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

Fringes and other musings......

2007-03-11T16:20:00.000Z

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

2007-03-05T21:22:00.000Z

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!

2007-03-04T20:18:00.000Z

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

2007-02-16T12:50:00.000Z

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.......?

2006-11-06T18:00:00.000Z

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!

2006-08-23T17:53:00.000+01:00

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!!

2006-08-10T17:10:00.000+01:00

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..

2006-07-31T19:17:00.000+01:00

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!

2006-07-25T14:36:00.000+01:00

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....

2006-07-20T16:40:00.000+01:00

.... 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

2006-06-28T00:13:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-13T19:41:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-09T17:21:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-31T14:18:00.000+01:00

‘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!

2006-05-25T17:09:00.000+01:00

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?

2006-05-18T17:02:00.000+01:00

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...

2006-05-11T22:58:00.000+01:00

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!

2006-04-24T18:11:00.000+01:00

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

2006-04-13T18:00:00.000+01:00

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!

2006-04-13T10:50:00.000+01:00

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!

2006-04-10T20:12:00.000+01:00

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..

2006-04-01T00:00:00.000+01:00

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.........

2006-03-26T23:05:00.000+01:00

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!

2006-03-16T16:43:00.000Z

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..

2006-03-13T17:16:00.000Z

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/

And the Bloggie goes to.............

2006-03-12T02:49:00.000Z

Right, come on, hands up who thinks that guy at the awards tonight really was Twenty Major?

Well done to all the winners and Damien too, it was a great night. Next year I'm DEFFO nominating myself!

Blog Awards on Dave Fanning

2006-03-10T10:43:00.000Z

Hey kids, here's the link for Rick and Damien on the Dave Fanning Show talking about the Blog Awards, in case you missed it.

http://www.rte.ie/2fm/davefanning/

Click on this then go to 'Listen to latest Dave Fanning show' and if you scroll through to about 42 minutes, that's when it starts. I only had time to listen to a few minutes up until about 50 minutes or so and then they played a song, but I think there's more after that, so keep listening!

The bit I heard was great though, a good plug for the awards and for Damien. Here's to a great night on Saturday!

Help me Jebus, the sequel...

2006-03-07T22:12:00.000Z

There is a box lurking in the boiler room of my office that haunts me.

It's just an ordinary large cardboard box now, not a box of embarrassing 'glamour' shots, or a box of women's 'down there' creams, or a box of various dead relative's bones or anything, it's just a box.

But it's a box containing all the paper and bits and pieces I've accumulated in the past seven years that I've worked for my newspaper that I haven't been able to throw out. And it's bursting at the seams.

I leave on March 22 and somehow I don't think that's going to be enough time to sort through all the stuff in that box and in my desk. I don't want to just throw everything out, what if I need it?

I haven't needed it in seven years, but I know, just as I commit the entire thing to the nice man who does the recycling round our way that I'll remember a vital telephone number sitting in the bottom of the box and it'll be too late. And it'll turn out to be a telephone number that could have made me rich, rich I tells ya, with a perfect figure and a submissive husband, but no, I'll have chucked it in the Green Bin. And with it, my future.

So I think I'm going to have to sit down and leaf through every single bit of paper and message slip to make sure I don't throw away my golden ticket. I dread to think what I'll look like at the end of it; think Tom Hanks in Castaway!

Apart from all the 'getting ready for my new life, e-mailing everyone I've ever talked to as a journalist, cleaning my desk and generally freaking out' life has been pretty tame for me recently, hence the lack of posts. Thanks to everyone who asked about my welfare (well, stamped their foot and pouted 'where are the funny posts').

I also fear that just like Paige over at Blank Paige, I have writers block, or it could just be that I'm actually quite boring and have nothing much to report. Personally I prefer the former, sounds more glamorous doesn't it?

The photos came back of my gorgeous niece's christening and once again my single state was practically beaming back at me from the snaps.

Mammy Dunne didn't help much with her running commentary as she looked at the photos, to whit:

"Oh look now there's the baby and her Mammy...and John and Marie, and Emer and Vern, and Brian and Mary, and Christine and Ivan...oooh and there's you Karen....your dress is nice?"

Yes, did you notice the lack of my significant other in that sentence? It seems everyone at the christening was all loved up and couply and there was me in my "nice dress".

I think I'm just going to have to grin (perhaps gin?) and bear it though, but I sure as hell ain't getting into any more photographs!

Pic: http://www.pacific-paper-products.com/nss-folder/pictures/box2.jpg

Irish Blog Awards

2006-02-24T20:31:00.000Z

Hey, just a wondering. Who's going to the Blog Awards on March 11? I see there's a registration form now for numbers, cos it looks like a lot of people are going to show up. So who's up for it? Red Mum, Paige, JL, Curly K, Catgirl, anyone? (I kinda really want to go just to see if Twenty Major shows up so I can call him a c*nt!)

Help me Jebus!

2006-02-23T12:21:00.000Z

Readers of The Life and Times of an Irish Emigrant may recall a post a while ago where Dunner asked where he was going with his life, what he was doing etc? (The link’s in my sidebar there, I’m too lazy to figure out the whole HTML thing!)

Anyway, without stealing his thunder, I find myself in the same predicament this week and as our American cousins might say, I’m friggin freakin out! Help me Jebus!

As of the March 22, 2006, I will no longer be in full-time employment. After seven years working as a news journalist and almost a decade in journalism, I’m FINALLY leaving my job to work as a freelance writer.

I know that I’m leaving to do nearly exactly the same thing as I’m doing now and the only difference will be that I’m intending to cut down on my hours (following surgery at the end of last summer I’m still not 100 per cent and need the break) and will be working a lot from home, but still.

I feel slightly ashamed about that, for it’s not as though I’m heading off on a round the world trip and will be writing from fabulously exotic locations, or like I’m leaving journalism to do something worthwhile like work with poor children in Africa, or teach English to all of the new communities flocking here from ‘out furrin’. It’s not even as though I’m leaving journalism for an altogether more spiritual life and will be meditating and discovering my chakras or anything (‘whenever, wherever, we want to be together….’ Oh sorry, that’s SHAKIRA, I always get those mixed up) I’m simply cutting down on my hours and offering writing services from the comfort of my own home.

So why do I feel like bolting into my boss’s office and begging on my hands and knees for my job back? (Please, please, Don Boss, I a-do anything you a-say….yes, yes even a vox pop.)

Why am I constantly staring narrow-eyed at all my colleagues bitterly thinking “you bastards, you still have a job and holiday pay” and why does the thought of having my P45 in my hot little hand have me holding my head? (Too much alliteration there?!)

I think it’s because I have worked on either a part or full-time basis for a salary since the age of 14 (a gift shop in the Swan Centre in Rathmines, I clumsily broke EVERYTHING) and now almost 14 years later, I’m going out on my own and I’ll be my own boss.

I’ll be my own boss!

And somehow I don’t think excuses like ‘oh there was a HUGE queue in the coffee shop and the, er, a horse died on the road in front of me, yeah, he just….died’ will cut it when I’m explaining to MYSELF why I’m late back from lunch.

I’m just not sure that I have the discipline to work from home, everyday, regularly, with little direction and no one to answer to. I’m just not sure that I have the motivation to tear myself away from Oprah to sit down and write. I’m just not sure that I have the talent to survive as a freelance when every second person I meet is a ‘writer’ or working for ‘loike, The Times’ and I ‘loike’ can barely spell Times.

I’m just not sure.

On the upside though, I’ll be my own boss! I’ll be able to work on different types of writing projects as opposed to just hard news. (Any journalist will tell you that hard news is more about fact gathering and putting something in readable form, rather than actually showing off your writing style or talent.) I’ll be able to set my own working hours and do whatever work I choose, not work that is chosen for me. I’ll have a sense of freedom that has been missing in my life for some time now and finally, I’ll feel like I’m dragging my lardy arse out of the rut I’ve been in.

So yes, it’s exciting and exhilarating and everytime I think about it, my stomach gives this almighty swoop and I feel like I’m going to throw up (in a good way) – but it’s also terrifying and frightening and worrying. How am I going to earn a crust? What if I fail? Will Mammy and Daddy Dunne throw me to the wolves if I don’t make with the ‘house’ money AGAIN? Will I be forced to – oh Jesus I can barely type it – take a job working with a load of slimy advertising executives coming up with lines to sell their crappy products? (You know the type of thing – ‘Cheesy cheese, it’s….cheeeeeeeesy’ and then a shiny faced gombeen grinning and pointing to the cheeeeeeeeese.) You see how bad I’d be at it?!

Everything is all up in the air and there’s a maelstrom of thoughts just whizzing through my brain every second and to be honest, part of me can’t wait for March 22 so that I can actually start DOING it instead of thinking about it. But the other part keeps propelling me to my boss’s office on my hands and knees silently begging for a second chance. So far I haven’t uttered the words ‘gis me job back’ yet, but he’s starting to look at me funny and I don’t think he believes me when I mutter ‘oh, lost a contact, there it is’ jump up and scurry back to my soon-to-be vacated desk. I think he’s on to me.

However, the excitement of this new step in my life is slowly taking over my blinding terror and I think I’m going to run with it. So, if you see a panic stricken woman, scorching down the street clutching a boxful of notebooks and screaming “please, please, someone make me a PAYE worker again”, do stop and say hi!

Pic: www.istockphoto.com

Get clickin'!

2006-02-16T15:26:00.000Z

From time to time a person comes into your life that takes your breath away with their sheer courage and determination and makes you want to be a better human being.

For me that person is Jenny McCann.

I met Jenny through a mentoring programme I am involved in with an organisation here in Dublin, Enable Ireland. She used to come into my workplace one morning a week and we’d work together on news articles and how to put stories together and all of that.

Now however, we’re moving on to creative writing and so we’ve set up a blog (I’m spreading the word according to Blogger so I am) called Can you do the McCann can? (geddit?) and she’s going to use that to perfect her writing skills.

So far we’ve literally just put up a welcome post and some links (and a shiny pink clock shamelessly stolen from Dunner’s page) but we’re aiming to update it at least once a week.

The reason Jenny is so special to me is because she has Dystonia, a neurological movement disorder, which means she is a wheelchair user and has limited movement, but she never, ever lets it hold her back.

She goes to college, she has written a booklet about her life, she goes out on work experience, she loves magazines and fashion, she has competed in international sporting events winning countless medals, she’s been an extra in a film, she loves music and meeting with her friends, she even has a fiancée (lucky duck) and she’s always so upbeat, busy and cheerful that sometimes she scares me!

Me, I moan about being fat and having no fella.

So you can see the difference there! And you can also see how she inspires me and how working with her is a joy and a privilege.

What I’m asking now is that readers of this blog take the time to drop by her blog every so often to give her your support and encouragement. The link is http://www.mccanncan.blogspot.com/ (it’s in my sidebar too) and if you wanted to be even nicer you could link her to your blog or website too.

I’ve already taken the liberty of adding Red Mum, Dunner, Paige and JL Pagano on to Jenny’s page so she’d have more links than just mine. I hope that’s ok.

So drop by to say hi, you’re more than welcome! Get clickin'!

Pic: http://tekworks.ca/images/hand.jpg

The look, of love.......

2006-02-15T16:28:00.000Z

Dear Jesus what have I done?

No, I haven’t murdered anyone (though if I’ve to sit through one more episode of Agatha Christie with Daddy Dunne, I will) it’s something much MUCH worse.

I’ve joined a new Irish dating website and agreed to write about it for my column.

So, not only do I have to admit to being a sad, desperate singleton in public, I also may have to meet some of these degenerates in order to gather some fodder for Said and Dunne.

This is not something I want to do, or in fact have any intention of doing, but everytime I mention the site people lean in closer, their eyes gleam and they say ‘oooh when are you going to meet one’ as if they’re special website men who should be kept in a glass box.

As if that wasn’t quite enough, it seems that even said special website men are rejecting me as the only messages I’ve had are from midgets, literally men 5ft 5 or under.

I joined about a week and a half ago and so far, I’ve had about 14 or 15 messages, at least five of which were from the site administration letting me know about various features etc.

The rest were from ‘real’ men, though certainly not Mr Right and Tall all of whom can’t seem to string two sentences together and say things like “my favourite pub is anywhere once it’s trendy”. Oh dear.

My favourite message however was from a man who was 55 and described himself as ‘good looking and in good shape’.

