shop for €1 and you wonder why it’s so cheap, until you break the plasticky seal and a dubious waft of fart makes your stomach contents swirl. Sulphur, an ism of decomposition… fart is bad, instinct tells you that.  Bin.  No-brainer! Gastroenteritis does not a peaceful evening make.

- You’re dealt a ten and a six of hearts and you suddenly decide that a flush is going to appear and you go all-in, and lose a tenner to a Straight to the Ace. That’s not instinct, that’s that little voice, and it gets the naughty corner for ten minutes.

- You haven’t seen your kid for an hour, it had been called for a while previously and quite frankly you’re pretty grateful for the peace that a neighbourhood child’s distraction can afford. Halfway through your seventh paragraph of peace however, an idea pops into your head. A bad idea that again makes your stomach contents swirl. You wander outside to scout for said child, only to see from far away that it’s crying, and it wants you. ‘That’s mad!’ you might hear a small voice say, and that small voice is told to get back in it’s corner.

- You suddenly wonder if your engine doesn’t need oil and wouldn’t it might be a nice day for a dipstick?

- That voice in your head that tells you that you should probably stop drinking alcohol right about now; the one that if ignored, will involve serious entertainment tax the next morning. Very rarely listened to.

- That strange sound an infected cough makes.

- That oven smell that perfectly timed chocolate-chip biscuits create. Finely-timed instinct is finely-timed.

- That dream, the one where a Boeing side-swipes the M50 in a desperate attempt to land in what are pretty abysmal conditions… the  plastic dream that wakes with a clear memory of colours and numbers in a drastic panic of visions of blood and sweat, what does instinct do with those?! Oh. Premonition, the psychotic cousin of the inner-child… the one who is statistically unlikely to exist, and yet does indeed, according to your sister-in-law. To be treated dubiouslesslessnly.

- The feeling that you should be creating music, instead of watching crap on TV.

- That feeling when the spinach finally hits your lower intestine…

- and you realise all of a sudden that it’s probably a good idea to

Stop.

What are other good examples of instinct though?! Instinct tells me I need to sleep and blocks any memories I had during the day, instances that inspired this post. It’s quite frustrating really, this constant need for sleep.

Help a girl out?

Feb 22

The pruning of a feeble philanthropist

Posted on Tuesday, February 22, 2011 in Family, Philosophy

I been cut back.

I didn’t notice it at first.  I watched the news and saw people protesting on behalf of the weaker members of society, but it didn’t once occur to me seriously that they were talking about me.  I depend on a Carer’s Allowance, Domicilliary Carer’s Allowance, and Child Benefit for sustainance, all of which were pruned heavily at various stages over the last year or two.  Seemingly overnight, my bank balance hit the pits, the lack of digits instilled a panic in me that lasted all of a week or two.

I’m suddenly walking around local markets with a calculator, trying hard to fit a week’s shopping into twenty euros.  I’m saving up for kerosene and putting three jumpers on my children until heating is afforded, and have had to cancel direct debits to Concern, Trocaire and the Irish School for the Deaf… that bothered me more than anything else.

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(Picture: Adolphe-William Bouguereau)

I’d complain about it, and I’d sure as hell put a flea in the ear of any polititian that darkened my door, but I don’t because I’m pretty sure that this is all a good thing in it’s own peculiar way.  What goes up, must come down.  We were rich, now we’re poor, our Grandkids will be rich again, it’s just the way things flow.

Meanwhile Puppychild’s un-learning her materialistic fetishes in favour of jigsaws and chalk, Sir Fartsalot’s savings fund is looking bleak but maybe this will teach him the meaning of money so that when he does someday cash in his savings, they’ll go to the right places.  The munchie cupboard is bare of biscuits and crisps now, instead it homes flour and baking soda… I’ve been meaning to sharpen my baking skills anyway. 

I couldn’t give a flying fuck who’s fault it was, regarding this banking crisis.  Part of the time I think it’s just a conspiracy, something somebody made up to cover for a greater plot.  My vague attempts at beginning a revolution petered out when I realised that we all have very little to complain about, we still have basic rights and services for when we hit rock bottom and that’s a lot more than some other countries can boast. 

