K8 the GR8

Life in a Semi-D isn’t always easy.

I knew my neighbour was the same breed of smartarse as myself from the minute I set eyes on her.  We knew that there would be a lot of unwanted information shared between us… our super thrifty local authority houses are separated only by a layer or two of plaster-covered polystyrene from the sounds of it, so we knew to keep the t.v. volume low and be aware of the decibel levels of our arguments.  There is something, however, that is very difficult to keep secret.

1.00am - Thump thump thump etc…

1.15am - Thumpthumpthumpthump *pause* thumpthumpthumpthump etc..

1.30am - Thump.  Thump.  Thump. *groan* Thump. *groan* etc…

… this would carry on for a surprisingly long time and we would try so hard not to listen but you know how it is… there’s always the part of us that didn’t mind listening at all, especially since it let us off the hook in the bedroom accoustics on our own side.  We listened to each other’s love-lives for a full month before anyone had the balls to say anything.

Then it happened.  We met each other on our front-door steps one morning and shared a shmoke, but said nothing.  The atmosphere was pregnant, each of us dying to take the piss.  It just needed one trigger… a badly timed pun would do… anything.

“Took a trip to Bargaintown yesterday and got meself a new three-piece…” my neighbour finally said.  “Got bunk-beds for the kids on order too!”

“Savage… gotta love the bunk beds!”  I said, teetering on the edge of a dirty grin.

“Yeah speaking of beds…” (here we go!) “… Ye wouldn’t push yours about a foot away from the wall, would ye?”

That was it.  We exploded in a torrent of filthy laughter and revelled in each other’s embarrassment and it was good.  The issue did eventually require that we both go out and buy sturdier beds (with obligatory celebratory pint!) and since then it’s been quite peaceful… until last night.

It started at about 3.30am and continued for two hours.  I won’t go into details except to say that it was graphic, and awakened a newfound respect in me for my neighbour’s husband.  He really is a trooper by the sounds of it.

She knew just from the look on my face this morning… that ‘HA!! I’m surprised you can walk!!’ face …that no apology was necessary.

I went into town for a few bits today and had a sudden goo for a burger and a portion of tasty-chips but when I dived into the shop to find my neighbour’s husband waiting to take my order I stopped in my tracks.  I nervously examined the menu for a few seconds and decided to go hungry instead and walked away, for the temptation to enquire after his battered sausage was far too great.

There’s a darn good blog out there, I don’t know if you’ve come across it before… it’s only a few months old.

No, wait.  ‘darn good’ doesn’t cut it.  Revolutionary, maybe.  It is a blog with many users, though nobody knows exactly how many, and only one username.  It is total and complete anonymity, created for the expulsion of secrets from the souls of virtual people.  Why would you want to hear other people’s secrets?  Because the un-told facts are comforting and can help to soothe its reader’s secret paranoia, and it’s a glimpse at the true raw undercoat of society.  It’s why we love those glossy magazines with Geri Halliwell’s stretch-marks all over the cover.

I coud be anyone. I could say anything. And a small part of the whirling cloud of secret lies in my head can lift and I can feel a little lighter as I go through the day.

This is what confession was for, before we all lost faith.

This is what God used to do before we stopped believing in him.

There is no God and so we blog. (Anonymous)

To quote a comment on one of the posts:

I confess to the last post of humour and I put it there because I felt the tone of the writing & comments so far was too serious and too self-absorbed. Contrary to funny, the comments to me have an air of forced false sympathy & I think they need to be more real.

It was my protest against the blog turning into a place to wallow and be wallowed without constructive support or advice.

Sit on the fence why don’t I. (Anonymous)

It’s time to get real, to learn how to let go of social conditioning and face the begrudgers.  Fair play Rick O’Shea (hey that rhymes…) for thinking it up.

It’s called:

http://thelivesofothers.wordpress.com/

Ahhh. I love it when the Kleeneze people come around. A catalogue full of interesting things you don’t need at low-low prices…

5… For honest homeowners:

4… Au-hairigizmo?