Intrigued I clicked on his photo (shudder, think a taxi driver merged with the manager of a greasy spoon café) and read on.

I knew I should have stopped when I got to the bit where it said that his favourite hobby was “naughty games in my secluded back garden” but like a car crash that you just can’t look away from, I kept reading to find out that his ideal woman wore “short skirts, high heels and no knickers”.

Classy!

If this is the calibre of men out there, I think I’m better off being single!

Pic: www.personal.psu.edu/.../ computerlove3.gif

Don't forget February 14 - Pah!

2006-02-10T17:10:00.000Z

THERE is a huge sign on the side of a garden centre which I pass every day on my way to work which reads "Don't forget February 14, Valentine's Day". Ha! As if I could!

It seems every way you turn you're confronted by massive teddy bears, cut out hearts, boxes of chocolates and sick making smoochy couples.

Bitter, moi?

Ok, well, maybe I AM a tiny bit bitter. Valentine's Day is great if you're part of a couple (Daddy Dunne still sends Mammy Dunne a card every February 14 signed Guess Who?) but not so great if you're perpetually single, like yours truly.

This year it falls on a Tuesday which means that both this weekend AND next will be taken over by smug couples celebrating, meaning single people (aka me) will have to stay at home in front of the telly with the best part of the Lams Chinese Takeaway menu.

Sigh.

It’ll be a nightmare on Tuesday too, cos you know there are always those people in an office who make the same ‘oh sorry I’m late I couldn’t get out the door because of the amount of Valentine’s I got’ jokes while you sit there thinking about the pitiful bowl of pasta which is all that will be waiting to welcome you when you get home.

And every time a deliveryman comes to the door you’ll be secretly on the edge of your seat thinking that maybe, just maybe, the flowers might be for you from some hitherto unknown admirer…only for the pretty girl from accounts to come beaming back into the office wittering about her ‘so thoughtful’ sweetie.

Double sigh.

The sooner Valentine’s Day is over the better as far as I’m concerned. I think the next ‘holiday’ at least here in Ireland is St Patrick’s Day and that just concerns drinking and waving flags about. Now THAT I can handle!

Pic: www.istockphoto.com

Knackered Kaz lives...but is slightly queasy!

2006-02-08T12:49:00.000Z

Boy_Sneezing
Originally uploaded by Knackeredkaz.

SO due to the fact that I’m typing this you can assume I’m alive and well and haven’t been eaten by a shark, as my absence from the bloggosphere would suggest.

My apologies for not posting, I have no excuse, I am interminably lazy and have spent the past couple of weeks re-reading my Harry Potter books in the evenings on the couch.

And eating biscuits.

Yes, the diet is NOT going well. In the last few weeks I’ve managed to stay the same weight and haven’t put any on, but still, I’m supposed to be shedding the pounds not keeping them.

I’m actually disgusted with myself because my gorgeous baby niece is being christened this weekend and I have bought (for once) an entirely suitable (and sassy) little black dress and high heels to wear, which would look much better if I were a stone lighter.

It still looks nice and formal and dressy and I’m happy enough, but the plan was to lose a stone before the christening so that I’d be 100 per cent happy with it instead of 80 per cent, but yet again I’ve let myself down.

I’ll do better in the future.

Anyway moving swiftly along from how disgusted I am with myself, to how disgusted I am with men, well with one man in particular…but no, with men in general.

Allow me to explain.

This morning travelling on the bus to work, I witnessed a male student (aged about 19) snorting, coughing and if that wasn’t enough spitting bodily fluids all over the bus very loudly, all the while proclaiming “aw yeah, I needed that”.

This went on for about 20 minutes, literally every time he opened his mouth, despite everyone on the bus simultaneously holding their hands over their mouths, myself included, trying not to be sick.

To top it off, when he got off the bus, he proceeded to hold one of his nostrils closed and snort fluid out all over the ground, grinning and cheering himself on like a prize gorilla.

Every morning when I’m waiting for my bus to work I see men, for it is always men, coughing and spitting at the bus stop, which is disgusting enough, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen it proudly carried out on the bus itself.

My question is this – why do men feel the need to snort and spit like this? I could partly condone it if it were in a sporting situation where male friends have told me it is almost impossible not to spit on the pitch due to the exertion you’re under, but surely it can’t be condoned on the bus?

The vast majority of women do not spit on the ground. I know I’m generalising here and there’s bound to be some irate comments off people saying they’ve witnessed women spitting but in my opinion it is few and far between.

For every 50 men I have seen spitting in the street, I have seen one woman do the same, so it appears to be a male phenomenon and it turns my stomach – do you people have no manners?

If I desperately need to blow my nose, clear my throat, unblock my sinuses or otherwise I use a tissue, do it quietly and where possible do it in private, I don’t hock up all over the bus.

I am not a prude and I have been known on occasion to be sick into a bush (Mammy Dunne would be so proud) but I really can’t put up with spitting, particularly the level I witnessed this morning.

So far I have held my tongue in situations like the one this morning but in future I’m going to say something and in fact I think I’ll carry a spare packet of tissues with me to offer sweetly to the offending parties.

That’ll show ‘em!

Cartoon: love4home.com.www.readyplanet.net/ images/1111

Drumroll please.........my column!

2006-01-26T14:40:00.000Z

HERE'S a sneak look at my first column for The Echo newspaper, based in south Dublin, hot off the presses today.

They decided on When it's all Said and Dunne, which I quite like myself, so thanks for all the suggestions, and thanks anonymous for the Said and Dunne idea!

Like Red Mum I'll hold off on posting it every week until a few days after the paper is out (to persuade people to buy it, it's only €1.60, gwan) but as it's the first week, I couldn't hold back.

(How pathetic am I? I've been working in the media for a decade, this isn't the first time I've seen my name in print, but I'm as excited as a child! Humour me.)

Anyway, here it is and if you happen to live in or near the south Dublin area, pick up a hard copy, boost the sales, justify my job, you know you want to!

I've just started using Flikr so if you want to actually read it, you'll have to click on the column and it'll take you to the Flikr page (I think) where you can see a bigger size (I think!)

And they call it, puppy loooovvveeee

2006-01-23T10:35:00.000Z

I’VE just spent the weekend dog-sitting for Red Mum as she and the Young Wan were away for a few days, so the wee doggie and I spent some quality time together.

Well, I lounged around eating Red Mum’s food and watching her television, while the wee doggie spent most of her time curled up on the bed whining and looking expectantly at me as if to say “well, where are they then?”.

No matter how many times I assured her that I hadn’t kidnapped the Young Wan and that they’d be back in two shakes of a doggie’s tail, she didn’t believe me.

She grumpily mooned about the house, sniffing madly in every room for any sign of them, except for when I mentioned “walkies” or “outside” or “treat”, then she was my best friend again.

If she weren’t a she, I’d say she was almost like a man, fickle until they want something and then all over you (miaow, pull in the claws Kaz!).

Ah, but we had a great weekend together, went on a couple of walks and she does the sweetest tricks ever (twirling on her hind legs like a Russian gymnast) which was endlessly entertaining (er, that might be why she’s a tad dizzy today Red Mum, sorry!)

It made me realise I really want a dog cos they’re oh-so-cuddly and oh-so-cute, but according to Mammy Dunne they’re not good enough reasons and they’re also oh-so-messy and oh-so-barky and oh-so-peeing-on-the-floor.

I made a video on my phone though of the wee doggie scampering around the park and I’m intending to show it to Mammy Dunne over and over again until she changes her mind.

Let the brain-washing begin!

Hey buddy, what a scoop!

2006-01-19T11:34:00.000Z

I’M in need of some inspiration kids and I thought I’d ask for your help.

Following in the footsteps of the remarkable Red Mum (see the link in my sidebar there!), a Dublin newspaper has expressed an interest in me writing a column for them, based on my blog.

They seem impressed by what I’ve written so far and seem to think that their readers would also like to hear about my single life, battle with Weight Watchers and just general views on being a woman in Dublin. (I’m guessing their thinking behind it is their readers might not feel so bad about their own lives if they read about how desperate/fat/single I am, and it might provide some laughs into the bargain!)

Anyway, I’m all for it but I need to come up with some ideas for the name of the column, because, being a family newspaper I can’t call it Life’s a Bastard….and I’d rather not use Knackered Kaz either.

I’m really at a loss because I want it to be a catchy, witty, original name..not just Kaz’s Diary or anything like that (Bridget Jones beat me to that one) and Sex and the City has already been done.

I dunno…maybe Koncerning Karen? Or would people not get the deliberate alliteration and just think I can’t spell?

Overbearing, Overweight and Over here? Too much?

I’d like to come up with something to pitch them because otherwise I think it WILL end up being Karen’s Column or Karen’s Diary and I’d like something more original than that.

When I know more I'll let you know when (or if!) it's coming out and what newspaper etc but for now I'm still talking with them.

All help gratefully received! Get your thinking caps on!

One foot in the grave and the other on a banana skin

2006-01-18T16:43:00.000Z

AS some of you may be aware, it was my birthday last week and sadly I have reached the grand old age of 27.

I had thought that I would be able to keep this ever descending slide into my thirties from you, but Blogger, being the omnipotent being that it is, changed my age on my profile here on the blog, about two seconds past midnight on my birthday, so I am forced to come clean.

My big day was on a Tuesday and as I was working til 9.30pm, I didn’t get to celebrate on that day (apart from the half eaten cake Mammy and Daddy Dunne presented me with, complete with guilty sugar-stained smiles) but I did go out on the weekend.

Dressed to the nines (well, maybe the seven and a halfs) in my black boobylicious Sasha top that I mentioned before, I sallied forth with some childhood girlfriends in tow to a pub and then a club.

Without exception, we were the oldest people in there.

Where do all the people in their mid-20s, early-30s go? And why do bouncers allow young-uns, who should by rights be down the youth centre, into their establishments?

Children, for that is what they were, rolled past us all evening complete with spotty skin, skirts up to their buttocks (ooooh Matron) sqeaky voices and Ben Sherman shirts, locked after downing two vodkas and red bull.

One fella even bore a shiny red rosette and medal from his Confirmation, I swear to God.

I was all for presenting myself to Mountjoy Prison for having inappropriate thoughts about a minor (Confirmation boy was cute) but the music was good so I partied on.

Seriously though, there seems to be an absolute dearth of any people my age when I go out and about, particularly men, so it’s no wonder I’m single!

Am I perhaps merrymaking in the wrong places? Do men and women my age go out to fine wine tasting evenings? Galleries? Museums? Doesn’t anyone go to pubs anymore?

Ah, just like it is with policemen, you know you’re getting older when the guy you have backed up against the fire escape in a club starts to look younger.

Pic www.pocketfactory.com

Canada here I come!

2006-01-13T10:07:00.000Z

Phew! It turns out our rickety old scale isn’t so decrepit after all and that I HAVE actually lost weight.

Four pounds!

Four whole pounds!

Ah it was a great night. Add the weight loss to the gorgeous black boob-a-licious top I bought in Sasha and the yummy honey shower gel I picked up in L’Occitane and it was a fantastic night! (Late night shopping, how are ya?)

Of course the shopping part means I now have no money left for the month, but at least that means I won’t be able to buy food. So it’s a win-win situation!

Now all I have to do is lose another gazillion pounds and I’ll be sorted. Canada here I come!

Pic: http://ukclipart.allinfo-about.co.uk/graphics/business/women/women.html
(It's me jumping for joy, by the way!)

When I'm wrong, I'm wrong....and other stories

2006-01-12T11:23:00.000Z

I’M starting to like the rickety old scale in our bathroom. I know in the past I spoke about how I hated it and how weight varied depending on where on the floor you put it and how I wanted to fling it from the window to the furthest point possible.

But I’ve had a change of heart.

When I’m wrong, I’m wrong.

Standing gingerly on the scale this morning (shoes and all, as per WW requirements) it APPEARS that I have lost weight, though my official weigh-in isn’t til tonight on the proper electronic scales.

I’m not going to say how much it looks like I’ve lost in case the scale is in fact decrepit and I’ve actually put on weight…but I’m quietly confident that tonight’s figures will show a loss. I’ll keep you posted.

And now for something completely different (does that joke EVER get old?!)

I was reading in the Irish Times this morning (alright already, it was the Herald AM) how a new survey has shown that single and middle-aged men are the happiest people in Ireland.