The one thing that scares me is Laughingboy.  If things should conspire the wrong way and we are left without free medical aid, he’s bunched.  Would the government let him die?  Probably.  I’d most likely have to start a charity in his name to cover the costs of his equipment and medication and giving my past organisational skills, I’m scared for him, but we’ll cross that gorge when we come to it.

Meanwhile I vote for Socialism.  I don’t care.  Since reading The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists the concept just makes so much sense to me.  I’ll vote for Sinn Fein even though I know there’s no point, but the point is to vote anyway, and I hold out the hope the rest of those feeble philanthropists out there vote their own way too, that this will be a fair election.

But it won’t, and so life will go on…

…but hopefully without all the complaining.

Jan 25

Where is my ism?

Posted on Tuesday, January 25, 2011 in Family, Philosophy, Something to think about, Strange and Unusual

I find it easier to believe that at the beginning of mankind, we gazed up at the stars and felt very small and lonely and created the need for a universal parent, leading to the creation of Gods.  All that other stuff just seems way too far-fetched.  But there I believe is something there, and I think Laughingboy has something to do with understanding it.

So many times have strange things happened like this perfect wee house, like the time in the church with Vivaldi, like the strangest feeling in his bedroom as I stoop over his bed performing a myriad of Laughingboy related things; I often feel a presence behind me and I look around and I’m surprised that there’s nobody there, the feeling is that strong.  Maybe it’s that vulnerability of having my back to the door, maybe it’s my dead Granny, maybe it’s my overactive imagination.

Did I ever tell you the story of the prophets? 

It was when Laughingboy was but a handful of months old, a wee blob of a child who had spent most of his new life in hospital being poked and pricked, and watched by experts of seizures which zapped his tiny brain and made his baby body convulse like the victim of a taser gun forty times a day and all we could do was watch.  That was a strange time, most of it has erased itself from my immediate memory, pushed out by new less nightmare-inducing memories over time. 

One memory that does stick out however, is that of diagnosis day.  Laughingboy’s neurologist had laid it out straight and ugly, the whole truth of Laughingboy’s condition and future, and all about how there would be not much of either.  They took Laughingboy away to give us space to think. That hurt.

But what could we do but go to the pub?

Outside of the hospital, Laughingboy’s daddy and I walked in a melted marshmellow haze of unreality, not knowing what to do. 

A ringing phone. 

It was in the explaining of the whole sticky mess to a third party that made my final resolve break and smash all over the fag-butt-littered street.  Ugh.  Crying in public is scarletising.  I dived into the pub and made a bolt for the jacks in order to score some toilet paper and that was when my shoe fell off.

I can’t remember what shoe I was wearing, nor why it fell off, but I’ve a feeling that if I’d been wearing Converse All-Star runners laced up to the knee at the time, the shoe still would have fallen off.  Either way, I found myself fumbling around a dingy pub loo with one wet sock all of a sudden, and grew confused.

The shoe had fallen into the hands of two men who sat directly outside the toilet at the bar, they each had several shots of amber liquid and pints of Guinness in front of them.  An aura of spuriousness surrounded them as they leered with gappy teeth at my state of affairs, the man on the left, an emaciated red-faced chap with a cigarette tucked behind a cauliflower ear… he waved my shoe over his head.  The other chap made a strange backward laugh and stared a hole through my eye sockets and through the back of my face.  His lips moved.

“Howyeh gorgeous!” he leered.

“Ohfafuc..sake, lads.  Now’s not a good time, y’know?” *snif* “I’m having a bad day, can I’ve my shoe back please?” I looked pathetic, puffy faced and clogged with hospital air, pretty far from gorgeous.

“Giz a fookin kiss an I’ll givit back tyeh” the first bloke slurred.  I sighed, and schlepped away. “Ah c’mere I’m on’y messin’!” he called after me. “What’s wrong wityeh? Smile, sure it may never happen love!” 

I hate that expression.

“I’ve a little baby, across the road in that hospital.” I pointed and scowled and bared my wolfmammy teeth. “They just told us that he’s going to be a little retard, a sodding vegetable for the rest of his life.  He’ll never go to school, never say my name, he’ll never get better but will probably get worse so he’ll be in that hospital a lot most likely… you and I will be neighbours, are you sure you want to keep tacking the mick out of me?” The venting of innermost cancerous thoughts made me feel a lot better, straight away.

