Why moaning in blog posts is a good thing
It was in the giving of advice to a new blogger out there that I realized I don’t practice what I preach. Much like leaving the light in the toilet on after I’ve used it, I can’t really afford to give out, for I do it myself.
This new blogger person was wondering if their first post was too negative (for the want of a better remembering of what the word actually was that they used to convey their naked embarrassment of having just splurged their innard thoughts on the interwebs for the first time) and if this first post wasn’t too much of a bad buzz and if it shouldn’t be taken down.
You know what it’s like though, to barf those dark thoughts into print, don’t you? Don’t you worry if people will be shocked, or will be spurned far far away from your web address never to re-visit again for fear of being appalled by how depressing your life is?
I told her to leave it there! Don’t touch it! It’s perfect as it is!
I told her that others relate to your worries in a strange sort of way, that people are more likely to relate and comment on your distress because they too feel those dark feelings. Blogging is a good thing, because it allows an anonymous person to relate in an honest way to the world. But…
I don’t do that. I haven’t the guts. I did it once, but deleted the post and also deleted it also from my memory cringe-bank though it felt good to write it down at the time.
So how much do you hold back and why? Are you afraid of offending your siblings and well-read-commentators, or are you just too yellow to tell people how you really feel? I’d be guilty of that latter, it’s far too easy to try to be funny instead and fail rather than have people judge you negatively but ultimately, who cares?
I say fair play to ye who have the balls to be honest. Fair balls. I aspire to be like you someday.
How to build a bomb-shelter in 364 days
It’s December 21st! Finally, the shortest day. It marks the end of death, of withering, of dark mornings which don’t be the best friend of alarm clocks at all - at all. It also marks the start of our final year together as a human race, in all possiblity.
Yes, K8 the Gr8 is a sucker for sensationalism but she wasn’t caught up with the doomsayers before who warned us that Armageddon was upon us and that we should brush up on our Bible passages…
Nope, I’m used to laughing at those who say the end is upon us. ‘Up your end’, I’d be declaring in gay abandon.
This is different though. The end of days is this time prophesee’d by the Mayans, a people who died out more than a thousand years ago but whose calendar is still accurate give or take 30 seconds or so. They foretold the rise of Hitler, the Stephen’s Day tsunami, their intricately calculated calendar foretold many things besides and ends mysteriously next year, on the 21st December 2012. Ooooo.
Of course, this too is complete bollox and completely mis-representative of Mayan systems and beliefs. But it got me thinking, how nature is an increadibly intelligent thing, how clever it is in maintaining order. Now that humans are breeding at a tremendous rate almost like a virus, wouldn’t it be feasible that nature might try to over compensate with natural disasters? We have had an awful lot of late, and I’m pretty damn sure it has nothing to do with global warming and most likely, absolutely nothing to do with God.
So what could be the end for us as an entire race? A meteorite? An inter-stellar conjunction leading to the interruption of our gravitational pull to the sun? Maybe mysterious methane emmisions from the North Pole will accelerate our passing into the next Ice Age and do us all in. Or! Maybe we’ll all accidentally turn into zombies.
I’m rooting for zombies. I think I stand a chance against those fuckers.
Either way, it makes me wonder. Why worry? We’ll all be dust this time next year. Bwah hah hah hah… etc.
The therapeutic post
Why is it so hard to ask for help?
Is it just an Irish thing, where you feel you owe someone a good deed just because they did something nice for you? The mafia would have theories about this and as yet, I’m not sure that I’m with that idea, or against it. Some people like doing nice things for other people. I get that. Do they secretly keep a mental note of how many times I’ve repaid them? That’s the thinker.
This wrecks my head. As a mammy of a ten year old kid trapped in the body of a baby, a hypersensitive yet outgoing seven year old and a toddler with a head-banging/electric socket fixation, how can I not accept help? This is probably that karma thing that people harp on about, helpful neighbours repaying me for the good things I’ve done, but still it leaves me guilty. I didn’t have kids so that I could be weak, I had them because I knew I could handle everything on my own! It just seems so stupid that I should need anyone else. Selfish, even.
But then, life is more complicated than that.
She and I, we went to a Rattle and Hum gig last weekend. I had a ball. I danced the Streets have no Name till the Elevation came home, but that’s whiskey for you. I dragged her back to my place for a Bailey’s Coffee because I knew she was a complicated lady that needed to talk. And talk she did! But amongst it all, she told me that there was something between us that she couldn’t see, that made her uncomfortable. She knew we could never be friends, but she didn’t know why. I had no idea what she was talking about but the fact that she’d minded wee Fartsalot A LOT in the last few weeks was playing on my mind so now I’m confused.
Like Christmas cards for instance. You’ve just received one from Uncle Mohammed and there’s plenty of time to return the postal festivities, do you rush off a quickie for tomorrow’s post, or do you send a half-assed poke on Facebook? It’s up to whatever you can do in the moment. Or what you can push extra hard to do, maybe.
Do your actions really define you though? People tell me that ‘as long as I don’t take the piss, I’ll be okay’, but I don’t believe them. I don’t believe that a million thanks are enough.
What is a girl to do?
Crocs my arse.
‘Would you not put some aul’ shoes on the poor child’s feet?’
they say to me, eyeing me up and exchanging worried glances with onlookers as Sir Fartsalot wombles barefoot, only two weeks qualified as a provisional walker. It’s adorable.
