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Jul 6

Eating – ur doin it wrong.

Posted on Wednesday, July 6, 2011 in Rantings, Strange and Unusual

I was at a wedding dinner last month in the company of other carrot slurpers and talking about the awful state of the weather when I suddenly got a terrible shock. As I looked around, I discovered that everybody… absolutely everybody was eating with their knives and forks in the wrong hands.

I do know how to set a table; the knives go on the right of the plate, the forks on the left. Whenever I pick them up to eat, however, I always switch hands. It just makes more sense to shovel with the right, or use a right-handed anchor to hold the meat down while I saw through its sinews with a left-cutting knife. I’m right handed, ergo my right hand has more control, Shirley? Until that day, I had presumed that everybody ate this way.

It was a very shameful moment, but nothing champagne couldn’t fix.


Almost as stupid as this, I felt. Almost.

I did try switching last week, I shouldn’t have worn that new blouse… shouldn’t have trusted my left hand to take control out of the blue like that, I should have eased it into the idea gently, dammit! Poor lefty bottled it halfway on the journey from plate to mouth and had an awful case of the shakes, discombobulating all over the boobal area of said blouse. Disaster.

But what have I done to my brain?! This lack of control practice for poor lefty has probably damaged it beyond repair, synapses’ bags packed, they’ve gone in search of sunnier climes probably. In fact, I’ve most likely passed the tendancy to eat incorrectly to my growing foeti… if their left hands drop off in their mid-50’s, it’ll be MY fault.

I’m a freak and I’m screwing up the evolutionary chain, the smell of antiestablishmentarianism is rank. I flatly refuse to conform to being a left handed forker though, it’s everyone else that’s wrong, not me!!!

Jul 2

Would yeh ever go an’ shite?

Posted on Saturday, July 2, 2011 in Family, Rantings

This post will be a load of crap, but sometimes talking shite is all I have left.

This is especially true for every conversation I’ve had with Laughingboy’s teachers or nurses at school over the last three weeks. He hasn’t seen his schoolroom in over a month, thanks to this bizarre diarrhoea spate he’s been suffering, so they call me up every now and then to check his status.

For the last week, however, there’s been nothing excrementally newsworthy to tell them… the poor kid hasn’t produced so much as a nodge of poo whatsoever, so I don’t really know whether he’s better or not, meanwhile much-needed summer camp respite is on hold.

There aren’t that many ways to express this fact politely though, it’s hard to phrase the problem nicely… there’s:

-He hasn’t produced anything solid, nappy-wise.
-No bowel-movements as of yet.
-Bowel openings are a negative.

I yearn to just come right out with… “The little shit hasn’t had a dump in ages!”

…but that wouldn’t go down too well.

It was out in the garden earlier when I smelt the spurious hum. Laughingboy was swinging in his hammock with a smile on his face, Florence and the Machine was blasting through his earphones and he looked like he was in the zone… you know, that zone.

I whisked him out sharpish and brought him to his bed where I whipped off his tracksuit bottoms and tore at his nappy like a five year old at Christmas, hoping for a flash of brown underneath.

But it wasn’t to be.

I suddenly heard my mother’s voice, that wise poem she used to recite under the right circumstances:

Poor aul’ child, broken hearted;
Paid ten pee, but only farted.

Jun 30

Did someone call for a waahmbulance?

Posted on Thursday, June 30, 2011 in Family, Rantings

I can’t pause for long, there’s a young man in the kitchen that wants to dance with me. I’ve been dancing with him for two hours now, he likes a slow waltz to the beat of his heartbeat, he keeps his hands on my shoulders and I firmly grasping his buttocks. An odd jig now and then might take his fancy in a frisky moment, but for the most it’s a slow dance he wants.

All I want is to turn my hand to whiskey and blog, but he doesn’t understand. He shouts with violent gestures and pounds the air with his fists and I watch the face I love so much boil in its furious redness and I know he doesn’t really mean any of it, he just wants to dance and there’s nothing bad about that.

Even now, as I sit and type, he sings and talks and chatters and pleads with me to dance with him again. He talks and talks, and shouts and yawns and still he won’t go to sleep, this man of mine.

And then I give him the bottle. His third of the night, if you don’t mind. He drinks it down, and talks himself to sleep in the corner and I daren’t move him, lest he start shouting at me again. The abuse I get from him is heavy, but it underweighs the good parts, his constant want to entertain me is flattering and I love his ways of making me laugh and I love his love and the way he makes me feel real and I know I could never leave him.

This could be said for any man, many men. They’re all the same.

Mine is one year old. I’ve never had the opportunity to raise a man before, but it’s comforting to know that they’re born like this, that they can’t be changed. It’s up to us as mothers, as sisters, as girlfriends and wives to find a way through it, to as close as what could be described as harmony as possible,

even if it does mean hitting the bottle.

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.


Jun 21

Syntax Error

Posted on Tuesday, June 21, 2011 in Family, Rantings, Taboo

-Your brother’s a retard!

The second those words left my lips, I felt the scarlet rise. It just slipped out. To a room full of parents of kids with special needs too, no less.

Cringe. The flush burned my cheeks and made the capillaries on the tip of my nose tingle. My heart skittered like a ball of grease on a hot frying pan while the clock ticked a silence of undefinable length.

-Yes it’s true.
Somebody else nodded.
-You need to show them what words to use in self defence!
-True, true…

I was at a meeting to discuss Sibling Workshops, an initiative ‘they’ have set up to help families with disabled children. See? ‘They’ aren’t all bad! Brothers and sisters of kids with special needs have all sorts of issues that I had never even considered. Like… when a special needs kid passes a milestone it’s an amazing feat worth certificates and rounds of endless applause, yet nobody says a bippy when his younger brother passes the same milestone. From small droplets big waterfalls grow.

