Life's a bastard...but sometimes it lets up

Fringes and other musings......

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Sun, 11 Mar 2007 16:20:00 +0000

IT was about two months ago that I decided to do it.

My birthday. I was sick of my old look and decided to give myself a new one. Nothing drastic now, but something that people would notice.

In I swept to the hair dressers, handing my new Monsoon full length woollen cardigan/coat (a birthday present) to the assistant, announcing - "It is I, peasants. Make me beautiful!"

There was a silence. It was Peter Mark. I was not famous.

Suitably chastised I followed the girl to the basin and after a very vigorous hair wash (do they not realise there's an actual head attached to the hair they're pumelling into submission?) I was seated in front of the mirror.

"So what can I do for you today, cut is it?" the girl asked.

"Erm, yes, just a trim but....would it be possible for me to have........a fringe too?" I said.

This last bit I said in a hushed whisper, almost afraid to utter the words. You see, the last fringe I had was in 1987, fashioned by my father using blunt scissors and a cigarette as a guide. It was not a good look.

This time however, I wanted a modern 'sweepy' fringe, longer at one end than the other, which would make me look nice and fashionable, and nothing whatsoever like my 1980s self.

"No problem," said the girl, getting to work with her scissors "leave it to me."

The end result was a beautiful sweeping, shiny fringe, perfectly shorn, falling just into my eyes, long enough to look sultry but short enough not to blind me.

I was gorgeous for about three days, then I had to wash and blow-dry my hair myself. What started out as a gorgeous straight shiny sweepy fringe, ended up being wispy and frizzy, forming itself into a Farrah Fawcett type peak at the side of my head. Endless 'training' it with a hair grip and using gallons of wax couldn't tame it, though it does calm down a bit about a day after being washed.

It was only when I saw a recent photograph of myself with it that I realised it had to go. It was stuck to my forehead, all gappy and forming itself into the aforementioned horn and that combined with my extraordinary pale face and rictus grin made me realise that perhaps I was better off without it.

So does anyone know the best way to get rid of a fringe? Do I have to wait 800 years til it grows out or is there anything I can do about it now? Failing that, exactly how do I blow-dry a fringe so that it sits right? Answers on a postcard please.

And now to the 'other musings' I mentioned in the subject of this post. Last week I celebrated my six-month anniversary with The Boyfriend which I'm very chuffed about. We went out to a very lovely restaurant (you know the type of place, they call gravy 'jus') and ate lamb, duck and perfectly more-ish gnocchi in basil cream sauce and looked lovingly into each other's eyes. Well, we tried to do that, but it was pretty hard considering the amount of cutlery and plates and glasses on the table in front of us! Why three knives and forks?! Why four glasses? Why 18 different side plates and napkins and candles and accoutrements? There was hardly room for the grub! In saying that, everything was delicious and the staff were excellent so we can't complain. Much.

Truth be told though, I'm actually amazed we've lasted so long. Not because there's anything wrong with him, or indeed me, it's just I've had the most God-awful luck with men and usually by this stage I'd have been dumped and would be performing my voodoo rituals. For some reason though he seems to actually like me and we're getting on famously! It must be love! You may all now stick your fingers down your throat and roll your eyes. Yes, we're THAT cute.

Last night after getting in from the cinema (Babel, very slow and the part of the story situated in Japan didn't add anything at all, was just plain weird) I was reading in bed. It was about 2.30am when all of a sudden a massive spider scuttled out from behind my bed and up the wall. Startled, I jumped up and squished it with my book (yes, yes, I know I should have 'scooped it into a jar and let it free outside' [thanks Boyfriend!] but I just didn't think). After that though, stupidly, I stayed awake until about 5am staring fiercely at all four corners of my room, afraid that the other members of Spidy's family would come get me. Mock me if you will (and I know you will) it was a very valid fear at the time! So now I'm afraid to get back into my bed and sleep. Who needs sleep sure, it's overrated.

Tomorrow I have to go and mind my 16-month-old niece. She likes to play with potatoes. Oh dear.

Hmmmm Blogger Beta

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Mon, 05 Mar 2007 21:22:00 +0000

SO I upgraded to Blogger Beta and I don't really see any difference except for the labels!! And no, before you ask, I don't know what they're for or what they do. But they're nice anyway!

It was really easy, just a couple of clicks and entering my Gmail address. I'm guessing there's lots more to be done with it and any minute now it'll implode, but for now I'm proud of myself for upgrading all on my own!

Regular readers may also notice I've slightly changed my header there to Life's a bastard.....but sometimes it lets up and also that I've changed my 'tag-line' from "follow her journey as she finds out all men really are bastards" to "follow her journed as she finds out that not all men are bastards".

I'm feeling in a more positive mood, plus The Boyfriend was getting a bit sniffy about it!

Terribly boring post today, hopefully something more entertaining and thigh-slapping tomorrow.

Irish Blog Awards - oh what a night!

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Sun, 04 Mar 2007 20:18:00 +0000

TWENTY Major's wife is my new Very Best Friend, or VBF if you will.

Honestly now, I'm not making this up. Yes, Twenty - quite a fine male specimen I must say - has a wife and she TALKED to me! To meeeeeeee!

I made an absolute ass of myself at last night's Blog Awards and for once I don't have the excuse of alcohol to explain it all away, as I'm off the drink for Lent.

Not only did I simper at Twenty, patting his arm and saying "well done, well done" over and over, I actually TOLD him I was nervous about meeting him. Fucking eejit. Me, not him. (Well, I WAS nervous, he's a bit of a celeb so he is.)

He turned out to be a very pleasant smiley man who, despite my fears, didn't growl at me or call me a cunt or a peasant. And to his eternal credit he managed a very convincing "oh heyyyyyyyyy" with a nod to my name tag, like he knew who I was when I introduced myself. (The jig is up Twenty, you hadn't a clue, had you? Sniff!)

I was out at the bar when I was beckoned over by a very glamorous be-suited woman who introduced herself as "Twenty's wife" [I wonder does she call him that at home instead of his real name?] who said she enjoyed my blog and she even mentioned a post I had written, so I knew she wasn't just being polite. Ah flattery, thy name is Twenty's wife! It was only afterwards that I realised I had been incredibly rude and never even asked the woman what her name is, so if you're reading (probably not after I fawned all over your husband) sorry about that!

In keeping with my making-an-ass-of-myself theme for the night, I also accosted both Swearing Lady and Annie Rhiannon telling them I wanted to be their groupie and could we please go backstage and have sex? Quite.

Funnily enough neither were that interested in that suggestion but in fairness to them, they didn't run off in horror either. Both were lovely and charming and forgave me my nervous chatter. I was seriously surprised Sweary didn't claim the Best Newcomer gong but thems the breaks.

It was a night for renewing old aquaintances and meeting new friends as I got to talk to/wave at Conor O'Neill, Colm In Fact Ah, Daragh, Dec and Marieke from Dublin Blog, Maman Poulet, Damian from Ask Direct, Omani, Ciaran from Two Irish Geeks and a TV, a gorgeous and still-bloody-slim-even-though-she's-pregnant Sinead Gleeson, those mentioned above and many others I can't remember right now.

All the award winners were very deserving and kudos to Bernie for handing his Best Contribution award over to organiser Damien Mulley who really put on a great show. How he hasn't gone insane by now due to all the running around and organising, I don't know.

My heartiest congratulations however must go to my favourite blogger and great friend Red Mum who picked up the Best Personal Blog award. I cannot think of a more deserving winner as she has really poured her heart and soul into her blog since its inception. She was accompanied by the Young Wan who looked simply stunning and is a credit to her mother. It will be an absolute travesty if Red Mum is not up for the overall Best Blog Award next year as she certainly has the talent. (And she didn't even mind when I tried to scratch my name with a key into her award, that's friendship for ya!)