“Haha! Fuck, is thar’all that’s wrong wityeh?  Sure isn’t he still der?  Can’t you pick him up if yer want teh and cuddle him whenever yeh want?  I’d say you’re pretty fuckin’ lucky missus so shurrup and c’mere and giv’z a kiss!”

I felt a bit stupid all of a sudden.

“I would, but me fella might object, he’s sitting over there.” I pointed to a battle-worn heap of lover.

The two men (it transpired that one man was on a day-release from the Joy to celebrate his birthday, the other a newly retired police-officer) invited themselves over to our table and sat next to us, much to TAT’s dismay.  TAT shot me a look of warned desperation and looked like he needed a drink.  Sure enough before we knew it, several pairs of pints decorated the table and what could we do, but drink them?

The next four hours were a blur of strange inyourendos, inappropriate jokes, and glimpses of divine wisdom… it took me the best part of the following week to assemble a loose jigsaw in my head of what was said, and why.  They told me that we are each given only what we can handle, that there will always be somebody worse off, and that love (or at least a good rattle) can cure everything.  Pretty cheesy stuff I know, but they phrased it slightly differently and it was exactly what we needed to hear at that exact moment in our lives.

Weird.

But…

…the most divine thing of all about Laughingboy, is this.

He uses four nappies a day.  Anybody with children will tell you that nappies are risky business, changing them requires swift agility in order to dodge the probability that the child will choose that exact moment to empty their bladder (or worse) towards your face.

Laughingboy is nine years old.

That’s roughly 13,140 nappies that we’ve changed since he was born, and not once has he hosed us down, which means there is a force at work that’s even stronger than Murphy’s Law. The sad thing is that when I extend my thanks towards it, I don’t know who I’m talking to, nor if they can hear me. An odd frustration for a cynicist like me.

It’s a weird kind of faith I have, one without an ism, it seems.  Tell me I’m crazy? I probably wouldn’t object too much.

Nov 23

Playing God

Posted on Tuesday, November 23, 2010 in Family, Little known facts, Philosophy, Rantings, Something to think about

Try to imagine for a few minutes that you’re a Deity, a remote entity looking after a country roughly the size of France, and in this country there are several billion people all milling around doing their workaday jobs and living happily.

Life is good for this country for several years, you’re doing a good job it would seem. Then one day a small group of terrorists moves in to the country and starts creating havoc… what would you do to take care of your country?

Would you:

a) Detonate an atomic bomb thus killing said terrorists instantly, and sacrifice several billion happy people so that your country is doomed to restart its population from scratch?

b) Recognise that the country’s own law inforcement is making good progress with the identification and capture of these terrorists, and maybe help them along a bit with re-inforcements via your super powers?

c) Run away?

-o0o-

Sir Fartsalot developed a fairly high fever last week, bugs are rampant this time of year and I had run away to Galway for a girlish weekend thus depriving him of my antibacterial b@@b juice… a bad dose of the snots had taken hold of him. Immediately I was faced with the question above, and from all angles I was ordered to choose answer (a) and it was inferred that I would be a bad mother not to.

“Bring down that fever!! Bring him to the doctor and get him antibiotics!!! Quick!!!”

What nobody seems to realise, is that a fever in a person (above the age of… say six months let’s say) is a very GOOD thing. It means that the body realises there’s something wrong, and it’s reacted by kicking all self defence mechanisms into gear. Roast dem germs out. Swollen glands rock!

Why everybody has this urge to dose a fever with paracetamol in order to surpress it is beyond me. Why I’m ordered to nuke the kid’s immune system with antibiotics is just plain lunacy!! Yet, it’s an argument I have again, and again, and again, and usually my theory works but nobody seems to notice. Echinacea, a good diet and gallons of water works most of the time… the chidler’s antibody population blooms.

Weird.

This phobia we have, this distrust in our own immune systems is a beautiful cash-cow for pharmaceutical companies, but people are blind to it. They have us terrified of influenza under any name, they have us overdosing on vaccinations, and they terrify us with threats of the potential with that ever-steady mantra they sing: ‘better safe than sorryyyy!’