My question was about teaching some sort of self-defence mechanism to kids prone to bullying in the street… but it kind of came out funny.

I think my filter needs replacing.

Jun 7

A missed photo opportunity.

Posted on Tuesday, June 7, 2011 in Family, Jobs, Rantings

It was ten o’clock this morning before I remembered that it is my firstborn’s birthday today. A kid in a wheelchair (how brilliant is it to have a kid in a wheelchair in Puppychild’s class?) in Puppychild’s class reminded me of the date for some reason… I was on Library Duty at the time and he had chosen a buke called ‘Time’.

I rushed home and dived into Laughingboy’s room, where he lay suffering a scorched arse and an aching belly and I kissed him a whispered happy birthday. He had been diagnosed with a bowel infection y’see, more than five days before and in spite of his antibiotics, was seemingly getting worse. If he could have clutched his belly he would have been doing so with gusto. With 82%(!) of the family in ribbons what with some condition or other, I’d completely forgotten the date.

Poor kid.

I rushed out again with Sir Fartsalot to buy copious gifts, which were presented sometime later along with a muffin, a flaming candle, and a Puppychild who led us in birfday song. We knew he couldn’t eat the muffin being a tube-fed sort of urchin, but it was good enough that his sister could enjoy it beside him, maybe, if not only for the company.

He wasn’t arsed with his new runners or his lava lamp. The Spongebob whoopie-cushion idea was lost on him… something that farts is probably not the best gift to give someone with a bad case of the squits though, in hindsight.

Well known voices turned up, as did those not-so-well-known (to the preturbinance of Sir Fartsalot) which blew me away, it felt being visited by fairy godparents and angels but Laughingboy was not in the mood.

He turned double-digits today.

That’s ten years since I became somebody’s ma!

I’ve to drop stool samples into the local hospital every day for three days now, it seems. I’m not squeamish really, but being a mother can be very graphic sometimes. And I think about how hard it is on me, and how hard it is on him, and I suddenly feel like I owe him a much better birthday someday somehow. Like a trip down the liffey on an elephant, or at least sparklers to the playground with the bucket swing and the squeaky see-saw.

I owe him so much but I yearn for ideas as to entertain a kid like him.

Does anyone have a recipie for home-made fireworks?

Jun 4

No Fly Zone

Posted on Saturday, June 4, 2011 in Rantings

It happened today, a random brush with death, that awful moment when you realise there may be someone up there calling your number. I swear there’s an entity up there that does these things deliberately.

A three-lane motorway is a powerful thing. It gets you from A to B without you hardly having to even touch the road. It was here, at roughly 130kmph (81 mph for you metriphobes) that I got an itchy forehead. I was overtaking a fuel truck at the time so my scratching it was a very automatic thing. It never occured to me why my forehead was suddenly itchy until the culprit bounced off my nose and landed with a thud on my lap.

Yes, I felt a thud. This was a considerably large piece of something.

I glanced down (whatever this was would need an examination period of roughly a semi-split-second, to be exact) to see a spider scuttling between my legs towards the business end of my tracksuit bottoms.

It’s moments like these, when you’re hurtling along way above the speed limit and you suddenly learn that there’s a large spider roaming around beneath your crotch, this is when you truly feel alive.

Eyes on the road.

It tickles.

Eyes on the road!

I did eventually manage to pull my van onto a slip road and escape fairly sharply into a random carpark in Firhouse where I promtly exited the vehicle to do The Spider Dance. You know the one, it’s an arms and legs all over the place with much self-smacking sort of affair… hilarious to watch but very uncomfortable to perform.

Someone laughed and beeped as they passed. You know who you are. I have your registration number. Expect an eight-legged parcel through your letterbox really soon, bud.

May 28

I’ll have a pint of serotonin, please.

Posted on Saturday, May 28, 2011 in Family, Jobs, Rantings, Taxi driving


Right, that’s it. I’m sitting down to write something, anything, on this poor blog. I’m sick of being afraid of it and feeling the nausea surge in close proximity to anything socially computer-related, much like that old friend or relative that needs calling upon, the longer you leave it the worse that feeling gets.

All I want to do is to be invisible, dammit! I want to stay indoors at all times and answer the door by cracking it ajar to give strangers the beady eye before yelling at them to get off my territory ’til I release the rabid cats. I don’t want facebook or twitter, don’t want people to know what I’m doing, what I like or dislike, or where I’m hovering. I just want to be a non-K8. Healthy it isn’t, but oh-so familiar, comforting and predictable it most definitely is.

And yet now a corner has turned in our lives as TAT drops out of the workforce and hangs up his taxi plate… driving was probably not the best profession for a man with a dodgy back to partake in, but surgery looms nonetheless and disability has been claimed so I must take over and get a job.

Get a job?!? Ahhh! You mean I have to go out into the scrutinous public eye and do stuff and be bubbly and interesting all of a sudden? Somebody pass the bucket… I’m not at all sure about this, don’t feel well all of a sudden at all at all. Normal people scare the bejeesus out of me.

But, you’da bin so proud… I did get a job as a bar-wench in a local pub and it was almost fun, that one day I worked. Shame the pub closed down four days later, hey.

So what now? Prostitution? Dog pedicures? Getting this blog out of the darkness might be a good start.

So how have you been?

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?


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.


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


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!!


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!!!


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.