3… Make banana abuse history:

2… For when the bog-roll Barbie just isn’t enough:

1.. ‘Fat bottomed girls’ must be a riot!

I found this over at Betty the Sheep:

So that’s Christmas over then.  We’re in that awqward space between celebrations, the end of year limbo, when Ireland’s liver is given a generous one week break.  The incoming New Year threatens a lot of sensible living and hard work for me, for it’s time to stop being a gobshite I fear.  Oh well.  RIP path of self-destruction.

Here are a few random things that happened over the last few days.  I don’t think any lessons can be learned from them really.

- I was interrogated by the police for being furtive on a quiet country lane with The Accidental Terrorist’s big yellow van.

- I almost caused my dad to have a minor cardiac infarction when I failed to guess his wild gesturings during a game of charades.   So would you if you had to guess ‘Eternal Enemies of Lions and Hyenas’ within 2 minutes.

- I made two small Children cry on Christmas day because I felt like it.

- I crashed a party and overdosed on Mickey Finn’s due to lowest-card drawn shot drinking contest.

- I started Assassin’s Creed but a space continuum has created a rip which has prevented me from playing it since.  I need to invent a cloning machine in the new year.

- I lost three games of poker

- I’ve discovered that the combined weight of all my children’s toys is causing foundation subsidence.

- I’ve discovered that time doesn’t exist, and my liver hates me.

That’s all.  My brain is a reheated boiled sprout and my body is one big sugar crash.  See you when I’m me again!

I’m finding myself with spare time suddenly but with nothing much to say.  Then I decided that it is very rare for a blogger to post a post and use all of their tags at once (Bloggers such as Brian F and Stupid Irish Daddy are disqualified for lack of imagination of course).  This is my challenge,  and I’m giving myself an award for it.  You can have one too if you can do it.

What is both strange and unusual is that marijuana is illegal.  This subject is taboo, but it’s just something to think about.  Once one partakes in the activity of having a spliff, one is immediately part of the chain.  One is working hand in hand with the drug-lord and his artillery, and my philosophy is that this is unfair burden on us stoners.  It’s a little known fact that weed is quite benign, that it’s worst effects are the munchies and diminished brain capacity, but we accept this, and we take responsibility for it quietly and with a few giggles thrown in. 

Working the daily job is not easy.  Neither is dealing with the family and it’s shortcomings.  My weakness is that I would like to sit back and be able to put up with the tripe on the box and find it humourarse.  Sometimes it’s nice to listen to music or glance at the uncategorised pleasures of this life and be inspired to write new poems and things.  Contrary to public rantings, weed does not generally make us want to take up smack or turn bi-polar.

That’s all I’m saying because this is supposed to be a quickie.

Here’s my award.

Do you want it?  I’d offer it up for general grabs but seeing as memememe is one of my tags, I have to name names.

Me aul’ f’la

Irish Flirty Something

Scribbles by Hanulf

(You know you want it)

Blog action day… I’m all for it, and I hope it’s effects are felt.

I’m a bit squished for time today, however, and though I’d love to go into my thoughts on environmental issues, instead I thought I’d dedicate this post to a wonderful woman that I met at a ‘Clean Coast’ seminar recently.

Corey Bateman is both litter and traffic warden in Arklow, Co. Wicklow.  She is one of the most overworked and underpaid people I know, but this doesn’t seem to bother her.  Her enthusiasm for local issues, especially pertaining to the environmental stuff is truly inspirational.  In the brief time I got to speak to her, I learned of the following projects undertaken by her for the benefit of her home town:

- She organised a clean-up lately and invited the residents of Sunbeam house (a local respite center for people with learning disabilities) who were, by all accounts, a forgotten group in the community.  She gave them a chance to hang out together and have a laugh while contributing to the community in a very admirable way.  The photographs of this litter collection effort are wonderful, a great day was had by everyone involved.