How about that now?

The survey says that the average age for men to marry in the Republic of Ireland is 34 and their reasons for waiting until they are that bit older is because they want to “spend money and time on their own leisure habits” until they are “absolutely ready” to settle down. Ergo, while they’re living the life of Reilly (lucky duck that Reilly) they’re happier.

Middle aged and older men are happier because in the main their mortgage payments have ceased and they’re earning more money than they were when they were younger, so have more disposable cash to spend on fast cars, loose women and Just For Men*.

*I may or may not have made that last bit up*

I think I might start taking a leaf out of men’s books as they obviously have the right idea. According to this survey, these men live the high life, enjoy themselves, travel the world and THEN start thinking about settling down. It’s not that they never get married, they do, it’s just not top of their agenda and apparently, they’re happier for it.

As a woman (and I’m not speaking for all women here, just myself) I know that marriage or settling down isn’t exactly top of my agenda, but it is high up there. I do want a boyfriend, partner, husband, soulmate – call it what you will and I would like to meet him earlier on in life rather than later. But maybe if I ‘make like a man’ and do all the other stuff I want to do first, the rest will just slot into place? I don’t know if that’s feasible, but it’s something to think about anyway!

On the other hand, I can’t see HOW it would all just slot into place as I seem to have trouble meeting decent men, no matter what I do or don’t do. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

Now, how does everyone feel about speed dating?

Pic: www.bbc.co.uk

Three...look all around you, before you cross the road....

2006-01-11T14:22:00.000Z

WELL my New Year’s resolution to blog more often is going well isn’t it? Oh the busy life of a working Dublin girl.

Anyway, just to update you all, I’ve given up on my OTHER resolution to say hello to the man I pass in the street every morning as I’m now doubly convinced he reads this blog and is a-scared of me.

You might remember that I had vowed to say hello to him and the next day he disappeared. Well, for the past three mornings he has re-appeared but scowled ferociously at me when I pass by, keeping his head down and scurrying up the road like the Devil himself is after him.

Ho hum. I guess he’ll have to do without my charming good morning smile then. *Kaz mentally thumbs her nose at as yet unnamed street man*

While I was waiting at the bus stop this morning however I witnessed a child of about nine almost being mown down by a Garda patrol car as she crossed the street on her bicycle, which was a *sarcastic* nice way to start the day.

Thankfully the only people shaken up by the incident were us onlookers as the child was completely unaware of the fate that almost befell her and cycled on blithely to school, not noticing the car which had to jam on its brakes or the crowd of people at the bus stop who exclaimed ‘Holy Jesus’ out loud (me being one of them).

In fairness to the child she had a green pedestrian light to cross the street, but the patrol car had all its lights and sirens going and every other car on the street had pulled out of its way or slowed down, which she obviously just failed to notice and cycled on right out into the path of the car.

Kudos must go to the Garda driving the car who reacted quickly to the situation. And kudos must also go to him for not getting out of the car and giving her a good clip around the ear which, judging by the look on his face, is what he wanted to do! He contented himself with gesticulating wildly and carrying on to the emergency.

It got the oul blood pumping I can tell you. I also noticed she wasn’t wearing a helmet or any other protective gear and while she had the gumption to cross the street at a traffic light, she didn’t have the cop on to look both ways while she was doing it.

What do they teach them in school these days? I feel a letter to my local newspaper coming on!

Pic: http://www.foxcreeksales.com/images/bike.jpg

That's the weigh it is...

2006-01-06T10:25:00.000Z

I THINK the man I was talking about yesterday who I pass in the street every day reads this blog. Because I didn’t see him today! I’ve been passing him every single day at the same time for months and months yet today, the day after I announce to the world that I’m going to say hello to him, he disappears.

I also think the ‘sweeper man’ might read this blog because he too has disappeared! Maybe they’re in cahoots together? It is now official – I repel men, even those men I’m not romantically interested in! Ah well, maybe they’ll be back on Monday.

I did, however, say hello to the flower shop man who’s usually out setting up his shop when I pass by in the mornings so at least that was something. He said hello back too, so at least he doesn’t think I’m a raving loon (are you listening guys?!)

On a heavier note (literally) I went back to Weight Watchers last night. The news was not good. Not only have I regained the weight I lost while I tried it out the first time a couple of months back, I’ve ALSO gained an extra five pounds, meaning I’m now 11lb heavier than I was.

It’s a lot to put on in a short space of time, so I really have to get rid of it and much much more, I’m deadly serious this time. I’m going to Canada in July and it’s hot over there and I refuse to spend my holiday sweating in long trousers and shirts because I’m too fat to uncover myself. It’s also getting to be a health worry too, so this is it. I’m going to follow the plan rigidly and when I lose weight I’m going to reward myself with something non-food like. Perhaps a new book, or CD or handbag. But the binge eating has to stop and it stops today.

I’ll be sending around an email to friends and colleagues later asking them to help me and not give me food and to slap my hands away if they see me with rubbish. So I’m asking you all to do the same. For the second time on this blog I’ll ask….Please Do Not Feed The Elephant!

Pic: www.thehindubusinessline.com

I say hello, and you say..........?

2006-01-05T15:09:00.000Z

THERE is a man who sweeps my street and the surrounding streets every morning. He always says hello to me and we have a little chat when I’m on my way out to work, which I quite look forward to now (though when I’m late I sometimes worry that the ‘sweeper man’ will disapprove.)

I don’t know his name nor he mine but we’ve gotten into this little routine whereby he’ll check his watch when I come around the corner and shout out whether I’m late or early before adding “have a nice day now, good luck luv” and I’ll holler “same to you, mind yourself” which is nice.

There is another man whom I also pass every single morning on the way to work at the same time but we never speak, not even a nod in recognition. (He looks very like someone else I know you see, so the first time I saw him I gaped open mouthed for almost a full minute like a total lunatic as he walked past me, so maybe that’s what’s putting him off. But I digress!)

This man is an older man, about 45 I’d say, so there’s no romantic interest there, I just wonder if maybe it would be polite to say hello? Or if he thinks I’m weird or rude or on drugs or something which is why HE doesn’t say hello. Friends who are from the country think this situation is particularly weird as in their cities and towns, EVERYONE nods and waves and says hello to EVERYONE. People even salute other drivers even if they don’t know them, they just simply wave hello if they pass them on the road.

So maybe it’s just a Dublin or city thing? I remember reading in the newspaper after September 11th that people in New York, renowned as a phenomenally busy city, had taken to greeting each other on the street and saluting other drivers because of the atrocity that happened there, as they felt life was too short to be brusque or too busy to say hello to your neighbours. They really embraced the ‘small town’ way of life and I think it would be great if that happened here too.

I think I’ll say hello to the man in the street tomorrow, after all what’s the worst that can happen? He already looks at me like I’m mentally unstable, so it can’t get much worse than that!

I’ll keep you posted.

Pic: www.travelblog.org

Bonggggg.....bongggg....bongggggggg

2006-01-04T17:28:00.000Z

SO hands up who did something nice for New Year? Come on, stick up your hand there if you went to a party, or met friends for champagne and fireworks, or snuggled up with your other half for a romantic evening?

Now hands up all of you who ate something rancid in a takeaway and then threw up in a bar, ruining everyone’s night with your bout of food poisoning?

Oh.

Only me then?

Yes, that’s right. Starting the year as I mean to go on, I spend most of New Year’s Eve feeling decidedly rotten after eating something (possibly gone off chicken/mayonnaise) in a fast food joint, which culminated in me retching in the pub, rushing to the loo to be sick and then going home early. (And before you smart arses out there say it, I wasn’t drunk, I’d only had three drinks.) Well Happy New Year to you too!

Apart from ruining the night for the people I was with, it was also a big disappointment for me because for once I had actually taken some time with my appearance and outfit and had gone out with the express intention of enjoying myself. Usually I hate New Year, so this was a new departure for me. I EVEN wore pointy red glamorous shoes, risking blisters and hobbling like an old woman for the rest of my days. But alas, it was not to be. I ended up in my night-dress, curled under the covers with a mug of tea by 12.15am. No midnight kiss for me!

On the upside I did have a very friendly taxi driver who, when I told him the reason I was going home early was because I was unwell, rolled down all the windows in the car for me and then didn’t stop at any red lights all the way home, not one! He also advised me to have some hot tea to settle my stomach and go to bed early AND he didn’t add any extra charges for New Year’s Eve like a lot of drivers do.

Aside from the bad start to the year though, I’m determined that 2006 is going to be better than last year. For various reasons I didn’t have a great 2005, one big factor being that I was seriously ill for most of it and had to undergo major surgery, which I’m in no hurry to repeat. Things appear to be improving healthwise (I’m down to eight pills a day from 16, woo!) and there are also positive changes happening at work and I feel older and wiser so I’m really determined to enjoy this year.

And so to New Year’s resolutions. Usually I break most of mine by January 3 at a push, so this year I decided to make resolutions I’m actually going to enjoy keeping! (I dropped the ‘run 10 miles a day’ one, shudder!)

I’m going to blog more often, probably once every two days, but definitely more than I have been doing up to now. Paul over at The Life and Times of an Irish Emigrant (the link’s there in my sidebar, lookit!) is also going to try to blog every second day so I’ll have to keep up with him!

I’m going to go to more museums, exhibitions and art galleries. It’s something I have a good interest in but up to now have just been too damn lazy to do it. Saturday mornings from now on will be for wandering around galleries NOT slouching in front of programmes for the deaf, moaning about my hangover.

I’m rejoining Weight Watchers (tomorrow night actually!) and I’m going to try 10 times harder to stick to it.

I’m going to re-instate my direct debits to charities. I had a couple set up, but then changed bank account details (long story) and never renewed my subscriptions. All it takes is filling out a couple of forms, a lot online, so that’ll be really easy.

I’m going to seriously look into doing some volunteering. For a while I’ve been thinking of giving up some of my time to help others, but haven’t been sure of how to go about it and have also been mindful of starting something and then quitting it (a big failure of mine). I want to be 100 per cent sure before I start so I’ll make an appointment with my local volunteer centre to see what advice they can give me. I’m thinking of maybe doing something with my writing skills with young people in my own area, if an opportunity like that is on the books. Watch this space for that one, it may take some time, but I’ll do something about it this year.

I think that’s enough to be going along with don’t you?! I’m off now to look up the opening times of the National Gallery. See? I’m doing it already! Mexican wave in celebration of me!

Pic: www.acustomdj.com

Simply single

2005-12-29T15:05:00.000Z

SO Christmas 2005 is drawing to a close and yet again I find myself single for the New Year (not that I’m bitter or anything, no, not me).

Being single at this time of year is hard and it’s not made any easier by ‘well meaning’ relatives who insist on backing you into a corner and demanding to know the intimate details of your love life.

The urge to sing brightly “well at the moment I’m having indiscriminate sex with several married men and a donkey” overwhelms me sometimes, but so far I’ve restrained myself.

What’s worse than the constant questions about why you’re single, are the ‘tactful’ remarks when you mention in the first place that you don’t have a partner at the moment.

A colleague regaled us in the office before Christmas with the story about how he was invited to a party/family gathering over the festive season “with your partner” and when he said that actually he was single at the moment, there was a pause and the host said: “ah well…..I guess you’re welcome anyway”.

Harsh!

It seems you’re no-one unless you’re with someone and even then, the second you start going out with someone the whole world wants to know when you’re getting married.

In one of the Bridget Jones’s Diary books, Bridget has the idea for Tony Blair to introduce a code of practice or guidelines for single people, such as “smug marrieds shall not be allowed to ask singletons when they’re getting married”.

I think that’s a fantastic idea and the sooner something along those lines is introduced over here, the better.

In fact, I’d even go one further and suggest that the tax system be reformed to better benefit single people and give them something for their money.

Hear me out: at the moment in Ireland we operate a system whereby everyone (except bizarrely many millionaires) pays income tax and VAT and that money then goes to fund our social welfare system, schools, hospitals etc, which is fantastic.

However, the more I think about it the more I realise that some of my tax euros are going to fund others’ lifestyle choices, yet I’m getting very little back.

For example, people who choose to become parents receive child benefit from the State (albeit a paltry amount which should be tripled) yet people without children don’t receive free vodka and coke vouchers, or free 18-30 holidays to enable them to meet someone.