He jaunts around on hot tarmac and stony patio and squishy grassy patches, on sharp pebbles and fluffy carpet, the more textured the better. Touch is so important for learning and what better way than through your feet? I’ve no idea why they make shoes for babies. Welly boots are pretty much all they need. Shoes are often too tempting for babies to remove anyway… have a look at the floor of your local toy shop or supermarket, littered with socks and sandles they are, in a little oddsock parade of wasted money.
And ANYWAY, runners are a hazard to your health!
I’ve always thought it funny that sports brands advertise shoe support so well and get away with it. They put cushioning in every available crevice of the sole of your foot and tell you that you’ve just parted fairly serious money for something that’s great for your feet when it’s entirely the opposite case! They have us all suckered!!!
Think about it, if you support something, you make it weaker don’t you? If you try to correct something that’s already perfect, say by walking around on just your left leg and a pair of crutches for a year… chances are you right leg won’t thank you for it. It’s why marathon runners usually end up with dodgy knees, apparently.
Imagine running barefoot through a forest on a warm summers day after a rainshower to absorb it of all its squelchy nourishment, and tell me it doesn’t sound tempting. And how good for your body would it be if you actually went and did it every now and then?
I read Born to Run by Christopher McDougall and loved every word of it, it all made so much sense.
Doesn’t it?
Which reminds me…
Here’s a video showing you how to put your cat in standby mode:
Maybe this trick will distract the neighbours from the baby’s feet for a feckin’ change.
Buried Treasure
I was clearing out my bookmarks this evening and looked what spilled out!!
-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.
Stoner’s brainwave
I’ve never met a mother who hasn’t feared summer-time to at least some extent. The mumblings start at this time of year, roughly a month before primary school children are released from captivity to stare blinky-eyed into the sun (or at the television), to revel in their freedom for a whole entire two months. That’s a life-time to a small child, and to it’s parents, and to it’s neighbour’s flower patch for that matter.
How to entertain one’s offspring, but? How to keep them feckin neighbour’s kids from hanging out on your shed roof and torturing your dog all the live-long day? Throwing stones at them gets you in trouble, I found that out the hard way.
I’ve had the most amazing idea in the whole world though.
When them idjits from Dragon’s Den read this they’re going to be throwing millions at me for even TWO percent of the intellectual rights to it.
Prepare to be amazed…
-o0o-
…I got to thinking, why not attach a giant hamster-wheel to the side of your house, but hook it up as a generator at the same time. It would entertain the kids, cure obesity and solve your energy crisis simultaneously!
Think of it this way… a half hour of television would cost ten minutes on the wheel. To re-charge a DS would cost forty-five minutes. Send the dog running on it at high speed for half an hour, and that’s your dishwasher cycle right there!
-o0o-
It’s an un-tapped sustainable energy source that’s just waiting to be abused and I invented it! A Nobel Prize would look lovely beside me Wii, so it would, if anyone’s asking.
(The image above is of Peter Ash and Elvis, his pet hamster, who afforded Ash talk-time on his mobile phone. I wonder how many kilo-watt hours the little smartarse himself is good for?)
Euro forde trolleeee
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.
What does instinct mean?
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?
Where is my ism?
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.
Screwed the pooch?
Whenever anybody I know gets a goo on them for a puppy, I always tell them to try ASH Animal Rescue Centre first . It’s in Kiltegan, not far from Baltinglass (one of the prettier towns in this here county of Wicklow), and is one of those companies that operates strictly by the ‘never put a good dog down’ book. They currently home 20 dogs (though numbers rise to 60-ish), 23 cats, one donkey, one horse, 2 pigs, 3 foxes and two rabbits.
Melissa Hayward, a model with an eye for funk recently adopted a Basset Hound from this crowd and was so impressed, she took it upon herself to create a charity calendar to raise funds for the rescue centre.
And create one she did! It’s so stylish… flourishes of retro flood the pages in high intensity colours that demand a first glance, then a second as the quirky sense of humour sneaked into the pictures hits you.
I would personally love to hang this calendar in my livingroom, but if I did, I have a feeling that my husband might object despite all the scantily clad women knocking about.
“Why on earth would he object to scantily clad women?!?” I hear you ask? Well, he’s not the only one. Pet shops have refused to stock it, and twelve of its backers have pulled out of the project in disgust. Even local TV vet Pete Wedderburn appeared to have difficulty holding his cereal down, labelling the calendar ‘distasteful’ and ‘entirely wrong’.
March. Marching orders, more like…:
There. You’ve seen it. Are you all okay? Anyone in need of defibrillators out there? Jeez. Yes, the puppy is apparently suckling the model’s boob. But isn’t it cute and yet confusingly sexy?!? Doesn’t that show overtones of nurturing associated with the rescue centre, or is this just plain old animal torture? The model doesn’t think so, Agata’s a follower of PETA and is well used to their extreme advertising… apparently the Irish just aren’t ready for it yet though. (Down with this sort of thing!!!) The Daily Mail had a field-day with it, but still published all the pictures, hey.
Co-creator Adelheid Walsh is quoted as saying: ‘We were left really frustrated and in floods of tears because we had all worked for hundreds of hours on this and for free because we wanted to help an animal charity. Then we have people dropping off from the campaign and feminists telling us we are degrading women – we are not.’
Ash themselves refuse to apologise, their spokeswoman Helena Le Mahieu states: ‘The cause is more important. It’s a beautiful calendar and the picture is very tasteful. People should get over the minor details like this and get behind this calendar.’
It leads me to wonder… is it animal cruelty that’s taboo here, or breastfeeding? Either way I find it pretty fascinating and encourage all animal-loving, quirk-searching charity enthusiasts out there to buy a copy. It’s such an excellent cause, not to mention a pretty excellent conversation starter. What do you think?