I had two non-bloggers with me, a friend and my boyfriend, who were both suitably impressed both with the size of the event and the talent and range of blogs up for awards. There was a good mix of, as they put it, "geeks and non-geeks" and they both thorougly enjoyed the sense of community which was hugely present on the night. It was much less awkward than last year with people actually chatting to each other instead of eyeing fellow bloggers up but being too shy to go over and say hi. I don't know if either of them are going to start blogs, but I might be able to twist their arms (be afraid Boyfriend!) so watch this space.

If it has done nothing else, the awards have encouraged me - and I'm sure many others - to get back on the blogging bus so for that I am grateful. In fact I'm looking forward to it. Thanks again to Damien for putting together the whole shebang, and here's to next year!

(I'm really shite at links and HTML but Maman Poulet has a full list of winners over at her site and well done to her too for live blogging the event and posting up the winners.)

Tic-toc, tic-toc

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Fri, 16 Feb 2007 12:50:00 +0000

Hello people,

The clock is a-ticking and time is running out to vote in the Irish Blog Awards. Head over to www.awards.ie/vote to cast your vote for your favourite blogs and bloggers before the end of the day, 4pm or 5pm I think.

If you're feeling charitable you might throw an oul vote my way for Most Humourous Post and also vote for The Dublin Blog www.dublinblog.ie for Best Group Blog (those guys really deserve it).

As those really awful tacky Lotto ads say, if you're not in, you can't win. Hope to see you all on March 3.

Bloggers - friends or.......?

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Mon, 06 Nov 2006 18:00:00 +0000

FORGIVE me bloggers, for I have sinned. It has been almost three months since my last blog post.

To be perfectly honest, work has exploded for me and a lot of it involves sitting at my computer, so blogging has been the last thing on my mind at the end of the day.

The teaching is going really well, so much so that the group I was working for has asked me back for a further four week session, which is great, and the original group I was working with are due to have certs presented to them by the Lord Mayor of Dublin at some stage this month, so I'm chuffed with that.

Plus, I've started seeing someone (see how casually I slipped that in there?) and it's taking up a lot of my time (in a bloody brilliant way) as we're together a lot. It's been two months and is really working out well, we've even talked about a future together. We've just come back from a week's holiday to Wexford (gorgeous mobile home, tiny village, beach on the doorstep) and it was wonderful, HE is wonderful, so again being perfectly honest, I haven't felt like I needed the release of blogging to rant.

As Pure Cork Boy put it "I'm in love, so feck ye". (He's a culchie, hence the 'ye' instead of the more acceptable 'you' - joke joke PCB!)

Speaking of PCB, I had an interesting conversation with him the other night on IM about whether people you meet through blogging, or even those you just read regularly, are friends or just acquaintances. What do you think?

I'm of the firm opinion that fellow bloggers (excluding ones I know in person from pre-blogging days such as Red Mum or Paul from Life and Times of an Irish Emigrant) are not friends. Friends are people you know and love, you've been to their homes, you worry about them, comiserate with them, celebrate with them, are involved with them. Bloggers are....well, no offence, but just folk!

Let me give you an example. Recently I was reading Fatmammycat's blog and saw that she had to have a mole removed because she and the docs were worried about it. Naturally she was worried and as I read I thought 'ah poor thing, that's an awful thing to have hanging over you'. I left a comment comiserating about the Irish health system, turned off my computer and that was it. No offence FMC, you seem like a lovely woman, but I didn't give you a second thought after that. Of course if I read that you were seriously ill or something bad had befallen you, I would think it an awful thing and leave a comment of support...but that would be as far as it would go. I don't know FMC, she is not my friend, nor am I hers. (I don't mean to pick on you FMC, I'm just using you as an example, I'm sure you can take it! Please don't hurt me!)

If however, a friend was having a mole removed, I would be in constant contact, calling and texting, I would visit him or her, arrange to meet them, try to aid their recovery, or just be there for them if they needed me. I'd most certainly think about them while they were going through their rough patch. And that to me is the mark of a friend.

PCB thinks that perhaps there can be friends and then casual friends and he would include bloggers in his casual friend category. He said for example if he was in Dublin he'd certainly give me a shout and some others and see if anyone was about for lunch. And the same if he was in London or wherever and there were bloggers there, he would arrange a friendly lunch, thus, these people are friends.

But to me however, friendship is too important and sacred a thing to have there be anything casual about it. I have a small circle of friends who I can rely on at any time, for anything. After that I have acquaintances, work colleagues, people I just know - but no casual friends. For me there is no such thing, I am quite black and white, either you're my friend with all the trappings that involves, or you're not.

Of course, perhaps you might get chatting to regular readers, perhaps meet them at a blog event and they may turn into friends, people you are close to and start to rely on over the months and years, but in general I don't feel that bloggers, even regular readers, are my friends.

It's just something that interested me, so I thought I'd throw it out there. I remember Twenty posted a while back about there being too much of a love in in the Irish blogging community (or something, I can't find the original Twenty, sorry, don't hunt me down) so I wanted to see what you all think.

Bloggers - friends or......?

Drumroll please.......another one!

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Wed, 23 Aug 2006 16:53:00 +0000

JUST a very short one to let you all know Jenny is back in the land of the living and has updated her blog with all her news. And let me tell ya, it's a goodun! www.mccanncan.blogspot.com

My laptop has gone to the dogs. Literally, I threw it out the window and next door's rotweiler is feasting on it as we speak. Hence the lack of posts. A new computer is to be purchased shortly though, with a screen that actually works and doesn't spark and spit flames at me, so watch this space. Pic: http://www.kicktheemailhabit.com/

Miss! Miss!!

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Thu, 10 Aug 2006 16:10:00 +0000

APOLOGIES to all for the lack of posts of late, but as you will read, I'm now FAR too busy and important to be knocking about with you lot.

As of the middle of September, I will be a Professor of Journalism...

Right, ok, a TEACHER of Journalism...

Alright already, I'll be working with a local youth project, TALKING about journalism, are you happy now?

Yes, it looks as though the dry work spell may be coming to an end and the type of work that I'm really interested in is in the pipeline and all ready to go.

From the middle of September I'll be involved in a journalism/writing course within the media group of a youth project in Dublin, working with teenage boys.

The group has been together for a year and have already done some page layout, design, poster design, photography and even stand-up comedy so the writing part is the next step, and that's where I come in.

Without wanting to sound overly dramatic or fake B-Movie weepy, this is a dream come true for me. I've always wanted to teach, but not in a traditional classroom environment, so this is absolutely perfect.

The young lads, as you can imagine, probably won't be interested in sitting in a room listening to me drone on and on about boring writing techniques so the challenge for me is to draw up the course content and syllabus, to make it fun and interesting for them.

I'll be arranging for people to come in for them to interview (perhaps a local band or sports personality), bringing them out for vox pops (street surveys), showing them how to research using the Internet, libraries and books and finally getting them to write some articles which may be published in the youth group's newsletter.

It's a kind of pilot project for six weeks, but hopefully if it goes well and is successful then there's scope for it to be rolled out to other groups within the project and maybe even extended for longer to the original group.

I am so grateful for the chance to do this and the opportunity I've been given, after all I've never taught before so they're taking a real chance on me, and I keep getting little flashes of excitement and clenching my fist in victory on the bus. I'm starting to scare commuters.

Now that the initial excitement is over with I'm starting to get a little nervous and I have The Fear that I'll start to weep on the first day and they'll all give me funny looks, but I'm trying not to think about that!

Over the next few weeks I'll be drawing up the course content and researching into working with young people, so if anyone has any advice or has worked with youth groups or projects before, please mail me and give me the benefit of your experience.

Please! Or there'll be a Kaz-shaped hole in my door!

Romance...different strokes for different folks..

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Mon, 31 Jul 2006 18:17:00 +0000

WHAT is romance? Is it gazing adoringly into your lover's eyes murmering sweet nothings? Is it snogging like teenagers in the pub while others look on silently rolling their eyes?