People who choose to get married are allowed to earn more before they are taxed at the higher rate of tax than a single person, yet the single person doesn’t get any extra tax relief for the purchase of revealing clothes that might help to attract a mate.

Do you see where I’m coming from?

Oh, though while I’m on the subject, I think single parents should be allowed to avail of both the State benefits (children’s allowance for example) AND my proposed Single People Who Need Nice Stuff benefits, because if anyone deserves a few free vodka and cokes, it’s them!

So basically I’m proposing a tit-for-tat system whereby every time there’s tax relief for married people, or mortgage benefits or whatever, that an equal amount is put into the Single People Who Need Nice Stuff fund which single people can draw from.

Who’s with me?!

I've been tagged!! Wooo! Weird Habits

2005-12-21T16:09:00.000Z

I'VE been tagged by Fi over at http://trixibel.blogspot.com/ about weird habits and although I'm not quite sure what that means (novice blogger alert) I'm going to try to play along!

Basically it appears to be a game which started a while back with the topic "Five weird habits that you have" and people who are tagged need to write an entry about their five weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end you need to choose the next five people to be tagged and link to their blogs. Don't forget to leave a comment in their blog or journal that says 'you've been tagged' to let them know you've invited them to play and to read your entry.

Ok, so if you're still with me, here are my five weird habits:

1. When I’m checking that I’ve turned off lights or the cooker or the immersion, I always have to do it three times. Not twice, not four times, but three. This stems back to my childhood when I hung around with two friends and we called ourselves the Three Muskateers; from then on I’ve firmly believed the number three is lucky for me.

2. I sing hymns in the shower. Never pop or modern songs, always hymns. My neighbours think I’m a religious freak! I’m not, I just like the way the melody sounds in the acoustics of the bathroom.

3. When I get dressed I always have to put my trousers or skirt on first before my top. I know a lot of people do this, but it really freaks me out to do it the other way round. (Maybe it’s because my arse has its own postcode and I like to get it under wraps as quickly as possible.)

4. I always keep my eyes closed when I open the hot press where the hot water tank is, because I have a mortal fear of water tanks and can’t stand to look at them, even for a second. It’s totally irrational but I imagine getting trapped inside the tank (how, I don’t know) and it makes me feel physically sick.

5. When I’m ticking things off my work ‘to do’ list I always have to put a tick before AND after the item and score a heavy black line through it…just to make sure that it’s really ticked off. If I don’t do this, I feel like the work is still sitting there to be done. I know, I know, I’m a loon.

So there you have it. I don't think I'm that weird (not about to be committed to the laughing house anyway) but maybe you'd all beg to differ. Let me know!

The next five people I'm tagging to hear about their weird habits are: (forgive me putting in the whole link, I haven't figured out how to properly do the whole HTML code thing yet!)

http://blankpaiges.blogspot.com/

http://dunner74.blogspot.com/

http://jplsdiary.blogspot.com/

http://wwwteenagekicks.blogspot.com/

http://www.andreaknapp.blogspot.com/

I'll (try harder) to be there for youuuuuuu!

2005-12-15T14:27:00.000Z

I LOGGED on to my e-mail earlier this week, and there it was. An e-mail from my best friend, tagged “I’m so sorry”.

My best friend who has been my best friend since we were four. My best friend whose birthday is five days before mine, who has the same middle name as me, the same first initial in her name and likes the same cheesy 80s/early 90s pop music as me.

My best friend whom I hadn’t spoken to or had any contact with in a full 10 months.

She lives over the other side of the world and because of work/home circumstances (which are private so I won’t go into here), we fell out of touch. There was no row, no bad feeling, no argument, the contact just dwindled away.

To begin with I continued to text and e-mail but then realised I hadn’t had a reply in days and days…then weeks and weeks until one day it struck me that it had been about three months since I’d heard from her. I kept meaning to call. I kept meaning to ring her folks here in Ireland. I kept meaning to e-mail again and ask if she was alright. But I didn’t. I figured if she wanted or needed to contact me, she would, which looking back now wasn’t sensible at all, but hindsight is 20/20. And so almost a year passed.

When I got the e-mail on Monday, my first reaction was “oh, so you’ve surfaced have you? Ha! We’ll see about that”, but then I read the mail and heard about the horrible time she’s been having for the past year and my defiance crumbled.

It turned out that to begin with she was literally working 24 hours a day, then some personal stuff happened as well as a huge work upheaval so she was up to her neck. And then she, like me, realised it had been months and months since she’d heard from me…and thought it was too late to contact me again, that I’d somehow be annoyed or upset with her. Again, looking back she now realises how silly that was….but at the time it seemed perfectly normal.

It appears there was fault on both sides and some insane reasoning that both of us would be upset with the other for not being in contact (after all these years, we let a few unanswered emails and texts come between us, I’m black and blue from kicking myself) but thankfully it’s been resolved now as she had the courage to apologise.

Sorry is not a word that comes easily to me. I hate to admit to being in the wrong and if at all possible I’ll avoid apologising to anyone (apart from that ‘sorry sorry’ thing you do when you step on someone’s foot on the bus) but I’m about to say it now. If you’re reading K, I’m sorry too. I’m sorry I didn’t make more of an effort to call you, contact your parents to check on you, even fly out to see you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you through the awfulness, when you really needed a friend and I’m sorry that I almost let 22 years of friendship slip away. It won’t happen again!

Just so you know, it is never too late to call me, or e-mail me or text me and I’ll never be upset with you or annoyed with you (except maybe if you start a war or something…and even then I’d probably just roll my eyes and help you plan your strategy) and I will always be your friend. Always.

We met up last night for drinks and dinner (Luigi Malone’s mmmmmm) and it was wonderful. We had so much to catch up on (I didn’t know she’d landed a fantastic new job, she didn’t know I’d had my colon removed, that kinda thing!) and just chatted for hours. We’re meeting again tomorrow night to go for dinner and the theatre and I’m really looking forward to it and hopefully she is too.

I’m making a New Year’s resolution today to stay in contact with her no matter what and I think this is one resolution I’ll be happy to keep.

And the moral of the story is…go through your address book or your contacts list in your e-mail and get back in touch with those friends you haven’t heard from in a while. Trust me, they’ll be touched, relieved and delighted. I know I was.

Pic: www.popentertainment.com

Christmas...Bah Humbug!

2005-12-08T15:23:00.000Z

I KNOW Christmas is supposed to be the season of goodwill but I can’t help being a bit of a Scrooge about the whole thing, particularly in relation to the area of the dreaded shopping.

You know those ads on the radio, the ones advocating the delights of the city centre, where young, carefree individuals blithely jump on and off the Luas, breeze around the shops completing their purchases in record time and then meet up for a reviving cappuccino?

I really hate those ads.

The reality is that most of us can barely shuffle, let alone jump, onto the Luas due to the crowds, spend hours at bus stops in the rain waiting for one to come along or spend hours in traffic trying to get into a car park – and that’s just to get into the shops!

After that you have to battle your way through literally hordes of people to get to the items you want to purchase, beat off competition from determined grannies to actually get your paws on what you want and then stand in an hour long queue to pay.

Invariably when you get to the till the operator announces that she’s off to her lunch, or she runs out of till-roll, it’s always one or the other.

Then you have to move on to the next shop, barely getting time to cross purchases off your list, before you plunge back into the masses, where it really is survival of the fittest.

Why do I always get stuck in the street behind either an extraordinarily old woman strolling along with the help of a cane or a bunch of spotty teenage boys all trying to outdo each other with their whooping and hollering?

Move out of my way!

And as for a reviving cappuccino? Forget it! You’re more likely to end up queuing in an overheated fast-food joint for a manky hamburger and a lukewarm cup of tea-coloured water than manage to get your hands on a frothy Italian delight.

Next year I’m doing all my shopping on the Internet and I’d urge all you other frustrated shoppers out there to join me. Bah Humbug!

Oh how the tables have turned!

2005-11-30T16:09:00.000Z

THEY say that what goes around comes around and no one is feeling that more right now than muggins here.

As you might remember from earlier posts I’ve recently moved back home and so being the generous soul that I am, I’ve taken over responsibility for the phone bill.

Mammy and Daddy Dunne are frugal folk who make long distance calls with the same trepidation as Bill O’Herlihy goes into a television studio with Eamon Dunphy, so I figured I’d be safe enough.

They usually call relatives in England or the States with a rushed ‘can’ttalknowtooexpensivejustringingtosaywe’reallsafehereinIrelandbye’ so bi-monthly phone bills usually total about €35 give or take.

Combined with €60 for my broadband, I figured I’d get away with a €100 bill every two months, which is reasonable enough.

Until last night….
……..when I got home to find the bill had arrived and the folks were studiously avoiding my eyes.

“Hello love” they greeted me brightly in a slightly hysterical tone, bustling around taking off my coat, putting the dinner on and in short doing everything to avoid mentioning the dirty big bill almost shouting at me from the table.

“What’s going on? Why are you being nice to me” I asked suspiciously, picking up the envelope and noticing the Eircom stamp on it.

I started to open it slowly until I realised the folks were guiltily backing away from me and trying to get through the narrow kitchen door at the same time (a scuffle ensued and Daddy Dunne won, he can move when he wants to).

The penny dropped and I quickly ripped open the rest of the envelope suddenly desperate to see how much this was going to set me back.

The first thing I noticed was the ‘page one of 29’ line at the top of the bill (not a good sign, we’re itemised) swiftly followed by the grand total of €202.32.

In two months my normally sensible parents had almost quadrupled their phone bill, drunk on the knowledge that they wouldn’t have to pay for it and so had taken to ringing all in sundry gleefully proclaiming “we can talk for aaaaages, sure it’s freeeeeeeeee”.

I have to admit, when I was a teenager I spent literally hours every day on the phone, talking to friends I had literally just left (“Hi, it’s me. What are you doing? Nothing? Me too.”) so I guess it’s just God’s way of getting me back. Damn you Jesus!

Well, no more. I let them away with it this month because they were so contrite and fearful but not anymore.

I’m off now to buy a coin operated phone. With a padlock. And an alarm. And I’m barring all long distance numbers.

Parents eh?

Photo: www.allproducts.com

Have you met Ms Dunne?

2005-11-24T16:02:00.000Z

IT may have escaped your notice what with all the ranting on I do about men and everything, but I’m actually single.

Yes, shocking, I know. I mean how could a fantastic, stunning, witty and modest individual like myself still be without a fella? But I am the original Bridget Jones.

Without wanting to sound like a total lady of the night, I’ve been on hundreds of dates, been given and given out hundreds of phone numbers, dressed up, dressed down, made the first move and waited for the move to be made on me, in short everything I can think of to get a man.

I’ve had my share of baaaaad dates. In fact, I think I’ve probably had YOUR share of baaaad dates and not just dates where there’s no spark, I’m talking freak of nature dates.

Like the time I turned up to the Mercentile pub, dressed to the nines to meet a great fella I’d met the night before in a nightclub…..
…..only to discover that the guy that showed up wasn’t the guy I’d been expecting, but a random (ugly) bloke I’d snogged weeks earlier in the same club.

(Don’t ask how it happened, let’s just say it was a mix up over phone numbers and I’d been texting the wrong person!)

Or the guy who was prone to panic attacks and had a weird form of agoraphobia which meant he couldn’t leave Finglas. I kid you not.

Or how about the time I went out with a guy so very boring that after 57 minutes I was struggling to keep my eyes open and so left him in a restaurant and made good my escape? That was fun.

I sure can pick ‘em eh? I think I must have some sort of weird homing device which only goes off if I’m within range of a man with severe mental problems.

Why can’t I meet a nice, normal, funny man? You know, someone who calls when he says he will, wants to go out and do fun stuff, likes reading, is under 30?

Why Lord why?

Male friends however have advised me that the best way to get a man is to not look or hunt for him as men can smell desperation faster than they can smell a kebab and a pint, so I think that’s what I’ll do.

From now on, I’m no longer ‘on the pull’. If a man wants me, he can come get me and we can take it from there.

Sigh, I fear I’ll be waiting a very long time!

If any of you know a great guy you want to set me up with, then feel free….at the very least I’ll be able to regale him with my disaster date stories!

Photo: www.barnesandnoble.com

I think I better leave right now..

2005-11-23T16:55:00.000Z

THE funny folk at Today FM came up with a classic for today's Gift Grub sketch which featured Roy Keane leaving Manchester United for the last time.