- She found that there were certain ‘run-down’ areas in Arklow which needed cheering up.  She initiated an effort to have beautiful and elaborate wall-murals painted which depict various scenes from history, thus creating a pride in the community and a wonderful tourist attraction.  She also got her hands on a beat-up rotting boat, painted it, and erected it as a monument.  She approached the local prison and asked them for any spare flowers or plants they may have from their garden nurseries.  They supplied so many plants, that she and her volunteer collegues had to work late into the night so that by morning, the grounds were awash with colour and beauty, completely transforming this previously depressing empty patch of land.

- She tackles dumping issues… she showed me before and after photographs of a small green in the centre of a housing estate.  With very little funding, she managed to have the green cleared, then mangaged to (bravely!) travel from house to house and rally enthusiasm for a clean living area.  Very dishearteningly, when the area was cleaned, more junk arrived pretty much immediately.  This didn’t deter Corey, she asked the local residents for their help, and community awareness flourished. 

-She organises treasure hunts for children, with no personal motivation other than the fact that she feels that kids need to feel more of a connection with their natural environment.  Her last effort drew more than 200 people, and the day became an enormous success.  It’s a wonderful thing to have a child tell you in excited tones that he can show you a squirrel’s house in a tree, or to have him show off his knowledge of tree names and duck species!

- Corey is a lady who loves to spread enthusiasm.  She gave me amazing ideas for fundraising, and explained that a person’s living area can be dolled up with very little funding needed.  She told me how to approach garden centres and local community figures to ask for freebies, and to feel no shame in doing so.  She told me that an effort only seems complicated because community spirits are low.  Once their enthusiasm is burning, there are no ends to what can be achieved.  She can be regularily heard on the local radio station doing just this… advertising local efforts and instilling a pride in the community.

- She regularly visits schools and involves them in various environmental issues, cleverly knowing that educating the children of this world is the best way to nurture an environmentally cleaner future.

Kudos to you, Corey, and to the volunteers and Council members who work with you to make your town a better and prouder place to live in.  The world needs more people like you, and I hope your enthusiasm infects all who cross your path. 

What to do at a party when you’re on your own and you don’t know any other sinner in the place.

(Image robbed from Clone Industries)

Not saying that you yourself are a billy-no-mates type of person, but you most likely will find yourself in this situation at some time or other, if you already haven’t. 

I was invited to an engagement party (no, apparently it’s not just an American thing…) by a bloke I know who’s son was the condemned.  I went last night, alone as a result of my poor babysitter-finding skills.  The whole extended family was there, and seeing as it was a local gig, you’d think odds were I’d see at least one other person I’d know, but not in this case.

I went straight to the bar, as you do.  Pint in hand, I went through my options.

1.  Find the one person I do know and stick to him like a fly on poo.

2.  Stand very very still and admire the ceiling until someone comes over and asks me who the hell I am.

3.  Stand by the door and pretend I’m waiting staff.

4.  Sit outside in the smoking area where all the cool people are.

5.  Stand by the bar and occasionally wave at wall paintings in the hope that people will think I’m popular but too cool to actually talk to anyone.

6.  Ply alcohol into myself to ward off the self-consciousness.  (Not an option seeing as I had to drive home, sadly.)

7.  Search for an empty chair and ask it’s nearby occupants if it’s ok to sit with them.

I tried option one, but sadly this man was the most sought-after person there, being the Godfather.  Option 4 tided me over until I realised that out of maybe 80 people, only 5 of them were smokers, two of them were BMW driving golfer types, the remaining three were hardened grannies who were looking for medals for all the hardships they’d suffered.

Options 2 and 3 were unsuccessful as I’d decided to wear high heels and stood at over 6 foot tall in a crowd of exceptionally short people.   There’s only so much ‘Ma, who’s she?’ you can overhear without getting overheated paranoia syndrome.

Option 7 was my last resort, and very limited.  I scanned the crowd for some younger heads, to find that the only youthful table was occupied by tangoed fake blondes with serious overhang issues who’s conversation (I had to evesdrop a little of course..) was limited to knock-off handbags and boring Ibiza anecdotes.  In the end, I targeted a big momma with a load of children hovering around her like midges.  She had a free chair opposite, so I went for it.  I chose my approach carefully, and decided that honesty was the best policy- ‘Hi, I’m a saddo who doesn’t know anyone here… can I sit with you?’ worked a charm.  She even offered me a highly coveted plate of sandwiches and made small talk until I managed a sneaky escape.