Is it sending flowers? Calling on the hour every hour? Is it having deep and meaningful conversations with your significant other about the future and what hopes and dreams you have?

Well, maybe. I'm sure there are those of you out there who answered yes to all of the above questions or perhaps to just some of them. I answered yes to some myself sure, after all who doesn't like to receive flowers? (People allergic to flowers obviously, but you know what I mean!)

For me though, it's more the little things that are what romance is all about. The unexpected sweet text in the middle of the day, just because. Cutting out an article in a paper or magazine that a boyfriend or girlfriend would be interested in. Quietly reaching for a hand under a table, or while walking in the street and giving it a sqeeze. Comfortable silences. Reassuring someone when they need reassurances, instead of getting angry. Knowing instinctively what makes a partner tick. Those sorts of things.

I know what you're thinking. Kaz has lost it. She's a bitter, twisted old bat who's going to be left on the shelf, gathering dust, until her poor demented parents marry her off to the lowest bidder on her 60th birthday. But I haven't lost it. I'm just saying.

As regular readers will know I recently began dating again and while so far it's been a lot of fun, it has come to my attention that others seem to think that romance really isn't my thing and that perhaps because I present an independent front, enjoy a bit of banter and can be sarcastic to the nth degree that all that hearts and flowers stuff isn't for me. They're wrong.

I am a consummate romantic. I want, more than anything else, to be wooed in the truly old-fashioned kind of way. That excitement you feel when the phone rings, the butterflies you get in the run up to a date, the almost breathlessness you get when you see that certain someone walking towards you. That's me, in spades. I just don't often show it.

I know it may not come across here and indeed those of you who know me will probably go 'you wha'?' when I say this, but I suffer horribly from a combination of shyness and nerves when I first meet new people. This means that I either come across as stand-offish and uptight or I go into a whole Jerry Seinfeld routine, cracking jokes and laughing uproariously (slapping my thighs in some cases). Don't get me wrong, I'm a nice person, and I am funny, I'm just not always Monkey Comedy Girl. And because of the whole nervous-ninny thing, people sometimes mistakenly believe that I'm either hard as nails or a don't-carish free spirit, both of which aren't really me.

I am - just me. And to me, romance is finding someone who realises this and appreciates it, from the off. I'm not asking for much am I? (That WAS a joke by the way.)

So anyway, that's all I have to say on the subject, I just wanted to put it out there. I'm romantic, OK?!

How're all of you?

All by myseeelllff....AGAIN!

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Tue, 25 Jul 2006 13:36:00 +0000

I HAD intended to post today about my recent trip to Newfoundland in Canada (where I had an absolute ball, by the way) but true to form, my scanner has gone on the blink, meaning I can't scan in my photos of the whale watching or of people I met over there caught unawares on camera or the lovely houses, or anything.

I knew I should have bought a digital camera, but I went for the cheapo 'two for one' disposable camera option in Boots instead. The stupid scanner is telling me I need to insert the CD that came with it again, to reinstall, but the thing is, a few months ago said scanner also went on the blink and wouldn't accept said CD so I threw it over my shoulder in a fit of pique and it's now buried under a pile of what can only be called shite. So, point being, you'll have to wait until the brother comes up over the weekend to fix the thing for me, and I'll regale you all with tales of my holiday then. (Sorry Sandi!)

Anyway, now to the title of my post. Yes, I'm still single. No nice Canadian men swept me off my feet, no millionaire cornered me on the plane and offered to bump me up to first class, nothing, nada, zilch. Something I had been cultivating for a wee while didn't grow into anything, so yet again I find myself staring down the lonely road to spinsterhood, squeezing myself into uncomfortable underwear, smiling and nodding at men in the pub like an eejit and eating my bodyweight in French Fancies ("....but what's wrong with me? WHY doesn't he fancy me...pass me another cake there...." you get the drift.)

So, remembering the thrill of excitement I got earlier this year when I joined a free dating website to drum up some article ideas for my column, I decided to give the whole Internet lark another bash. But this time, it was for real, this time I was going to PAY to join a site and this time...I'm actually going to go and meet some men.

Yes, I have entered my credit card number into a secure WorldPay site and signed up to an Irish dating/singles website in the hope, that this time it won't be all geriatric midgets mailing me or illiterate teenagers, but in fact some interesting 30-ish men with bank balances and a pulse.

It's only been a few days, but so far it's looking....well, not great as such...but certainly better than the last time! Many of the men on the site claim to be looking for a relationship, many claim to be genuine and wouldn't be put off by a woman wanting more than just the one date, so you never know, perhaps my Prince will be among them.

I'm also amazed by the number of international men the site has, all searching for a genuine Irish wife. I got one email off a lovely Japanese man, saying he thought I had "a very charming written" which I assume means he though my written profile was charming! Ah God bless him, his English is better than my Japanese I guess, so fair play to him!

However, there are still a fair amount of guys mailing me with a really scabby 'how r u' and that's it, making no effort whatsoever to hook me in. Many of their profiles also say things like Favourite Film: Don't know Favourite Music: Not sure Favourite Book: Don't read etc etc and the blurb about themselves reads something like 'I can't write about myself, can't be arsed to say things here, if we meet up I might tell you' which of course, has me RUNNING to my laptop to mail them. Come on guys, show a bit of enthusiasm for Jaysis sake!

I'll keep you posted about how I get on. Now, I'm off to browse for a boy. It's like shopping!

I am alive, but....

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Thu, 20 Jul 2006 15:40:00 +0000

.... I just can't blog!

I've been on holidays for a good while and that combined with jet lag, trying to sort out work, blah blah, boring boring, means I just haven't got the energy to get on the computer.

Plus, it's like the fires of hell in Dublin right now and all I want to do is sit in the freezer.

I'm still alive and still single though, so there'll be lots more rants on the way, have no fear.

Just not now. Go away, it's too hot!

Scientists - I'm against them

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Tue, 27 Jun 2006 23:13:00 +0000

DO you know who I hate? Scientists. Scientists and people involved in the production of medication, particularly a new drug/product I've recently been forced to start taking.

Allow me to explain. I have Crohn's Disease, a disorder of the bowel and while I'm now very very well following surgery last year, I still have times where I need to use the bathroom. Urgently. (I apologise for the image I conjured up there.)

It was getting a tad bit boring (particularly having to bolt to the loo from the table after every single bloody meal) so off I toddled to the doctor to explain the predicament.

'No worries, sure haven't I the very thing,' sez he.

'Questran it's called - here's your prescription.'

So delighted with myself, off I skipped to Ye Olde Apothecary Shoppe (de chemist) and gave the prescription in to the nice woman behind the counter.

A few minutes later she lugged out an enormous box of small sachets of powder and thumped them down onto the counter with a breathless 'here we are'.

My spidey senses went into overdrive. You see, I've been in the 'suspicious sachets of powder that I'm going to have to drink' position before, and it's never pretty.

Sure enough, it turns out that three times a day I've to add this orange 'flavoured' sachet to water and drink it down in order to stop me being in the loo all the time and true to form, it tastes like sick.

I'm sorry, but it does. And it has the same consistency too. It's powdery and watery ALL AT THE SAME TIME and it tastes like undiluted orange squash - that's been under your stairs since 1976. How they expect anyone, let alone someone who has A PROBLEM WITH THEIR DIGESTIVE SYSTEM, to stomach it is beyond me. Yet, it appears this is the best that science can come up with.

Which brings me to the title of my post. Scientists, I'm against them. Who makes these drugs? Who sits in a lab and thinks 'I know, I'll create this stuff which will slow down the bowel and give some relief to SUFFERING people...but meh, fuck it, I'll make it taste like sick'? What control panel of tasters and volunteers and drug trial people actually drinks this stuff and goes 'you know what? It's not bad!' instead of telling the truth and refusing point blank to OK it until something is done about the taste? Who? Who are they, and why haven't they been shot dead by now?