It's sung to the tune of Will Young's I Think I Better Leave Right Now and it's just hilarious so I thought I'd share the lyrics with you. (Yes, I am a TOTAL nerd who listened to the song over and over and scribbled down the words, so sue me!) Er, so they mightn't be exactly correct (or make sense) but you'll get the gist!

The song itself can be accessed at www.todayfm.com and follow the links for the Ian Dempsey Breakfast Show and then Gift Grub. Earlier today that part of the site wasn't working, I think because of so many hits but you might be lucky.

Apologies for lack of posts in last few days, have just been mad busy. But I'll try harder in the future. Meanwhile, here are the lyrics, enjoy!

I Think I Better Leave Right Now, by Roy Keane

I've gone,
When did I arrive?
Cos all they've left me with is me bloody P45

No more mid-field General
No holding role
But at least I'll be the richest man down the dole

And for me who'll they replace?
A lad with a bit of pace
But will he ever make the face?

So I say..

I think I better leave right now
Before I fall any deeper
I think I better leave right now
Our players are getting cheaper and cheaper
Somebody's gotta tell me how
That Alan Smith's a midfielder
I think I better leave right now

They say don't worry
Sure we'll be grand
Sure we've got Wes Brown and Rio Ferdinand
I told the Gaffer
You're having a laugh
If you think that tool is a decent centre half
Because he's just no bloody use
Always has an excuse
I never heard that from Steve Bruce

So I say..

I think I better leave right now
Leave all the prawns and the blazers
I think I better leave right now
Before it dawns on the glazers
Can't you just see it now
Here come the knives and the razors
I think I better leave right now

All credit to the time it's flown
Remember how I beat Juventus on me own
The greatest midfielder of his era
Are you listening Patrick Vierra
But I'll keep going, you'll see
Even with me dodgy knee
Oh how the mighty have fallen, it's pathetic
I might end up in Wiggan Athletic

I think I better leave right now
Leave all the prawns and the blazers
I think I better leave right now
Before it dawns on the glazers
Can't you just see it now
Here come the knives and the razors
I think I better leave right now

I'm off the wagon

2005-11-18T14:26:00.000Z

I’VE just eaten a huge turkey and coleslaw roll. And a packet of crisps and now I can barely type this as I’m shoving a double chocolate doughnut into my gaping gob.

In case you’re a bit slow on the uptake, I’ve officially fallen off the WeightWatchers wagon.

Last night’s weigh in showed I’d put ON 1.5lb which is not surprising given the amount of food I’ve eaten in the last week. I honestly think world hunger could be obliterated if they wired my jaw shut and distributed my food around the world. In fact I might just suggest it to Concern.

The thing is you see, I DO want to be slimmer..I er, just don’t want to give up eating the food I like. And yes, I’ve SEEN Supersize me, I KNOW what trans fats do to the human body, I REALISE I’m rotting myself from the inside out, but that doesn’t seem to stop me!
I’m like Mrs Doyle, I just seem to ‘go on go on go on go on go on’ and on eating. And eating. And drinking. And eating.

I think I might have a problem. However, yet again, I’m making a promise to myself and to you, my readers, that I will try harder, I will go back on the wagon, I will lose weight.

I can almost hear the celestial trumpets, feel the heat of the shining sun over my head, sense my heart lifting with purpose as I proclaim….I’LL START TOMORROW!

Pic from www.wordpower.ws

You blew it again guys!

2005-11-15T16:42:00.000Z

BEFORE you read this post, you should be warned that I AM going to generalise and basically rant about men, again. So if you’re of a sensitive nature or are all loved up and don’t want to listen, then look away.........now!

I’ve been reading this book called He’s Just Not That Into You, about men and relationships which tries to break the male psyche down into its simplest form (not hard eh, fnarr fnarr).

Basically it says if you meet a guy and he doesn’t call..then he’s just not that into you. If you’re dating a guy and he doesn’t want to move things on or introduce you to friends, then he’s just not that into you.

The book explains that if you meet any of these men, you should just move on and not waste your energy worrying about them, that the perfect man IS out there for you and that men aren’t really pigs...they’re, yes you’ve gussed it, just not that into you.

Are you seeing a pattern emerging here?

It was kinda liberating to read and I really identified with it and the examples given in the book (such as the girl who’s fella kept breaking up with her and trying to get back together and she took him back - yes I was that pilgrim).

A lightbulb went off in my head. "Kaz, they’re just not that into you" sez I to myself. It’s nothing personal, nothing worth wasting time and tears over, they’re just not that into you.

I was starting to see men in a new light. A fuzzy, pink, warm light where they weren’t lecherous pigs intent on destroying my heart, but just poor misguided souls.

Until this morning.

This morning I was standing at the bus stop beside a very young student (no more than 18, if that) who was wearing a short skirt, thick wooly tights and winter boots.

She nearly caused a pile up as every man, literally every single one, who passed her in their cars slowed down to rubberneck at her.

Grown men, some close to 60 years of age, drooling over a teenager barely out of school and very probably the same age as their daughters at home. I nearly brought up my breakfast.

At this point you probably think I’m exaggerating, but I kid you not, in the few minutes before her bus arrived, at least 150 cars slowed down to leer at her, most very obviously.

You may also think that I’m jealous because they were looking at her and not me, but nothing could be further than the truth. That kind of ‘appreciation’ I can do without, thanks.

The poor girl was nearly in tears by the time her bus arrived at this unwanted attention and miserably pulled at her skirt and tried to pull down her jacket to cover her legs. She didn’t deserve that.

Everyone has the right to wear whatever they please and this girl was very probably just wearing the same clothes as her friends and peers, she didn’t appear to me to be making a statement or dressing to shock.

Well she didn't give me that impression when she hurried onto her bus weeping and trying to cover herself anyway.

I wonder if any of those men who got a cheap thrill this morning will think about how they upset that girl and how they would feel if THEIR daughter or sister came home with a similar story? Probably not.

Again, I’m aware that I’m generalising and that a lot of men wouldn’t leer at a young girl like that, but I didn’t notice any man looking away this morning.

It seems to me that as soon as something restores my faith in the opposite sex, all it takes is a short skirt to blow it out of the water. Sigh!

Pic www.barnesandnoble.com

Save me Simmons!

2005-11-11T15:15:00.000Z

I NEED help. I need motivation. I need will power. In short I need Richard Simmons.

The pint sized afro-haired fitness guru is my only hope now following last night's WeightWatchers debacle where it emerged I had put ON a whole pound.

GOAL has now officially declared my hips a disaster area.

I know I had written in my earlier post that I was expecting to have put on weight, but to actually see it on the scales in black and, er, silvery grey, was another thing entirely.

The lovely leader lady gave me a leaflet about comfort eating when I explained that I had been craving bread and salty snacks, which I was delighted with thinking it'd be full of tips about how to eat snacks yet not put on any weight.

But it was not to be. It turned out to be a motivational leaflet about saying no to savory snacks and asking yourself do you reeaaalllllyyyy want a packet of crisps (what a stupid question, of COURSE I want a packet of crisps!)

However, I have resolved to do better for next week. I AM determined to lose weight, it's just not as easy as I'd thought.

So I'm turning to Richard Simmons (and Chaka Khan..I'm every woommaaannn) for inspiration and will be repeating positive affirmations to myself every day (I want to lose weight, I WILL lose weight!) I'll keep you posted!

For those of you who don't know who Richard Simmons is check out www.richardsimmons.com where I got this pic!

Generous colleagues, oh how I hate them!

2005-11-10T14:59:00.000Z

A COLLEAUGE has been on holidays. She’s a lovely, lovely woman and being the epitome of generosity she came back to the office laden down with biscuits, huge slabs of chocolate and a box of the most delectable chocolate truffles I’ve ever seen.

Ok, ok – a box of the most delectable chocolate truffles I’ve ever TASTED. As I type this I’m eating three. Not counting the two I sneakily wolfed down in the office kitchen while nobody was looking.

I’m sure most of you are thinking so what, five chocolates is nothing but it’s WeightWatchers tonight and according to our bathroom scales at home, I’ve put on 1.5lb from last week so I can ill afford to be huffing into a box of chocolates.

I know I’m only supposed to weigh myself at the weekly meetings using the proper electronic super-dooper scales and that our ancient bathroom jalopy scales might not be as accurate as it was when it was purchased for a shilling in 1926, but still! I’m disgusted with myself!

I’m disgusted, but not surprised. It has NOT been a good week WW-wise in the Dunne household, featuring such moments as the Night of the Smoked Cod and Chips and the Afternoon of the Nervous Breakdown in Thorntons which resulted in fevered buying, and then demolishing, of chocolate.

Not to mention the Incident in Liffey Valley where I took the escalator stairs three at a time up to It’s a Bagel to order my favourite cream cheese and hot bacon concoction (with a coke), which is about 800 points. And now the Colleague Bought Chocolates So I Must Eat Them moment.

I may look innocent, but I’m not to be trusted, especially where food is concerned.

I’m finding it harder and harder to stay within my points, especially now that I’m back working in the office a bit (again, long story re: my work situation, I’ll explain it sometime) as I DO work pretty hard and am usually starving at lunch time and again at dinner. I know it’s no excuse and plenty of people also work hard but eat properly and don’t put on weight…but I’m just not one of those people!

In saying that though, I think I AM eating healthier than I was before which has to be a good thing. For example I now eat three pieces of fruit and one salad portion a day as well as drinking freshly squeezed orange juice every morning, whereas before my consumption of fruit and salad was literally zero. So at least I’m getting some nutrition even if I do occasionally freak out in the local shopping centre!

So once again readers I’m asking that you keep your fingers crossed for me for my weigh-in tonight. I’ll let you know how I get on. Now, I wonder if I could get away with going in wearing just my bra and knickers…..?

Pic: www.chocolatevault.com

You wait all day and then three come along at once......

2005-11-09T17:25:00.000Z

LAST week I had a precious afternoon off work after working late the previous night and was full of the joys of, er, winter thinking about how I was going to spend my few hours off. [I know my profile says I’m working from home and I am, it’s just sometimes I have to go into my office too, it’s a long story!]

The hairdressers perhaps, or maybe browsing around the shops. Maybe a trip to the supermarket to pick up some fresh goodies to cook myself a nice meal for once. Oooh, I could even go meet a friend and have an illicit afternoon in the pub! The possibilities were endless!

Standing in a phone box at a bus stop sheltering from the pouring rain waiting for more than three hours on a bus was not something I had in mind. Yet this is exactly what I ended up doing.
Yes ladies and gentlemen, yet again Dublin Bus let me down and left me stranded miles from home with no alternative source of transport (unless you count a 15 minute walk through the rain to the Luas stop and then a 45 minute walk at the other end that is.) I was not a happy camper. (I realise now I would have been quicker going the Luas route, but hindsight is 20/20.)

I was cold, I was wet, I was increasingly angry and I was slightly disturbed by the old man at the bus stop who kept trying to get into the phone box with me.

When I eventually got home (after being reliably informed by the bus driver who DID show up that the previous six scheduled buses had ‘gone missing’) it was all Mammy Dunne and her home made steak pie could do to calm me down. I was raging!

The next day I indignantly rang Dublin Bus to complain expecting profuse apologies and promises of free bus tickets only to be met with the most relaxed, jovial complaints officer I have ever come across.

“Yeah, we have had some complaints about that route alright, it’s a bummer isn’t it?” sez he.

“Jaysis, three hours IS a long time to be waiting alright. I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you the number of the depot and if your bus doesn’t show up you can ring them and ask if the bus is going or not and if not you can make other arrangements. Tell them I sent you.”

Quite.

So the response from the state transport body when you complain is to check if the bus is going to show up and if not make “other arrangements”? Well that’s just great! That’s what I pay a huge amount of tax for that seems to go into a black hole, to make “other arrangements”.

I think Eddie Hobbs is right and this really is a Rip Off Republic. I’m thinking of organising a bus boycott. Watch this space!

Photo from www.dublinbus.ie

Welcome to the world!

2005-11-06T22:15:00.000Z

A VERY important person came into the world today and I wanted to introduce you to her. My eldest sister had a baby girl at 5.25pm this evening who weighed in at 7lb 11oz. She's the sweetest thing you've ever seen and she's already so well behaved it's frightening!