The moral of the story perhaps, is that you have to be born with the ability to attract people with your mysterious aloofness.  The far easier approach is honesty, which happily (depending on how pathetic your story is) is great for breaking the ice.

I really have to ajolopise from the heart of my bottom for my quietness lately.  I’m not being antisocial, I promise!

TAT has a sciatic nerve thing going on and he keeps complaining about pains in his arse.  I presumed he meant having to go out and clean windows with a dodgy leg, so I stupidly offered to work one or two days for him.  As it turns out, this gig is pretty much full time, and by God, if there ever was a physically demanding job, it’s gotta be window cleaning.  I’ve discovered that peanuts are the best path to physical endurance, not coffee, and that spiders are no longer a threat.  A moment of clarity occured when I found one negotiating it’s way around my cleavage leading to my briefly flashing the lads in order to evict it.  After that incident, my phobia was cured.  So that was nice.

I’m also getting quite nifty in the big yellow LDV window cleaning van, and have discovered that pulling hand-brake turns in a vehicle with a low center of gravity is great craic altogether.

The upside to all this is that window cleaning, although very monotonous, enables a girl to zone out and think about all the stuff she could be blogging about.  So if I can remember it all, there’ll be plenty of reading on this ‘ere site to come!  Hold tight, my pretties, I’ll be back in the normal flow of things within a week or two.

(Still no Smudge.  RIP cat.)

There’s a row of houses on the bend of our quiet council housing estate which were built at the beginning of this year.  Our residents have been wondering why it is that people haven’t moved into them yet, and have come to the conclusion that said unknown residents are simply too scared to move in.  They’re most likely waiting for the travellers at no.’s 2, 5, and 7 to move out first.  Between you and me, I don’t reckon on this happening too soon.  They’ve made themselves a nice little niche in the neighbourhood, and are sitting pretty.

Today, however, I decided to go on a wee jaunt to the local shops with my children, and noticed some new arrivals.  Laughing boy was loaded into his wheelchair, his shoes left off and his hair unbrushed and ruffled.  Puppychild wore her gingham blouse and dungarees, true hillbilly style.  She sat on laughing boy’s lap with her trusted blankent for emotional support, and off we went.

As I passed the virgin houses, I noticed not one, but two families pooching around investigating their new homes.  As I continued to the bottom of the housing estate, I saw that travellerville was in full swing.  A group of young men were huddled by the fence discussing their fortunes while small children raced around in circles with their greyhound.  An old traveller woman was washing the cabin of a HGV, and an ice-cream van hovered nervously near the entrance to the estate, presumably gathering his marbles.

Our housing estate seems to have a very bad reputation.  I have absolutely no idea why, as I’m not aware of any trouble connected to our residents, though I know how people’s imaginations can invent scandals with no help at all from true fact, as I discovered the last time I got a taxi home.  Not only did he not want to drive into the estate, but he almost refused to let me out of his car.  After I had convinced him that I was fine to walk home in the dark, that it really is an o.k. place to live, he told me I was the bravest young lady he’d ever met, which was nice.

The travellers around here remind me of bees.  They go about their business, and won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.  Today I got a few waves and nods, probably because the sun brings out the friendliness in folks, and these particular folks are well used to the sight of me pushing my scraggly kids up and down their road.  I’d even go as far as to say that this is the safest place I’ve ever lived in, that if anyone wanted to choose a good house to break into, it would definately NOT be one of ours.  We are protected by the most affluent, most influential minority group in Ireland.  If you’re Irish, and you recognise the word ‘Moorehouse’, you’ll know why. 

On my way back uphill from the shops, I reached the virgin house corner hot, red-faced and tired.  A few of the new heads turned to look at this odd sight, and just as they did, something made me yell ‘Wahaya lookanah?!’ at the top of my voice in my best traveller accent.  I then winked and moved on.

These people need to be broken in.  We can’t have them increasing the tone of the neighbourhood.