Why is it that we can send men to the moon (or fake it really well anyway), cure cancer, create test tube babies, communicate online, have surgery to change our bodies, travel at the speed of light (or sound whichever it is) YET it seems beyond the realms of possibility to create a medicine that doesn't taste like sick?

This isn't the first time I've had this problem either. From time to time, if I've been particularly ill (doesn't happen much anymore thank Buddha) I have to drink rehydration fluid/salt yokes which also come as a powder sachet and also taste like arse.

While I was being diagnosed with Crohn's and they were doing all sorts of tests to find out what it was (involving A LOT of probing, ooh Matron) I had to drink FOUR LITRES of a laxative to empty my system totally so they could shove a camera up there to see what was going on (beautiful image, I know) and yes, you've guessed it, that also tasted disgusting. Seriously, awful. It was salty and thick.

So imagine drinking four litres of salty thick suspension. Now, imagine drinking said suspension when you've been seriously ill for a year, can't eat, have the runs up to 14 times a day, vomit at least four times a day and have such a pain in your abdomen that at times you scream with it. Trust me, it's the stuff of nightmares. That's the one that still gets me annoyed to this day. The only purpose of that product is to clean out the system so they can see what's going on inside SERIOUSLY ILL PEOPLE, yet they still, STILL can't get off their arse and try to make it a bit easier on folk by improving the taste.

Sorry, I've rambled on there, but pure laziness like this on the part of the scientific/pharmaceutical industry really gets my goat. Yes, I appreciate your efforts in making the drug and finding cures for things, but for the love of Jaysis, make your products at least halfway decent tasting! Particularly if they're aimed at sick people who have trouble eating and drinking and digesting!

So needless to say there'll soon be a nice letter from me winging it's way to the CEO of the Questran company with a sachet of the stuff enclosed, inviting him/her to drink it and then explain themselves.

If I don't get a satisfactory response, I'll be forced to hire an armed gang of militia men, take over the manufacturing plant and force feed the stuff to everyone in sight until they agree to change the taste.

That is all.

The Rules

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Tue, 13 Jun 2006 18:41:00 +0000

DURING my mindless web-surfing one of the days last week I came across this article here http://www.hotlib.com/articles/show.php?t=The_Ten_Cardinal_Rules_Of_Blogging about the 'rules' of blogging and it pissed me off royally.

It was by this guy http://www.jimestill.com/ JimEstill who is CEO of Synnex Canada and a blogger himself.

At this juncture I'd like to point out that no, I'm not a CEO of some billion dollar corporation, nor am I a computer expert, nor do I really know the first thing about blogging other than how to (inexpertly) write a post and yes, this guy is highly successful in his field, probably hugely well known (I've never heard of him) while I'm just some shmuck journalist from Dublin. So with that established, let me continue.

There are rules for blogging now?! Fucking RULES?!

One of the rules is something like 'stick to a theme' but I have to ask: why? Who made you King of the World? This blog is a mish-mash of information about my life, things I'm interested in, things in the news, articles on WeightWatchers, a little bit of everything. And if I want to write a serious article about something, I will, and I'm not going to worry about going outside my 'theme'. Since when did blogs have rules? Since when did blogs turn from something to have fun with and enjoy doing, to something that has rules and boundaries and limitations?

As regular readers will know, I work with a young woman with Dystonia, Jenny McCann at www.mccanncan.blogspot.com who due to various reasons doesn't post as regularly as others and doesn't have a particular theme but when she does manage to blog (about whatever takes her fancy), has an absolute blast. But now, according to this guy, I've to turn around to her and say 'nah, sorry, you're not doing it properly, you're not following the RULES man, you've to stop blogging'. Is he serious?

Another of his pearls of wisdom is 'only start blogging if you like to write' and again, I have to ask..says who? Says fucking who? What about photoblogs, or technical blogs which don't contain many articles per se, but which link to new developments in technology or IT? What about blogs such as The Community at Large which provides links to new games, funny videos, news clips etc and isn't text heavy but which is still a favourite of many as can be seen by the Irish Blog Award it picked up? The word 'only' confines us all there, making out that only certain blogs are worthy. Nonsense.

When I tell people about blogs and blogging, I tell them that their offering can be about anything they like, literallly anything, and in any format because they're doing it for themselves, not anyone else. When you start imposing rules on something as fundamentally free as blogging, then in my opinion we may as well all give up and start writing blurbs for corporate websites and be done with it.

You may perhaps think I'm going a bit overboard here and getting het up for nothing, but I really do feel strongly about this and it's been a bug bear of mine for a long time that the only people who are seen to have a credible opinion or 'right' to say anything about blogs are techie-like people or business people, when in fact we all, no matter our background or experience, have that right. Pandering to the the notion that 'we're not worthy' only serves to allow people like this guy to impose HIS 'rules' on us and suck the life out of blogging. I may not know what an RSS feed is, or what trackback is, or how to import files, or write HTML code and I might not know how to increase my readership by 10,000 a week but you know what - I don't really care. I blog for me, I blog to make myself happy, I blog to entertain, to infuriate, to express myself, to get things off my chest. What I don't do, is blog by numbers.

I want to point to a sentence from the Blogger.com website which explains what their site is all about and why they started it up which states: " focusing on helping people have their own voice on the web and organizing the world's information from the personal perspective" which I think says it all. "Helping people have their own voice on the web" there it is, plain and simple. Their own voice, not some 'expert' voice or a constricted voice or Jim Estill's voice, but their own.

Of course I understand that blogging can't be a total free-for-all in that for example, a blog featuring child pornography should never be condoned, but once bloggers don't break the law and extend the same common courtesies and manners to their readers that they do in all other walks of life, then there should be no limitations, no boundaries, no rules.

As a journalist, I feel very strongly about freedom of speech and freedom to express oneself and I believe, wholeheartedly, that there is no 'right' or 'wrong' way to be creative and that imposing rules on blogging is a dangerous road to go down, one that I want no hand, act or part in.

So, I urge you all to reject rules for your blog, change your theme at will, write randomly, post pictures, post once a day, once a month, once a year, whatever, don't worry about stats or readership or what others think of you. Blog for you, because you get a kick out of it, because it does something for you.

Don't blog for The Man.

World Cup

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Fri, 09 Jun 2006 16:21:00 +0000

Just a quick post about the World Cup. We did a sweepstake in our office of all 32 countries and I got Saudi Arabia.

This is good yes?

There's a lot of money at stake for the winner, runner up, most goals etc (the sports department of the newsroom put the sweepstake together, wouldn't you know, it was very professional and everything was recorded in case there was any cheating) so I want to know if I'm in with a chance.

Also, what is this 'football' you all speak of?

The Babysitters' Club - Mark Two

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Wed, 31 May 2006 13:18:00 +0000

‘NO is a lovely little word Our Lord gave us to use when we don’t want any cake’ so said Mrs Doyle in an episode of Fr Ted.

Yet somehow I can’t seem to take her advice which is why I always end up gorging on cake (hence the size of this ass) and why I agreed to spend the entire weekend babysitting my other niece.

I know, you’d think I would have learned after the last time, but when my brother asked me to do some rug-rat watching while he and sis-in-law went overseas, instead of saying “ha, not on your nelly” I found myself breezily saying “suuuuuuure, no problem, I’d be happy to”.

Now, don’t get me wrong, Niece Number Two is a little dote. Four-years-old, cute as a button and sharp as a tack (with a fabulous wardrobe from Baby Gap) and simply a joy to be around. But only for short periods of time.

Not anything to do with her you understand, it’s me, I’m about as patient and tolerant as Michael McDowell faced with a roomful of asylum seekers. So three days catering to her every whim was sure to be a shock to my system. (Does anyone else have a problem with the endless ‘you be the Daddy, I’ll be the Mammy’ games that youngsters play?)