It's not my place to post photographs of her face or reveal any more information about her on here, but here's a photo of her teeny tiny hand waving hello to her favourite auntie (me!) just three hours after she was born.

That's it, just wanted to show her off! (I don't know if it's because I'm getting older or what, but....I really want a baby of my own! I actually really do!) And I'm now praying that no guy I've ever gone out with/may go out with in the future ever reads this cos they'll run a mile!

I have been absolved!

2005-11-05T16:12:00.000Z

IT seems I wasn't such an animal over last weekend as I'd thought. You'll all be delighted to hear (I'm sure!) that at my Weightwatchers weigh-in on Thursday evening I'd lost 2.5lbs.

Phew!

I was sure I was destined to be an enormous hippo forever, so I'm glad that it hasn't come to pass just yet! So I've just a half a pound to go before I'll hit the half-stone gone mark and I'll get my 'silver seven'. Am not QUITE sure what that is, but I'm sure I'll find out at the next meeting. I'm slightly scared in case it's some sort of initiation procedure and I'll have to eat celery or something (the food of the devil), but we'll see!

Anyway, to celebrate actually losing some weight and not putting any on as I had imagined, I went straight home and did some sit ups, then went for a walk around the park, then.....ok ok, I didn't do ANY of those things.

In fact I went to the chipper.

There, I've said it. Yes, I bought an enormous bag of chips and chicken burger and I devoured every bite! It was like I hadn't seen food for a year, I understand there's a woman in the chipper still off on sick leave because of it. She's claiming emotional distress. She'd want to try sitting beside a slim blonde on the bus happily eating her way through five pounds of creamy chocolate. Then she'd know ALL about emotional distress!

Since I started this WW mularky I've been seeing food EVERYWHERE! And everywhere I look there seems to be young, slim, beautiful things tucking into dinners that'd put a rugby player to shame. And they're all laughing at me too, waving pieces of fried chicken and melt-in-the-mouth chocolate puddings at me...ok, maybe I'm making that last bit up but you get the drift!

Anyway, this is the longest I've ever stuck to a diet, so I think I'm going to hang on in there and see how next week and the next few weeks go. I think the family Christmas pictures won't be such a disaster this year!

Thanks for all the messages of support! (And if you haven't left me a supportive message yet, then do...remember I know where you live!)

Forgive me reader for I have sinned........

2005-11-02T16:58:00.000Z

I have fallen off the Weightwatchers wagon. It is with shame and guilt that I must report that on Saturday night I ate a massive chocolate bar pushing me beyond my points limit and if that wasn’t enough, on Sunday night I ate an entire bag of tortilla chips AND drank several full-fat alcopops.

Then on Monday I went to McDonalds.

Dammit, I thought I could slip that one in without anyone noticing! It has not been a good diet week.

As regular (all 181 of you!) readers will know I had my first WW weigh-in last Thursday night and to my delight found I had dropped four pounds. After the success of that I was determined to stick with the plan and so on Friday I ate properly and even managed to have a Chinese takeaway (chicken and mushroom, three points!) without going over my points.

Then came Saturday. I was doing well up until dinner time, when I flipped out in a restaurant with friends and ordered spaghetti bolognese. And a coke. I don’t know what happened to me. I had the sentence “grilled chicken with a baked potato and salad please” all ready in my head but when the waitress came over I ordered the pasta and coke. Sigh. That alone might not have been enough to push me above my 25 points per day, but the chocolate bar I wolfed down afterwards certainly would!

I woke up on Sunday determined to do better and again, was doing well until the evening time when, while over at a friend’s house, I consumed a massive family sized bag of torilla chips single handedly. My friend looked on in horror, the chips had no chance. Again I don’t know what came over me, but I just cracked.

I woke up on Monday determined to do better and again was doing well, until I remembered I had promised to bring my niece to McDonald’s. I should have known better but I didn’t. I brought her along and couldn’t resist ordering a Big Mac and fries. It was a veritable massacre. You’d swear I hadn’t seen food in a week! The child will never be the same again. She keeps having nightmares and waking up muttering about “scary Auntie Kaz, she was so hungry, so very very hungry.”

And so to Tuesday. I stayed within my points limit and again today (Wednesday) I stayed under my points limit. I still have this evening and tomorrow to starve myself in preparation for the big weigh-in on Thursday. If I’m lucky I won’t have put back on the four pounds I lost. Keep your fingers crossed for me!

(I took this pic on my camera phone! Cool no?!)

Happy Halloween!

2005-10-31T21:15:00.000Z

I AM posting this from downtown Baghdad. Well, almost.

I'm writing to you from Dublin but it's Halloween night and over here we have a tradition where people set off bangers and fireworks both in the run up to the night itself and for several nights afterwards. So since, oh about August now, we've been subjected to things that go bang in the night, but tonight it's like the Gulf War all over again. (Yes, yes, I know I'm being flippant here and fireworks aren't the same as the start of a war blah blah, so please don't email me to point this out!)

Apart from the incessant noise however, Halloween has gone relatively well for the Dunne household (we even had a party for the young-uns in the house) and there was general merriment all round. Well, Mammy and Daddy Dunne seem to have enjoyed it anyway. They're currently downstairs with a "nice slice of brack and a cup of tea". I didn't even know there was brack [fruit cake especially baked for Halloween for those of you not from the Emerald Isle] in the house, it appears Mammy Dunne had secreted it down the back of the gas fire so that it couldn't be eaten in advance of the big day. They're big on tradition in our house, so they are.

I have to say I was incredibly proud of the young people who called to the door this evening trick or treating. Every last one of them said 'thank you' when I gave them some fruit and sweets, with some even going so far as to say "ah thanks very much Missus". Yes, I'm "missus" now. I remember when I was "young wan", but that memory is now in black and white and I'm officially old. It doesn't seem so long ago since I was out there, dressed in a black sack and face paint thinking I was the best witch in the whole wide world. But now according to the kids on my road, I've one foot in the nursing home and the other on a banana skin. I'm 26, it's quite disconcerting!

The only disturbing thing I saw this evening (but bear in mind it's still early) was a group of kids being brought door to door by their parents who were drinking cans of beer on the street. (The parents that is, not the children!) I'm all for a few drinks at any opportunity, but I do feel Halloween and trick or treating is for young children and should be a family occasion not an excuse for parents to get drunk. Even as I type that I feel I deserve my "Missus" title that has been bestowed upon me and that I'm maybe old before my time, but it is something I feel strongly about. I have no problem with parents bringing their children out trick or treating, perhaps having a party in their home for them or taking them to a fireworks display and THEN having a few drinks to celebrate the night when the kids are in bed, that's absolutely fine and normal. But I DO have a problem with parents drinking in the street at 5.30pm while in charge of a whole gang of kids, I just don't think it's right. I don't have children of my own, so maybe I'm wrong but it felt wrong to see it and I know if my mother or father had brought me out trick or treating while drunk all those years ago, it would have spoiled the night for me.

Ok that's the end of my rant now, I'm off to check myself into Shady Pines with all the other old fuddy duddys! Happy Halloween!

Pic courtesy of http://photo2.si.edu/firew/firew.html

Introducing Twiggy!

2005-10-27T23:00:00.000+01:00

AND the winner iiiiiiiiiiiiiisssssssssss..............ME!

I lost FOUR POUNDS!

Went to my first WeightWatchers weigh-in tonight and I've lost four pounds. Anyone who read my previous posts would know that I was hoping to lose three, so I'm over the moon with four. I know it's a small amount and I've still a long way to go, but it's a start!

A friend told me that a two litre bottle of coke weighs 4.5lb, so I've almost lost that...and man those things are heavy! (Mmmmmm coke, sweet delicious fizzy life giving coke!)

As well as watching what I eat, I also have to monitor what I drink as fizzy drinks, alcohol and milky drinks can add points. So after a long hard think, I gave up drinking coke. It's been a nightmare as I don't like Diet Coke (I just feel it's wrong! Diet Coke comes from the Devil himself!) and I've even had the jitters and terrible headaches, but I'm determined to stick to it.

So it's seven days and counting. I'm filled to the brim with Diet 7up. I think I should just have my wages direct debited into the 7up company's account! But I shall persevere.

Roll on next week!

Pic courtesy of http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/Flats/1695/gallsd05.html

Tonight, tonight, we'll always have tonight.........

2005-10-27T12:58:00.000+01:00

TONIGHT is the night. D-Day. The Big Kahuna. The night to end all nights. The night we will all remember for at least the rest of the week, if not our lives. Yes ladies and gentlemen, tonight is my first official weigh-in after following the WeightWatchers programme for one week.

If I haven’t lost weight I’m going to beat my leader to death and then go to the chipper.

Without sounding like a martyr (though, St Kaz does have quite the ring to it) I have stuck rigidly to ‘the plan’. I have not eaten more points than I was supposed to, I have not eaten crisps, chocolate, take-away food, fried food, full-fat food or indeed any food that wasn’t in my little WW booklet.

I have eaten copious amounts of fruit, vegetables, salad, lean chicken, WW ready meals, low-fat cheese, milk and soups and the only sweet things I have ingested have been WW chocolate mousses and cookies.

I’m fit to kill.

There’s a bag of Doritos in our house that have been there for about two weeks. I kept meaning to get around to eating them pre WeightWatchers and now it’s too late. They call to me though. When I’m in bed at night, I hear them. “Kazzzzzzzz, Kazzzzzz eat us, eat us now. We’re deee-leeee-shush [they speak in a Mexican accent obviously]” But they’re about 500 points so I can’t. I’m going to get Mammy Dunne to throw them away, I just don’t think I can be present for the cull. Chances are I’ll dive head first into the wheelie bin after them. It’s best that I stay away.

I’m off now for a swift five-mile run around the park in a bid to sweat the fat out of me. I’ll update you later as to my progress. Keep your fingers crossed!

The pic is courtesy of www.discountkitchenmall.com

You choose to lose!

2005-10-21T22:10:00.000+01:00

AND with the immortal words "you choose to lose" ringing in my ears, I left my first ever WeightWatchers meeting on Thursday night, almost bent double with the amount of leaflets, booklets and money off low-fat cheese coupons they bestowed upon me.

It was scary, but I did it. I stood on a scales in front of a roomful of strangers and let a woman I'd never seen before read my weight and the sky didn't fall in. Nobody laughed. Nobody pointed. The leader told me that I'd never be that weight again, that's what the class is all about. It felt good.

I'll be following a points system, where I'm allocated a certain number of points a day (25 in my case) and once I stick within that, I should lose weight. The book says I "WILL" lose weight, but being the cynical hack that I am, I'll 'weight' and see. Sorry, couldn't resist the pun there!

There was a 30-minute weigh-in and then a 30 minute talk with information about food that's really low-fat and rogue food that's not low-fat at all. (Beware the word 'lite' cos half the time the product isn't 'lite' at all. Just a little pearl of wisdom for you!) It was interesting stuff and I'm sure I'll have loads of questions next week.

Off I tottered to the supermarket this afternoon to stock up on some more fruit and veg as well as low-fat butter and cheese, low-fat wraps, turkey rashers, ham, chicken and WeightWatchers ready meals. I also bought WW chocolate chip cookies, chocolate mousse and low-fat crisps [only two points a bag!] so I'm not being totally deprived of sweets and snacks. The great thing about the programme I'm following is that if I choose to blow my entire 25 points on a greasy Chinese meal, then I can. I just know that if I want to lose weight, I can't have anything else to eat that day. I choose not to do this, I'd rather eat several meals than just one big one, but at least I know the choice is there.

That's what bugged me about other diets I tried, the fact that I was limited in what I could eat or I had to cut out a certain food group (I lasted three days on the Atkins Diet before diving literally head first into the Gotham Cafe and hollering 'pasta pesto, large, now, with garlic bread and a side order of potatoes...and rice...nooooowwww!). This way I can have bread and cereal and pasta and noodles and sausages and sweets and cakes and biscuits and milk and, God, everything! I just have to count the value of what I eat and drink and make sure not to go over my points limit.

It took me a while to do my shopping because I had to work out the points value of everything, but as I get used to the system, I'll whizz around no problem. WW also advocates a 'switch' mentality whereby you switch the full-fat version of something for the low-fat version - makes sense to me. So far I've switched to low-fat milk, cheese, bread and butter and it's amazing how many points you save and being really honest the only difference I've noticed is the butter...it just doesn't taste the same. But it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. (I know, I'm practically a saint, I'm thinking of writing to the Vatican and seeing if I can get myself beatified!)