It’s all bollocks, I say. Not nearly enough stock is placed in a mother’s instinct like it used to, but then again there’s no money in that so things shall remain exactly as they are and I shall argue and be deemed a bad mother and I don’t care one little bit.

Nov 6

Burning the cradle at both ends

Posted on Saturday, November 6, 2010 in Family, Jobs, Philosophy, Rantings

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Every day.  Every sodding day.

Every day I wake up and swear blind that I’ll go to bed early for a change.  I hate waking up… that is I hate waking up when I know I have to get up;  I love waking up and finding out that I don’t have to get up for another two hours, no surprise there, my homo brethriens.  My best friend is the snooze button on my mobile phone (the same phone I won two years ago!  I’ll miss my Ericsson should I ever go iPhonebound).

It’s just so HARD to go to bed at night.

From 08:00 to 21:00 every day, I belong to somebody else, many people in fact.  Six dependants depend on me to keep them alive and happy, and this causes quite a lot of noise, because I can’t deal with them all at once:  My baby needs input and a clean bum-hole.  My eldest son needs music and attention and someone to remind him to stop grinding his teeth.  My daughter loves to hang around with me and do things with me and asks me constantly to look at her doing funny things, which is a beautiful gift and something I adore and enjoy very much, but only in medium doses.  My dog needs exercise, a luxury I’m too lazy to afford him which cuts me up, and he whines and gives me big dark sad eyes to rub salt on the wound.  My cat meanders around my busy feet and trips me up…  and through it all, my husband needs silence while he sleeps.  Daytime silence, three children and a large dog – these are difficult things to shuffle!!

-o0o-

And so the last child is tucked into bed, and Einstein’s theory of relativity kicks in.

Silence.  Pure, peaceful silence, the possiblities endless.

And so I dive for the fridge for a can of beer, and I wonder how to fill my night.  And while I wonder how to fill my night, I fall into the Facebook pit and drown in stupid television and give in to the munchies and waste my hours on pointlessness.  When 11pm comes round, I feel unfulfilled and ignored.  I can’t go to bed unfulfilled and ignored!!!

-o0o-

It seems to be a common theme among people, that need to burn the candle at both ends.  Two hours of selfish time is just not enough when you’re a nightowl like me.  Sleep tortures us and wakes us up at night time and hates us the next day, and stolen naps create demons with sticky eyes, it’s just not fair.  You know what I mean.

I vote for a re-jigging of the 24 hour clock… Days should be longer and weeks shorter for starters, I bet the moon would be up for that.  The sun might get in the way somewhat but we’d get used to it pretty quickly with a bit of black-out lining and a heavy duvet.  It can’t be all that difficult to arrange, the re-invention of time!?

The three day week… yet another thing I’d do if I was Teeshirt.

Oct 23

Of Overpopulation and Things

Posted on Saturday, October 23, 2010 in Jobs, Philosophy, Rantings

If I was the Teeshirt of Ireland I would do the following two things:

1. I would solve overpopulation of prisons by putting criminals of a lesser threat to hard work in war-torn or third world countries. Fraud is such a clever felony, I’m sure such a brain would be of great use to school children in Malawi, it’s such a waste having them rot away in their en-suite (all mod cons) prison cells and chewing through so much tax.

2. I would make adoption of said third world or war torn orphans faaaar less expensive. Couples all over Europe have trouble conceiving kids of their own, yet have large houses more than capable of rooming several disadvantaged kids but they can’t, because adoption (at least in Ireland) costs roughly the same amount of yoyos as a brand new Jaguar X-type. I don’t understand why with a bit of vetting, they’re not throwing those kids at us. They should be on sale in Lidl, they should be giving them out free with Happy Meals but they’re not!! They’re leaving them to die or selling them to rich people who aren’t necessarily better parents just because they’re rich. So bizarre.

Thankfully I’m not the Teeshirt of Ireland and never will be (because the country would most likely go to pot and all the small furry animals would die because I seem to have that effect and would probably have a hard time explaining that to Ryan Tubridy).

I would however welcome the present Teeshirt of Ireland to read my blog and steal my ideas and also fertilize my crops in Farmville for me sure aswell while he’s at it by way of thanks.

Speaking of small furry animals…