I know it was wrong, I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I want to publicly thank whoever it was who invented cable television and Smarties, cos they’re the only things that kept me sane over the weekend.

Any impending trauma (a teeny cut on her finger, the injustice of not being allowed out to play when it was pissing down) could be solved by switching on the Cartoon Network and making with the sweeties.

Ah, I have to say though, minding her was a lot less worry than minding Niece Number One as this one didn’t require endless feeding, changing and rocking and was happy enough to play in the front garden with her friends, help one of the neighbours dig up her flower bed and eat whatever dinner I put in front of her. (It also helped that I’d dragged a mate down to the wilds of County Wicklow to help me, so there was always someone on Operation Keep The Child Alive watch.)

The other mothers in the neighbourhood were great too, gladly accepting her into their houses to play with their offspring, thus giving me a bit of a break and not seeming to mind in the slightest when she stood outside their sitting room windows pressing her face up against the glass, like a homeless person desperate for a good meal.

There was only one moment over the whole weekend when I caved and she got the better of me, feeling ever so slightly afraid:

We were eating breakfast (porridge) both in our pjs with me wearing my brother’s (her Daddy’s) dressing gown when I dropped a gloop of oats on the sleeve of said robe, wiping it quickly away.

She immediately piped up in an innocent voice: Aunty Karen? Did my Daddy say you could wear his dressing gown?

Me: Yes pet, he said I could borrow it if I was cold.

Her (with furrowed brow and a self righteous tone of voice): And did he say you could get it DIRTY?!

Needless to say, her swift turnaround from innocent four-year-old to matronly harridan berating me for spilling my breakfast had me spluttering, unable to say anything except:

Smarties?

Free gaff!

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Thu, 25 May 2006 16:09:00 +0000

THE folks were away there last weekend for a few days visiting an aunt across the water, so I had the gaff to myself. I even took a couple of days off work to enjoy it!

Bliss.

Before any of you start getting smutty, there were no bedroom shenanigans (not for want of trying, but none of the youngfellas on Saturday wanted to come home with me, kids these days) it was just four days of pure me time.

No endless watching of Heartbeat.

No questions like "are you sure you don't want a breaded turkey breast from the freezer" on a loop over and over again.

No 'interesting' conversations about what 'yer woman' in number 48 put in her bin at lunchtime.

No hoovers at ungodly hours - in fact, no hoovers AT ALL.

No hours and hours of dusting the skirting boards while I'm trying to read, like anyone EVER looks at them. (I mean EVER. Even if the Pope did deign to grant us a visit, I doubt the first thing he'd do is get on his knees and inspect the bloody skirting boards).

Nothing, in fact, except me, the television and the contents of our medium sized fridge. After almost a year at home with the folks (and six months of that being nursed back to full-ish health by Mammy Dunne after I was ill) I really needed the time to just be quiet and alone. And boy was I!

Saturday:
Got up, late.
Ate breakfast IN THE SITTING ROOM
Watched Nickleodeon WHILE EATING MY BREAKFAST
Faffed about
Faffed about some more
Left dirty dishes in the sink
Had a shower, put on make up, got dressed
Went out
Got drunk
Came home late
Went to bed.

(All of the above, bar the getting drunk bit, was carried out in blissful silence)

Sunday:
Same as Saturday, except instead of going out and getting drunk, I went for dinner in a pub with my sister. Everything was again in silence, my sister is very understanding.

Monday:
Same as previous days, except only went out to go to the chemist to fill my prescription. Again, there was minimal talking, my pharmacist is also very understanding.

Tuesday: (The day of the return)
Same as previous days, except realised that was eating my cereal out of a gravy boat and using a wooden spoon cos all of the other utensils were dirty, so did some washing up.

Tuesday night, when they arrived back:
Covered my ears as the house was once again filled with conversation. Tried to watch Desperate Housewives while glowering at them as they noisily unpacked.

(I know I sound like an ungrateful wench, and maybe I am, but I really enjoyed the alone time and could have done with a few more days. I'm not a truly horrible person though, cos I did prepare a welcome home supper for them with their favourite rolls, filling and cake, so I think that earned me some karma points.)

They're back now though so I'll just have to get on with it...though I did read in a magazine once about a company that builds sheds in your back garden that are 'just like your real sitting room'......hmmm I wonder how the Dunnes would feel about that?

Who's ya Daddy?

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Thu, 18 May 2006 16:02:00 +0000

I WAS reading an article in one of my monthly glossy wimmin’s magazines recently about Father’s Day which is coming up in June.

There were various bits in it which I could relate to such as the author’s father wearing ‘purple y-fronts’ because my Dad has his own unique pair which he insists on calling his ‘knickers’.

Wearing slip on leather shoes, white socks and shorts to mow the lawn was another gem (I can picture Daddy Dunne right now) and also a bit about Dads knowing the directions to anywhere by several different routes.

Anyway, the article reminded me of one particular incident which is ingrained into Dunne Family history about the day our Dad embarrassed us all in front of the whole school.

It was snowing, so Daddy Dunne was dispatched off in the Renault Five to collect us all from school (as far as I recall I had just started and my sisters were in primary, but both schools are within the same complex) so that we wouldn’t be stuck for hours on a bus.

On his way from the car to the front door of the school, Dad passed by my middle sister’s classroom and spotted her sitting facing the window.

In order to attract her attention so that he could let her know he was waiting to collect her, he (for some unknown ungodly reason) picked up a snowball and threw it at the window.

Only, being Ireland and even though it was snowing, it was pretty stuffy out so the window was actually open, meaning the snowball flew straight in and hit the teacher, smack in the back of the head.

Like a deer caught in the headlights, Daddy Dunne stayed stock still just staring at the wet startled nun, his empty hand still in ‘throwing’ position, before managing a half-hearted shrug and a wave.

Needless to say, the story flew around the school so by the time the ‘home time’ bell rang, every child was talking about it, and some of the parents too.

“Didja hear? Some gobshite threw a snowball at Sister XX, right in de back o’ de head. De nuns are ragin’ so dey are.”

When it emerged that it was our Dad who was said gobshite, we received such a slagging that we were forced to dye our hair and adopt thick German accents (even me, the baby, four year olds can be so cruel.)

Of course, Mammy Dunne was nono-impresso and he still hasn’t lived it down. To this day she’ll say things like “will you button up your jacket there, you’re embarrassing me like you did that day with the snowball”.

Ah but while we were embarrassed, we were also secretly delighted and proud of him and it’s a tale that’s trotted out at every family reunion. Daddy Dunne: The Man, The Comedian, The Legend.

Sorry seems to be the hardest word...

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Thu, 11 May 2006 21:58:00 +0000

FORGIVE me readers, for I have sinned. It has been weeks and weeks since my last post and my only excuse is that I've been working my (flabby) arse off and also, I've had no idea what to write about.

Do I tell you about my stint minding my tiny niece and how I have 'the fear' that I'm going to be a terrible mother?

Or how about how I've in a way gone back to my old job because they can't seem to let me go, and I equally can't seem to make the break?

Or should I tell you about being recognised in the street on two separate occasions by punters who read my column?

Perhaps you would like to hear about my upcoming trip to Canada?

But seeing as how Pure Cork Boy left such a heartfelt plea on my last post urging me to 'write something funny' I thought I'd at least try to oblige, so I guess I'll tell you about minding my niece and will write on the others another time. I can't guarantee it'll be funny, but at least it's a post, so that'll have to do for now.

Babies cry, who knew? It was my sister's birthday and wanting it to be a special occasion, she and my brother-in-law booked me weeks in advance for the big night, so I duly turned up at the allotted time, to coo over the baby in her tiny tiny tiny pink socks.