You also can earn bonus points by exercising and cos I walked for 20 minutes today I earned myself another point, which I can eat today or save for the weekend. (Possibly for a nice vodka..mmmm!)

Just to give you a little taste (groan Kaz, another pun) of my diet, so far today I've eaten: a bowl of cornflakes with low-fat milk and a glass of orange juice; a wrap with chicken, tomato and cucumber and a bottle of water; a WW ready meal of Special Chow Mein; two chocolate chip cookies, a chocolate mousse and a cup of tea. That comes to 16 and a half points and I intend to have an apple later (half a point) and some crisp breads/crackers with cheese, tomato and cucumber (about three/four points I think) as well before I go to bed. Meaning I'll stay UNDER my 25 points and can carry the remainder over to tomorrow (again will probably save them to have a drink in the evening!) Not bad don't you think? I know it's not "full Irish breakfast followed by a McDonald's and then duck in plum sauce with egg fried rice along with crisps, chocolate and coke" but it was all tasty enough, I got to eat biscuits and chocolate and I feel like I've been eating all day.

So that's about it. It's only been one day but I've stuck to it and I think I'll continue to be able to stick to it. I'm already excited about next week's meeting, to see how much I've lost. I'm hoping it'll be 3lbs, but that might be overly ambitious, as they say you'll probably lose 1-2lbs a week. But I'm hoping for the magic three. So keep your fingers crossed readers, and remember don't feed the elephant!

Mammy Dunne and the gas man

2005-10-20T12:18:00.000+01:00

I'M updating my blog a little earlier today because I have been banned from mooching around the kitchen, due to the arrival of the gas man. Those of you who read my earlier post about Mammy Dunne's obsession with being fully washed and dressed in preparation for the arrival of the revered gas man will realise what a momentous occasion this is.

Lo for he has-eth arrived. Yonder gas man with his bag of tools to service the boiler, thus ensuring we don't all die of carbon monoxide poisoning as happened to poor Rita Fairclough in Coronation Street. Yea though we walk in the valley of an old boiler, we shall fear no death, for the gas man is with us. For he is wise and certified by Bord Gais.

When our dodgy bell chimed it's off-tune 'dong-dong' to announce his arrival, I was the recipient of an almighty slap across my night-dressed legs and Mammy Dunne hissed "get up them stairs and cover yourself, it's the Gas Man." Note the use of capital letters.

As soon as I was up on the landing, she flung open the door all warm smiles and twinkling eyes, ushering him in, laughing off his apologies for being late with a fake "ah sure you're grand, we had nothing else to do today anyway". This despite the fact that she had spent the whole morning peering out the window looking for him muttering things like "I haven't all day you know" and "Sacred Heart of Jesus get a move on". Apparently it's ok to take the Lord's name in vain when you're waiting for the Gas Man. Sure even the Pope himself couldn't fault her for that, it was practically a hobby of the late JP II, she says.

No sooner than the poor chap was in the door however, did she abandon him to Daddy Dunne and scuttle upstairs to see what I was up to. "Sure that's man's work so it is. I wouldn't have a clue about boilers so I wouldn't." Er and Daddy Dunne does? I can hear him now nervously rubbing his hands together and stammering "it eh, needs a new part does it? Right, well we're a bit short of cash so maybe......oh, it'll explode without this part will it? Right. 80 euro you say? Well, I suppose that's reasonable....." while all the time thinking "shag it, I wanted to go for a pint tonight and all". Plus he'll have to put up with Mammy Dunne saying incredulously (once the Gas Man has gone of course) "you paid him WHAT?" and then not speaking to him for the rest of the evening, apart from a snide "fools and their money" "...need new curtains but oh no, HE gives it to the Gas Man" "sure any fool could see that fella was a chancer" every now and again.

Thankfully I'm well out of it, ensconced up here with my lovely broadband and my blog, waffling on for what must seem like hours to my poor readers. It's a little trick I'd advise you all to take as your own: when any electricians/plumbers/gas men call to your door to do repairs/drink your tea get a random male friend to stay downstairs with them, while you escape to your room and watch tv. It's easier all round!

After all the commotion and blasphemy, the Gas Man left after a mere 30 minutes with a cheerful "see you next year" and you'll be pleased to know it turned out the boiler didn't need a new part in the end, so Daddy Dunne was allowed to go for his pint after all.

Now what's this Mammy Dunne's muttering about having the carpets cleaned.....? Saints preserve us!

Please do not feed the elephant!

2005-10-19T16:46:00.000+01:00

AFTER many years of struggling with my weight I have finally decided to do something about it. I am joining my local branch of WeightWatchers with my friend tomorrow night (Thursday) and hopefully the group atmosphere and support of my friend will motivate me to stick to the programme and lose some much needed pounds and indeed stones.

I can't really pinpoint when I started putting on weight but I think it was in my teenage years, because any photos of me from my youth are of a skinny blonde thing, so I guess it was when I started babysitting regularly and got a part-time job in a shop at 15 or so that my problems started. Having my own money meant I didn't have to wait for Mammy Dunne to give me pocket money each week to buy sweets or chocolate and the walk and bus ride home from my part-time job was made much easier by the addition of a big greasy bag of chips! (Er and a battered sausage or two.) Alright alright, plus a Mars bar.

Luckily I was never bullied or teased at school because of my weight and so it never really bothered me in that sense. And when I got to college there were people there of all shapes and sizes so again, I put it to the back of my mind. It was only when I started working full-time in an office that I realised I'd quite like to wear snazzy black trousers and crisp white shirts and little suits like the other girls. Instead of baggy shapeless trousers and tent-like shirts. The only thing crisp about me was the packet of Tayto I carried in my bag at all times.

But still I did nothing about it for years and years, just kept clamping down on that little voice inside me that told me I was unhappy with how I looked. Then in 2002 I was diagnosed with a serious illness (more on that perhaps another time) and in a very short space of time lost about four stone (about 50-55lb for any trans-Atlantic visitors who may be reading). Although I was chronically sick I couldn't help but guiltily marvel at how good I looked! I took to looking at myself in every available shiny surface and trying on clothes in shops at least five sizes smaller than I normally wore, at every opportunity. Even if I couldn't afford them. Even if I was actually supposed to be on my way to a meeting, NOT browsing in the shops. And the little voice inside me was back, only louder this time, telling me that I WAS happier, being thinner. I WAS happier to be able to shop in normal stores. I WAS happier not sweating all the time. It took a horrible illness for me to realise this and I swore after all that pain and suffereing, I wouldn't go back to the fat me.

However, I am ashamed to admit it, but even with all the weight I lost while I was ill, I am still overweight. I currently wear a size 16 [US 12] (down from a 26, so not too bad I guess) but in recent months some of the weight I lost has started to creep back on and in fact a lot of my clothes are now a size 18. While I don't aspire to being a stick insect size eight, I would like to fit into a size 12, hence joining Weight Watchers. I've never had any will power so I really need the motivation of both WW and my friend to help me along the way. I hope to lose between two to three stone (one of those by Christmas) and then the final two by next summer and this time I intend to keep it off.

So keep your fingers crossed for me dear readers, I'm going to need all the support I can get. I'll update you each week on my progress (don't worry I'll keep it short, you won't be bored!) and I might even post a picture in the New Year of the svelter me!

And remember, if you meet me in the street and I get down on my knees and beg you for just one square of your chocolate, don't give it to me!

Things I hate versus things I love, humour me!

2005-10-18T22:56:00.000+01:00

THINGS I hate:

1. When people stand in the narrow aisle at the back of the bus when it's crowded, instead of the wider space near the centre doors which is PROVIDED FOR THAT VERY REASON!

2. Being watched by someone in a cafe while I devour a BLT, only for them to smugly indicate their own black sugarless coffee and trim midriff.

3. Having an itchy bum while walking down the street, miles from any convenient pub/loo/changing room/area not in public view. (In this situation one is consigned to doing the Quick Walk of the Poker Up the Arse variety while shiftily trying to scratch through ones jeans.)

4. Snotty waitresses who sigh loudly when you ask for another minute to decide what you want to order. (I'm not being condescending cos you work as a waitress love, I just want another 60 seconds.)

5. People who stare at you quizzically in the street but then scuttle on without alerting you to the fact that you have wildly windswept hair/dirt on your cheek/a booger.

6. Men who smirk knowingly when you ask for a light outside a pub. (It's not a pick up line, I just want a fag, ok?)

7. Spitting.

8. Loud nose blowing.

9. Men who shout "cheer up love, it might never happen" at you while you walk down the street minding your own business. That'll be the one that'll make me go postal one of these days.

10. Being trapped for anything up to 45 minutes in a car with the most scary of mammals - a Dublin taxi driver.

THINGS I love:

1. Autumn days when it's not warm, but not cold either. October truly is the month of new boots and coats.

2. Watching the above snotty waitress struggling to add up how much a coffee and cake costs when her till breaks down. Not so high and mighty now are we love?

3. Watching the above snotty waitress's boss bawl her out two minutes later cos the till is broken and she can't add.

4. Walking up to the bus stop just as your bus arrives.

5. Finding twenty quid in your jeans pocket when you're Stoneybatter broke.

6. Logging on and finding someone has left a comment on my blog (a cheap sympathy shot I know but had to be done!)

7. M&S chocolate chip cookies. How do they get them to stay so gooey?!

8. The fact that I've finally found a pair of jeans that encompass my ass.

9. Watching a couple row in the street. A guilty pleasure I know, but something we've all done.

10. Knowing that the above item (number 9) is called schadenfreude, a German word for taking pleasure in others' misfortune. How brainy am I?!

It's broadband, but not as you know it...

2005-10-18T12:50:00.000+01:00

AND so it has come to pass. KnackeredKaz has finally managed to activate her broadband account. But it wasn't easy, oh no, that'd be too simple. I signed up to eircom broadband more than two weeks ago and since then the Gods of the Internet have thwarted me at every turn, putting obstacles in my path, determined that I should be confined to dial up for ever.

"Waaatch" they laughed "as KnackeredKaz spends ages cooing over her brand new modem that arrived promptly in the post, only to discover the line won't be active for a week".

"Looook" they howled "as the line is finally activated and she attempts to set it up...only to find she doesn't have a wireless card on her laptop".

"Looook" they shrieked "as she has a brainwave and decides to connect using the Ethernet port, even though it's not ideal, only to discover that the port is not enabled on her laptop and her warranty has run out and PC World can't help her".

"Waaaatch" they gasped "as she goes back to PC World and buys a wireless card and assorted paraphenalia, only to discover there's some other configuration problem that has her onto the Eircom man for half an hour sweating like a pig."

"Follow her" they snigger "as she discovers that the assorted paraphenalia she bought not an hour earlier, such as an extension cord for the phone, is not needed because she has WIRELESS broadband now thanks to the Eircom man, and she's spent a fortune for nothing."

Oh I could go on and on. Anyway, the upshot of it is, thanks to the Eircom man I'm now mobile and am currently in my office/bedroom typing away, while my lovely little modem sits snugly beside the phone downstairs. This 'always on' business is a larff isn't it? I keep expecting Daddy Dunne to come thundering through the door shouting "get off the shagging phone" but that's not the case anymore, I can surf to my heart's content now. So expect more posts people, I'm *armed and dangerous!

*I don't mean armed as in a gun, I mean as in broadband. Just thought I'd clear that up before one of you rings the law and I have a SWAT situation on my hands!

Justice my bum!

2005-10-15T12:57:00.000+01:00

WHEN I started this blog, I had intended to keep it lighthearted enough, with possibly a bit of news/current affairs thrown in just to make myself seem brainier than I actually am. However, I read an article in the newspaper yesterday that made my blood boil and I had to share it.

It concerned a court case where a guy who beat a tourist so badly that he's now in a permanent vegitative state, was sentenced to seven years in prison. Seven years. For beating a man into a coma. Not only that, but he was also involved in several other crimes so he got three years for this, two years for that and two years for the other...all adding up to seven years but to run concurrently so in actual fact he'll probably be out of prison in two to three years.