"Right, so the bottles are in the fridge, the soothers are over there, there's extra bibs here, there's where the nappies are...and over there is the secret infra-red NannyCam which will record every move you make so if you so much as look at my baby in the wrong way, I'll hunt you down to Chinatown," my sister said. Well, she may not have said that last bit about the NannyCam or Chinatown, but it was implied by the vicious grin she gave me as she walked out the door.

The baby and I waved them off (they hired a limo doncha know, rich bastards) from the front door and then turned and went back into the sitting room. As if sensing that I was now alone and vulnerable, the baby opened her mouth and made a sound that I can only liken to the sound innocent people make when they're being massacred by religious fundamentalists. Staring me straight in the eye, she continued to make 'the sound' pausing only for breath and to tug at my glasses.

Several minutes of me going 'right, er, what's wrong with you then eh?' and 'huggy buggy luggy muggy luggy huggy, who's a lovely girl' didn't seem to calm her down so I decided she must be hungry and set about heating up a bottle, while trying to stop her falling to her death from my arms (I tried to put her down, trust me, she was having none of it).

So anyway, after the bottle was administered, she seemed content enough, and so, desperate for a wee, I popped her in her play pen and legged it upstairs. I barely had my zip down when she started up again, so I dashed downstairs to check, whereupon she stopped and became a perfectly happy baby. I went back up to the loo and this time was mid-flow when I heard 'the sound' again and had to make a run for it once more. This time when I got downstairs, she was propped up on the couch watching Eastenders, I swear to God...well, ok, maybe she wasn't doing that, but the raised eyebrow she threw at me implied it. I could see her little baby brain thinking 'oh, we've got a live one here'.

After I finally managed to finish my wee, I sat her up on the couch in a bid to try to entertain her, when I noticed her little eyes were drooping (I will say, it was kinda cute) so I figured I'd put her up to her cot for a nap, sure wasn't she grand now, she'd be out like a light.

I was too cocky.

No sooner did we enter her room than she started roaring in protest and trying to make a bid for freedom, as if she was a pint of Bass and I was Bertie Ahern. There was no way she was going into the instrument of torture formerly known as her cot and that was that. It turns out the only way she wanted to sleep was to be put in her buggy and rocked.

For hours.

Mid-rock I managed to work my mobile phone from my jeans pocket and call my friend, who has previously said he doesn't want children, to tell him that I now heartily concurred. He wasn't at his desk, so I left a somewhat garbled message on his machine apparently along the lines of 'Jesus Mary and Joseph why is she crying. My arm is sore from this rocking. I don't want kids...well, I do...but not ones that make noise. Or move.'

She seemed to like the rocking though as she slept for a while, before demanding to be changed (who knew something so small could produce such a huge amount of.....waste product?) and then sucking down her last bottle of the evening like it was going out of fashion. Some more rocking later and she was out for the night.

I looked at myself in the mirror, sweating, red-faced, disheveled, covered in baby powder and milk and thought....sterilization, it's the only way. I was too exhausted to do anything other than sit (and even that was an effort) and couldn't even find the remote to higher the volume on Will and Grace.

If four hours minding a baby can reduce me to a snivelling wreck, can you imagine what I'd be like with one of my own? How do parents do it? How do mothers or fathers look after a baby day in day out and in most cases do a day's work on top of that? Why aren't the streets full of weeping parents covered in baby sick sobbing and trying desperately to smuggle themselves onto planes to the nearest deserted island?

Is it perhaps that others have that 'touch', a maternal or paternal spark that the babies feel, whereas I don't? Or could it be that the old cliche is true, and it really is different when they're your own?

Either way, I think I've definitely established that I'm not ready to have a baby yet and when (or if) I am, I'll be going for the quiet, shy, retiring ones who are content to lie in my arms looking pretty, while Mammy watches her stories.

Pic: www.picturequest.com

Clean hair....the pornstar way!

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Mon, 24 Apr 2006 17:11:00 +0000

IS it only me, or does anyone else feel slightly uncomfortable when they get their hair washed in a salon and they do that mini-head-massage thing?

I don’t mean uncomfortable as in ‘ow, Jaysus you’re reefing the head off me and my neck is about to snap off’ I mean uncomfortable as in ‘that actually feels quite pleasurable, yet you’re a stranger, so should I be enjoying this?’

Allow me to explain. On Saturday I went to the hair dressers (a swanky one, in town) for a wash and blow dry, in preparation for the night ahead.

As my hair is feeling the effects of winter, and also cos I’m a lazy cow who can’t be bothered to do that whole hair in a hot towel conditioning thing, I asked them to put in a treatment to make it “lovely and shiny”.

The fabulous male hair-washer whisked me off to a basin and waved a dinky little bottle of conditioner in front of me saying he was going to put that in and it’d do the job.

(I later realised that the reason he only waved it in front of me and then spirited it away was so that I wouldn’t see the €12 price tag on it, but I digress.)

Anyway, so after scrubbing my hair squeaky clean twice and questioning me intently about my plans for the evening, he proceeded to whack in the (very expensive) treatment.

And that’s when things got uncomfortable.

Apart from the sloooowww, firrrrrrmmmm kneading of my skull, he accompanied it with a narrative, along the lines thus:

“Does that feel gooooood? This will really make your hair healthy…am I doing it too hard? Will I do that again? Does this feel ok for you?” in manner of a 70s porn film.

All he was short of was a few “uh huh, ooooh yeahhhhhhh’s” and it would have been complete.

I know it was wrong, I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I found myself responding in kind along the lines of “oh that’s soooooo good, harder, ohhhh the back of my neck”.

It was when I threw in a “shag me baby” that he stopped abruptly.

Needless to say, I think I’ll be avoiding that particular salon from now on, but on the upside my hair is at its swishy best and the shine would blind a small child.

Pic of Ron Jeremy courtesy of http://zombie.blogs.sapo.pt/arquivo/ron4.jpg

Dublin Community Blog

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Thu, 13 Apr 2006 17:00:00 +0000

Just another short one. I've been invited by Daragh, via Red Mum to join the Dublin Community Blog. I'm delighted to oblige and I've posted a couple of things. So take a look http://www.dublinblog.ie/

Check it out!

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Thu, 13 Apr 2006 09:50:00 +0000

Hello children,

Just a short note to let you know that Jenny (www.mccanncan.blogspot.com) has updated her blog and it's well worth a read. So check it out! Cheers.

Nigella Lawson, I ain't!

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Mon, 10 Apr 2006 19:12:00 +0000

PARENTS are funny aren't they? Well mine are anyway. As regular readers will know, about nine months ago I moved back in with my folks following an illness and have had to adjust to the sometimes frustrating situation of living once more with Mammy and Daddy Dunne.

So as not to be too much of a burden, I pay rent money, some of the bills and generally buy my own groceries and I've also set up my little home office here in my room so that I have an oasis of calm to escape to if it all gets too much. (Right, maybe oasis of calm is pushing it considering that right now the place is coming down with clutter mainly empty Coke cans and crisp packets as well as five million OK! magazines, but you get what I mean.)

Last week, to prove yet again what a great daughter I am, I offered to make dinner for the three of us, including dessert, virtually unheard of in our house on a weekday. Trifle on a Sunday, or perhaps an apple tart, is perfectly fine, but on a weekday? Do you think we're made of money?

Anyway, like the good Catholic parents they are, they reluctantly agreed to eat whatever I made, lying through their teeth that it all sounded 'lovely' though Daddy Dunne did try to mumble something in protest which was swiftly silenced by Mammy Dunne via a dig to the ribs.

The thing you have to understand about my parents is that they think a bit of parsley on their plate in a restaurant is the height of sophistication. Anything that has a word of French in the title or anything in italics on a menu sends them into a spin of indecision, even if it's only soup au mushroom in our local hotel. They have plain tastes and they like plain food. And I do mean plain. So, absolutely no garlic, spices, herbs, sauces, infusions, chillies, peppers, oils, vinegars...or..anything really. Meat and two veg is fine, once it's veg they recognise and can pronounce, anything with more than two syllables is a no-no (cab-bage, car-rott, tur-nip are all grand you see, but as-par-a-gus is not).

So I scoured my cookbooks (all three of them) so I did looking for inspiration, dismissing anything that seemed in any way exotic, even a gorgeous looking lemon chicken which both of them thought looked a bit 'yeh know...complicated like'. I finally settled on a sausage and potato bake with roasted vegetables followed by an apple crumble. Great, nice and plain, yet a little different to what they usually eat on a daily basis I thought, what could possibly go wrong?

It all went downhill from there. The recipe called for Italian herb sausages, which I knew neither of the Dunnes would eat so I substituted Denny's finest butcher sausages instead. It called for garlic, which I left out and it also called for rosemary which I snuck into the house telling them it was Holy Palm the parish priest had given me. The recipe also said that the dish should take 40 minutes to cook but in reality took an hour and 15 minutes, as I’d overlooked the vital ‘par boil the potatoes’ stage.

It turns out you need Italian herb sausages for a reason, cos when you use other normal sausages, the inside comes out of the skin onto the dish, sticking to the edge resulting in a burned mass of sausage meat. It turns out that without the garlic, it’s just ordinary roast potatoes and it also turns out that rosemary burns very quickly scattering little bit bits of charred stuff throughout your meal.

With a flourish (hours later) I served them up burnt sausage mass with roasties and bits of charred rosemary….and they ate every bit! It’s amazing where a bit of mournful whimpering will get you and I watched in amazement as they devoured every mouthful, pausing only to grimace slightly and churn out an unconvincing ‘mmmmmm’.

Even I have to admit, it was bloody horrible and I’d eat my own arm so I would, so that’s saying something. We’re still picking the rosemary out of our teeth.

I think they were just so grateful that I was actually DOING something instead of mooning about the place that they seized it with both hands and went along with it, charred mass of shite notwithstanding, which was lovely.

So parents are funny, but you gotta love them eh? Next week I’m thinking of forcing them to eat pasta (‘Jaysis, not foreign muck’) so I’ll keep you posted.

Oh and just in case you were wondering, the apple crumble went down a treat and the ‘mmmmm’s at the dessert stage were much more convincing! (I may be no Nigella Lawson, but I make a good tart!)

Pic representing me slaving over a hot stove borrowed from: http://www.muckross-house.ie/library_files/30spic9.jpg

Actually, it turns out self employment gives me a pain in my arse..

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Fri, 31 Mar 2006 23:00:00 +0000

THE new work I boasted about in my last post has fallen through.

Too much to go into here but I've now a lot less secure work than I thought and am actually going to end up destitute, homeless and alone.

It's been a Very Black Day.

Desperate Housewives is on in a bit. I've already watched it so it doesn't matter that I won't be able to see the screen through the veil of bleakness that has descended upon me.

I'm in a Very Black Mood.

Suddenly, being single pales in comparison to physically having no money and not being able to pay my bills, even my monthly subscription to Desperately Single, the magazine for the spinster of today.

Take my advice, if you have a full-time job, don't give it up no matter what doctors say..what the fuck do they know?

Less stressful, my fat cellulite-y arse.

I feel a weekend wallow coming on and then it'll be out with the CV on Monday. Again. Jesus.

Self employment rocks.........

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Sun, 26 Mar 2006 22:05:00 +0000

Me working away
Originally uploaded by Knackeredkaz.

WELL, it kinda rocks anyhow. As I type this I'm four days into being self employed and things are going well. I have some regular work with my old company as well as some new work with another newspaper, which I'll start working on in earnest tomorrow.

So I've some freelance work lined up, I've contacted all my contacts, I've had the leaving do, got the present and all's well with the world.

Obviously, as of yet I haven't been to the tax office, hired an accountant, sorted out my office at home, filed any of the final documentation my old job gave me, bought a car, applied for a driving licence, had the sight test, or actually DONE anything that a self employed person is supposed to have done by now, but I'll get round to it eventually.

Honestly.

Seriously though, things are exciting and nerve wracking all at the same time and I keep wanting to break out into a huge grin on the bus, while simultaneously throwing up over my shoes.

It's all so new and yet so familiar if you get me. I think it's because I've been offered some work at my old job that it hasn't yet sunk in that I'm out on my own. I officially finished up there on Wednesday, but the other work they've hired me back to do started on Thursday...so after waving goodbye the day before I found myself back at my desk the next morning working away.

Colleagues kept doing a double take as they walked past my desk going "hey...I thought you'd....?" with the implicaiton being "didn't I give money for a going away present for you, what the fu....?"

I kept having to remind myself that I was getting paid by the hour to be there but that on Monday I'd be working somewhere else and some weeks I won't be there at all. I guess I'll get used to it after a while.

So Knackeredkaz is all of a dither but as the annoying McDonald's ad goes 'ba da ba da da....I'm lovin' it'

Internet dating....Jaysis!

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Thu, 16 Mar 2006 16:43:00 +0000

FOLLOWING on from the theme of 'one big blind date' coined by JL Pagano at the recent Blog Awards I'm posting below two of my Said and Dunne columns about Internet dating and how I fared when I registerd for a dating website.

I never actually met any of the men featured below now, the profiles were enough, trust me, but you'll get the gist of it. I had fun on the site and I'd encourage others to try it, but I fear I'm going to be single for a very long time. Enjoy!

Said and Dunne 1.

"A PRESS release came into the office last week concerning a singles website which is offering free membership to people for the month of February, to get into the whole Valentine’s spirit.

A colleague, sick of me moaning about having no fella, forwarded it on to me with a cheery ‘check this out’ message, though the underlying tone was ‘stop whining bi-atch’.

Having heard good things about Internet dating from friends and having dabbled with chat rooms myself in the past, I thought, why not?

So I duly logged on to www.woo.ie and registered, even going to far as to put up a photograph and including such scintillating details about myself as my favourite drink (coke) and food (sangwiches).

Not expecting much, I was pleasantly surprised when I checked back later to see that I had a few messages, quite apart from the obligatory one from admin when I registered.

First up was AC* (*not his real name obviously!) who’s favourite place was the Algarve and who enjoyed a glass of red wine.

Things were looking up until I realised that for him things really would be looking up as he was a mere 5ft 6, meaning I’d never be able to wear heels around him (think Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman).

He persisted for a while, even sending a photo which was cute enough, but the height thing really put me off so I didn’t respond (yes, I AM that shallow).

Then there was JJ* who described himself as "well groomed but shy" and said he didn’t drink though his favourite pub was "any where once it’s trendy". Oh dear.

He also said he didn’t really have an ‘ideal’ partner once she had an "attractive figure/personality". So a figure OR a personality then, he didn’t mind which? Next!

Just when I had given up hope though, I got a mail from MM* with ‘Your account balance’ in the subject line.

Curious, I opened up the message to see "Hi, your current account balance at MM’s bank is 10 kisses. If you would like to increase this number, feel free to contact our advisor" which I thought was pretty original.

Corny, but original. But then I spotted his personal details. Yes, another Tom Cruise, this one was only 5ft 5.

Ok, I know it’s wrong to judge someone on their looks alone, but let’s be honest, there has to be some sort of attraction or spark there or it’s not going to work.

For me, I don’t have a particular look or facial feature that I particularly like or dislike about men, but I have to have the height.

I’m fairly tall myself at 5ft 6 and I’m also patently not a perfect size 10 so I need my men to be bigger than I am, which is no mean feat.

I’ve only been on the site for a few days so I haven’t met Mr Right and Tall yet, though my profile has been viewed 26 times already, so you never know.

The site offers some cool features such as chat rooms and message boards as well as a nifty ‘Who’s Looking?’ option which allows you to see which members have been accessing your profile and how many times they have done so.

Perfect for spotting the stalker lurking among all the normal people.

So far I’ve persuaded (bullied) another colleague into joining woo.ie and I’m hoping to cajole (threaten) a few more so we’ll see what happens.