Is that what this country has come to? You can beat someone so severely that they become permanently physically and mentally disabled, unable to move, walk, speak or do anything for themselves and you get two years? If I were in charge (and hopefully one day I will be) crimes like this would be punished by 20 years hard labour, at the very least. The victim of this crime has been sentenced to probably more than 20 years of a nightmare so why not the same for the culprit? Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating going back to the bad old days where prisoners had no rights and were beaten and starved, etc. But I do firmly believe that crimes like this should be severely punished and that those involved should only get the very basic human rights of food, shelter and safety. Apart from that I'd have them working 12 hours a day building community centres. Or landscaping gardens for the elderly. Or a multitude of other hard physical work that might go some way towards repenting for their crimes.

And I'd keep them in prison for a long long time. In this particular case the culprit was only 19, so will probably be out of prison in time to celebrate his 21st birthday, very probably without having learnt any lesson at all.

In cases like this, people often blame the Judge for not passing a harsh enough sentence, but I believe a total overhaul of the justice system is required so that awful violent crime is dealt with severely. Perhaps the Judge in this case had no choice but to impose this sentence and if he had been harsher maybe there might have been an appeal and the criminal might have got off scot free, who knows? All I know is that many of our laws and prison sentences are antiquated and need to be changed and changed now.

I have to admit to being sickened by the crime itself as well. Where did all this violence come from? How could someone be filled with so much hate that they would beat someone into a coma? Is this what Ireland has come to? Maybe I'm wearing rose-tinted glasses but I always felt relatively safe here, thinking that violence on that scale was limited to places where law and order has broken down. But the scary thing is that incidents like this are not a rarity anymore in Ireland, which leads me to believe that not only has law and order broken down but that the moral fibre of Irish society has also been torn. People don't seem to bat an eyelid anymore when they hear of crimes like this as even murder has become a regular occurence here. I think we've become too desensitized to crime and very little shocks us anymore, which is wrong.

Ok, that's it, I'll get off my high horse now!

The trouble with men...

2005-10-14T07:25:00.000+01:00

THE trouble with men is that they're not women. Now before you think I've come out of the closet and am about to come over all lezzer on you, let me explain. I've recently come to realise that men are TOTALLY different to women. Something I'm sure most of you know and you're all currently staring at the screen going wha'? What's she on about? But hear me out.

When a woman texts or calls a man "just to say hi" what she really wants is for the guy to text back with "I miss you too" or "thinking about you too". What she doesn't want to hear is "I'm in a meeting, I saw you yesterday, eff off." And when a man texts a woman with "how're you?" what he wants to hear is "I'm already naked, get your ass home" not "my mother is here, get your ass home". You see the difference?

I've been dating men since I went to college at 17 and it's taken me nearly ten years to realise that men and women are different. Do you remember the episode of Sex and the City where a male friend of Miranda's tells her that the guy who promised to call and then didn't, wasn't in fact eaten by a herd of elephants but was "just not that into you"? Well that's what this is for me. I'm FINALLY getting it! Women and men are total opposites.

To illustrate, men never seem to see the need to make plans in advance. Going out for them means having a shower and sticking on some Lynx, all of which can be done in a matter of minutes. What they don't seem to understand is that it's not the same for women. For example, here's a typical conversation between me and a Potential Suitor or PS for short.

Me: So that was a fun date, how about going out at the weekend?
PS: Sure, I'd like that, I'll call you to arrange it.

Cue several agonising days waiting by the phone for said call which doesn't materialise until Saturday at about 6pm.

PS: So I'm calling like I said I would [all delighted with himself] Fancy a night on the tiles tonight? Meet you down the local in an hour.
Me(through gritted teeth): It's Saturday night at 6pm, did you just expect me to be sitting here with nothing better to do?
PS: *In a bewildered tone of voice* But I thought we agreed to go out this weekend?
Me: Yes but you never rang to arrange it IN ADVANCE [me shouting this last bit]

Do you see what I'm getting at?

And before you think I'm just a twisted bitter cynical oul hack (which I am) it's not just me. Most of my friends complain about the exact same thing and in fact I know one girl who is on contant Date Stand-by, complete with full make up, short skirt and perfectly coiffed hair just in case her fella calls her at the last minute wanting to go out. When asked why she goes to all this bother she claims it's easier to have herself permanently ready rather than to row with the guy over his total lack of arranging-dates-in-advance skills. Cos he doesn't get it and she said if she has to look at his sick-calf expression one more time as he tries to explain himself she's going to shoot him. But I digress.

It's almost like a revelation to me. Men and women are different. Men and women see things in totally different lights. It'd be SO much easier if both sexes thought the same...but they don't. I can almost hear the bells going off as the Gods of Dating cry "she's finally got it!"

So when I get a text from an ex at 4am asking me to take him back I NOW know that he doesn't actually mean it! When a man takes me on a date and looks into my eyes and tells me he thinks our children would be beautiful I NOW know he doesn't actually mean it! When a man takes my number in a pub and swears blind that he'll call within 24 hours, I NOW know that he doesn't mean it! Because this is just what men DO! They're not mean or nasty or malicious...they're just men!

And I know that there are probably men reading this who are just raging with me now, furious at the injustice of it all, because they've been walked all over by a right cow and ALWAYS make plans in advance so I'll make a concession. Yes, there are some bitches out there. But I'm not trying to say men: bad, women: good I'm just trying to point out the differences between the two and how they react to each other.

So much like Miranda (but without the fabulous Manhattan lifestyle) I've come to terms with this revelation and I think it might actually help me in my quest to find the perfect man. Men and women are different - brilliant!

(Oh and if I DO find the perfect man I'll secretly steal some of his DNA so he can be cloned and given out to all the single ladies out there. My gift to the Sisterhood!)

Overheard in the Social Welfare Office....

2005-10-13T08:24:00.000+01:00

I OVERHEARD the following exchange in a Social Welfare office in Dublin and just had to share it. It never ceases to amaze me how brass necked some people can be!

Drunk man to official: Where's me cheque, I need me cheque, I've a family to feed you know.
Official: You were supposed to pick up your cheque on Friday, it's now Monday, the officer you were dealing with won't be here til tomorrow.
Drunk man: Yeah, yeah, I know I was supposed to be here on Friday, but I got arrested, righ'?!

Followed by the purest silence I've ever heard outside of the top of the Alps! There's just no response to that is there?

Mammy Dunne: the trials and tribulations of...

2005-10-13T00:16:00.000+01:00

ASK anyone in the world if they'd like to work from home and the resounding answer would be "too right, I'd love to work in my nightdress and watch Oprah all day". And up until a week ago, that would have been my reaction too.

Who wouldn't want to get up late, stay in their nightclothes with unkempt hair, blissfully make-up free, with daytime television on in the background and get paid for it too? (Well apart from those annoying people who claim to love their jobs, big lick arses).

Anyway, let me burst your bubble people..it's not like that at all! Having recently gone from full- time office based employment to freelance work from home, I'm now starting to realise that maybe this home/work thing ain't all it's cracked up to be. Not least for the fact that I'm now in contact with my mother all day every day. (For a variety of reasons, I've recently had to move home, it's a long story.)

Now don't get me wrong, Mammy Dunne is a lovely woman so she is. The salt of the earth. Kind to children and animals. A good cook. The Great Worker of the Washing Machine and Iron. But she also knows best and knows everything. "Would you not get dressed like a good girl in case someone important comes to visit?" sez she on my first morning gleefully 'working' in my pjs at the kitchen table. ("Someone important Mam? Like who? The Pope?" sez I. "Don't be smart, I meant the gas man" she said huffily, sweeping the remains of my breakfast away in one easy motion even though I wasn't finished. That taught me.)

So off I sloped to get dressed, muttering under my breath and slamming every available door - and trust me when you live in a tiny council house, there aren't that many doors to slam - reverting to my teenage years. I was very close to screaming 'you're not my real Mum' a la Kevin and Perry but I caught myself just in time. "You're typing awful fast, you'll give yourself the arthritis" was another gem she came out with while noisily throwing together a Shepherds Pie later on that day "and you'll have hands like an old woman's" she added cheerfully, just to totally make my day. As we speak I'm constructing an office in the corner of my bedroom, simply to prevent myself from stabbing her over and over while howling "I like not brushing my hair, I don't work in an office anymooooooorrrreee".

Another thing I miss now that I'm at home is office gossip. There's not much to be had here it has to be said. Mammy Dunne's idea of gossip is to tell me that Mrs O'Brien in number 46 put out a very full rubbish bin for the bin man, "so she must have had a party or something, or maybe cleaned out her cupboards". Quite. And as for Daddy Dunne, if the gossip doesn't involve members of the current Government or a sports personality, then he's not interested. Oh he's quite happy to talk about "that shower above in Dail Eireann" but who snogged who in the pub is beyond him. "Wha'? Snogging? What's tha'? That wasn't invented in my day. Now shag off, I'm reading The Star." And that's on a good day!

My days of hanging around the photocopier chatting or sneakily e-mailing colleagues with all the latest news are over and now that all of that distraction is out of the way, I'm finding I actually have to do some work. It's amazing how much you can get done when you're not playing Virtual Car Parking (try it, it's hilarious) for five out of the eight hours of the day.

Lunchtime isn't the same as it used to be either. I used to have a choice about what I ate, where I went, who I went with etc. But not now. Oh no, now a hang-and-cheese-sangwich on white bread it plonked in front of me with amazing timing at exactly 1pm every day and that's that. "I suppose you'll be wanting fancy bread and sun-dried this and hummus that and parma ham the other?" enquired my mother when I moved home. Delighted I replied "Er, yes, that'd be lovely" only to be nearly knocked over by her shouts of "Well you're not getting it. It's good plain ham and cheese or starve" followed by a gimlet eyed stare at my hips which suggested she thought I should take the latter option. (Actually I could do with losing a few pounds....ok ok, a few stone!) And before you ask, I've offered to buy and cook my own food but Mammy Dunne wasn't having any of it, backed up by Daddy Dunne who sensed a row and as usual dived for cover by siding with Mam. "Sure why would you want to be wasting your money, don't we have a freezer full of food" they implored like the good Catholic parents that they are.

So I'm full to the brim with "good plain" food. Steak and kidney pie anyone? How about a nice fry up? Chicken breast up for grabs? Overcooked beef and watery vegetables? I'd taken to mooning around the 'fancy' aisle in Tesco, salivating over the plump olives and tender salmon, gooey cheeses and range of Italian oils, trying to remember what they taste like. Until they asked me to leave. I was upsetting the other customers apparently with my moaning and wailing. (They had to pry a bag of vine tomatoes out of my hand when I left, it wasn't pretty.)

And don't get me started on trying to get anyone out for a drink after work. Oh no, that doesn't happen anymore either now that I'm working from home. Drink is strictly reserved for the weekend and weddings, according to Mammy Dunne. "Sure Our Lord himself only drank at the Last Supper and the Wedding of Cana which I know for a fact were both on Fridays" she said piously, delighted with herself "and what's good enough for Our Lord is good enough for you" she finished putting an end to my musings that I could tap away on my lap-top while sipping on a chilled chardonnay.

So all in all, my first week of working from home hasn't been what I'd imagined, though I have to admit to taking a sneaky hour off on Tuesday to watch Oprah, which gave me a guilty little thrill. (It was about man-eating sharks, it was brilliant. You don't feel it when they bite your leg off apparently and you're grand afterwards.) However, who knows what the future will hold and once I get my working space sorted away from the clutches of Mammy Dunne and eircom deigns to activate my broadband line, things might get a little more bearable. I'll keep you posted! (The picture is the Blessed Virgin Mary..or Mammy Dunne as she likes to call herself! I haven't worked out how to do captions yet!)

Bring back carrier pidgeons!

2005-10-12T04:29:00.000+01:00

I'm writing this in red ink because of The Rage. Note the use of capital letters! Yes, dear readers, I am now officially boiling with rage. The reason? I've spent the last hour trying to set up this bloody blog and I still have't a bog's notion what I'm doing! Do you know how hard it is to upload a photo? Well do you?!

Ok, calm calm. I THINK I may have finally gotten the hang of things, but if you hear any large explosions in the Dublin area over the next while, that'll be me. Spontaeneously (sp?) combusting!

Ignore Me! post

2005-10-11T20:45:00.000+01:00

Jesus Mary and the Carpenter! Ignore the previous Me! post, it was put there by accident while I was trying to upload a picture of myself. Anyway, am going to try again, so this time it might work. It's hard work this blogging isn't it? And you know I bet no-one will ever read this. Sob! So go on, if you're out there, drop me a comment..please!