For now, I’m happy enough surfing through the member profiles in search of my Prince, so I’ll keep you posted.

Why not check it out yourself – I’ll know if you don’t, remember, I’m a journalist."

Said and Dunne 2.

"SO far my woo.ie profile has been viewed 65 times yet only 12 men have sent me a message.

Me thinks the mascara-streaked photograph I put up on the site was a mistake.

Yes dear reader is appears that not only do I repel men in real life, I also repel men over the Internet as the only messages I’ve received have either been from the midgets I mentioned in last week’s column (those 5ft 5 and under) or else dirty old men.

I logged on last week, full of the joys of spring to find I had a few messages and even better a few ‘winks’ which are little winky icons which appear in your inbox to let you know someone viewed your profile and approved.

One wink was from an "older gentleman" who described himself as "fit and good-looking". Eager to see, I clicked on his photograph and I’m still not the better for it.

Think Jack Duckworth mixed with the owner of a greasy spoon cafe and you’d be halfway there.

Like the scene of a car crash however, I couldn’t look away and scrolled down to read that his favourite activity was "naughty games in my secluded back garden" and that he preferred his "laydeez" to wear "short skirts, high heels and no underwear".

Oh he’s a keeper! I kept expecting the Benny Hill theme music to blast out from the computer when I read his profile; thankfully it didn’t.

A male colleague hasn’t fared much better (aw, bless) though he did get one message off a seemingly nice UCD student...who then proceeded to mention her ex-boyfriend. A mistake apparently ladies, so beware.

"I’m not trying to be overly critical but Jesus why did she have to mention her boyfriend in the first line? And she said she likes GAA too..I thought that was a bit odd," sez he.

A female colleague got quite a few messages and one looked decent enough except that he mentioned his favourite activity was "ballroom dancing" suggesting that he was perhaps a little more, er, festive than he was making out to be.

The oul Internet dating is not looking good people so I fear I shall shortly have to return to the age old tradition of getting locked and finding boys in pubs. You have been warned.

On another, slightly related, point Valentine’s Day passed off peacefully enough as thankfully there was the minimum amount of gushiness and cards in the office and I even got a flower all wrapped up in a bow.

It was from the manager of Molloy’s Pub where we go for our lunch everyday (hi Fran!) and he was giving them to everybody, but still, it counts!

I also got a virtual e-Valentine’s message from a friend of mine living in Canada (let’s call him Toronto Dude or TD for short) which was really sweet, but he’s all the way over there and I’m all the way over there, so we won’t be skipping off into the sunset just yet.

He IS moving back home to Dublin at the end of the year though, so I’ll keep you posted. [Cue TD running for the hills in horror, shouting ‘it was only a feckin’ e-mail for crying out loud, I was just being niiiiiicccee’].

Anyway, so as of yet I’m still single and alone and it looks as though the ‘single for 27 years then gets a column about being single and kaboom you’ll get a man’ prediction my friends warned me about has yet to come true.

Hmmm, I hear the personal ads in the Irish Times are worth looking into.......all together now "all by myself, don’t wanna be, all by myself, anymooooore"."

Pic: http://www.visitmontserrat.com/

Irish Blog Awards, oh what a night..

noreply@blogger.com (KnackeredKaz) — Mon, 13 Mar 2006 17:16:00 +0000

Kaz at the awards
Originally uploaded by Joe Drumgoole.

My fingernails were chewed to the quick, I was lightly sweating, slightly manic and looking feverishly from one group to the next. No, not a Mountjoy escapee on the run, simply an Irish blogger looking for the pre-Irish Blog Awards bash in the Cellar Bar.

"Do you think that’s them," I mouthed at my friend as we were tottering oh-so-casually around the room, gesturing not-so-subtly at a group of well-heeled individuals at the bar.

"I ‘unno ‘aybe ‘sk," she suggested through the rictus grin she had plastered on her face just in case it was them. But then thanks to Red Mum who arrived in the nick of time, we eventually hit the jackpot.

The walk over to the much larger than expected crowd of bloggers in the corner, one positively dashing in a tuxedo, was nerve wracking, but after the initial ice was broken, it just got better and better.

It turned out the tux guy was from Letters to America, the young pretty woman was Sinead Gleeson, the woman in the pink top (and later double award winner) was Annette from Thinking Out Loud, the guy I’d pegged as JL actually was him and the guy in the glasses was Colm Bracken from In Fact Ah.

Ah yes Colm. Who took one look at me and said "you’re Kaz right, I recognised you from your photo". Delighted I was...until I remembered that I’d absolutely trollied on the make-up, spent hours and a fortune on curling my hair and had squeezed myself (literally, Mammy Dunne was on hand with the cooking oil) into a black dress for the occasion, so he SHOULDN’T have recognised me.

Ah well, I tried.

After scaring the Letters from America guys with my slightly nervous insisting that if they won an award they had to do the "funky chicken dance" (no, I’m not sure what it is either, but I did a kinda half-hearted example which was when people started backing away) it was off with us to the Alexander Hotel.

Well actually, we were almost in the Davenport thanks to our so-blonde-he-was-almost-white haired escort (who’s name I can’t for the life of me remember, sorry) but then we sorted it out and hurried into the right place.

We needn’t have worried about being late however, as the show didn’t get underway on time, but this was actually a good thing as you got to mingle and speak to people – such as Suzy from Maman Poulet, photographer Joe, one half of Slugger O’Toole and his lovely girlfriend/wife, Claire from Ginger Pixel and her lovely husband – as well as having a steadying drink (or two.)

The awards themselves were a resounding success and all kudos must go to Damien for organising them and for Rick O’Shea for hosting with such aplomb as well as the sponsors and the hotel (did anyone else think the bar guy was cute?!).

All credit to Thinking Out Loud for winning Best Personal Blog but I have to say with absolutely no bias and not because Red Mum is one of my best friends or because I babysat the Young Wan when she was an even Younger Wan or anything, but Red Mum woz robbed. Look out next year Annette!

I didn’t win anything in the raffle. There will be an independent inquiry, but that’s all I can say on the matter right now.

Of course the biggest question of the evening was whether Twenty Major would show up in all his glory, smoking and effing all over the place but alas it was not to be, as only his "representative on Earth" put in an appearance. Or did he?

Hmm, despite his protestations that he really wasn’t there, I have my doubts. Only time will tell though I guess and I look forward to awards night 2007 with bated breath, where I’m sure he’ll sweep the boards again. The c*nt.

After the awards, which despite the late start, ended unfeasibly early, things did peter out a little quickly but this is only to be expected when a group of virtual strangers get together; next year I hear there may be music, which will help keep the party going a little longer.

I’m already looking forward to next year and have threatened, er secured, nominations from various friends so that I’ll at least I stand a chance to get to the long list in 2007.

I also didn’t get to talk to a quarter of the people who were there on Saturday and I’ll bet I’m leaving out a heap of people that I did talk to, so apologies for that and hopefully I’ll be less hesitant and have a better memory in the future.

All in all, a great night, with my only gripe being that after spending all that effort tarting myself up like a dogs dinner, it turned out that another blogger showed up with the same hairstyle as me, namely, this guy....

...who I believe is from Disillusioned Lefty (or perhaps The Community At Large...eeek, I can’t remember!). I think next year I’ll have to try a Dolly Parton wig or something.

(NOTE: You will have noticed that I haven’t linked or done the whole HTML thing with any of the people I’ve mentioned above. JL Pagano very kindly emailed me a while ago telling me how to do it, but I’m a complete technophobe and when I read his mail there was a shrieking in my head so I gave up. So sorry about that, you’ll just have to Google them or come back here in a while where I’ll have added them to my links sidebar. Thanks.)

Pic 1: http://www.flickr.com/photos/joedrumgoole/111073543/
Pic 2: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rymus/111514788/