trees

Hmm. The man I'm doing counselling with described a picture of two oak trees, growing side by side, roots in the same soil, outer branches strong and reaching. On the inside where they come together the branches and leaves are a little more stunted, weaker, less well grown because of their proximity to the other tree, the blocked light.

A realistic portrayal of a normal relationship?

Among other things, we discussed the myth of romantic love, it's short shelf life, and how the likes of Liz Taylor end up marrying eight times because of their belief in this myth.

He pointed out that while the whole 'you can do better' idea may be bollocks, that being alone is also a viable option. And suddenly I thought about the image I put in my last post.

Something that both comforts and alarms me.

I love this picture

If you happen to have a soft screen you can press on the light and make it pulse. If you are so inclined, that is.

hilarious

thanks to Raptureponies' Facebook:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/picturegalleries/howaboutthat/5230467/No-Regrets-The-Best-Worst-and-Most-Ridiculous-Tattoos-Ever.html?image=2

fucking brr

Ohh, if I had a fire I'd be huddled in front of it right now. I feel chilled. Where's that sun gone?

offer

If anyone wants tiny mini cupcakes and a cup of tea,
Today's the day to visit me.

I got a red one, not a blue one

Ahhhh, I have just done some good birthday shopping.

Yesterday I co-oerced Tinman into taking me for-tea-for-two to complete his experience of being a mammy of leisure for the week.

I was late, I was full of the lurgy I was knackered. I asked him advice about which mixer option to go for - one for €400 with free utensils I wouldn't use all of or get one from Avoca, €15 off their price of €495, and a free ice cream maker which I've wanted, with it.

I knew what I wanted to do, really. As there's birthday and album launch cupcakes to be made tonight. 'Why not go up there for coffee and get it now?' said Tinman.

Why not? said my inner voice. Well, because it's four hundred and eighty quid, and even though I've decided to get it, I'd still rather dither about it until I find out it's no longer available, like I always do.

But lovely pot of tea and an oatcake later, I was feeling far more awake and less lurgyful, and overcame the purhcasing-fear and became the deleriously excited owner of a RED (last one in stock) Kitchenaid mixer, happy dance happy dance.

Thank you Tinman, for the card-with-a-fiver, the tea and the moral support.

In other birthday present news, I, what's the word, custom ordered? some jewellery from etsy, but the photos are down now I've paid for it. But here's what inspired it.

Recession? What recession?

homesearch invention

How great would it be if you could have your house fitted with its own google?

At any given time, I have no idea where several things are. Each time I go to bake I find that small questing fingers have removed vital items from the drawer and put them - where? The laundry basket?

Imagine if you could just type 'camera' or 'passport' or 'pants' or 'old hard drive' or 'address book' or 'rubber band' into your search screen and a little map would come back, showing you that it was under the pile of old magazines under the bed, or in behind that bag that has to go up to the attic that's sitting in the bathroom.

My friend's grandmother lost her mother's engagement ring, by putting it down on the sink in her bathroom, and it was never seen again (have I got that right?). Imagine if you could just google it, and get a little not telling you it was behind the skirting board, or swiped by a magpie or an opportunist cousin gone to the bad.

I could find my wedding jewellery, countless missing earrings, photos, the icing nozzle Bodhi swiped before I ever got to use it, the disc with the other games on it, all my Cd's, my electronic car key (though I think Olivia put that in the recycling long ago, I miss it so much, no more beeping from afar!). On and on and on, the lost things pile up, a few feet away from me.

I'd love someone to invent it, this needle-in-a-haystack-finder. The only problem would be that anything that would actually identify the hidden items would also most likely give you cancer. A stumbling block there.

Dammit, I can't think of anything funny to rhyme with Google to call it.

Ideas in comments, please!

how cool is this?

I started a blog for Olivia, with the intent of recording her art, put up five posts and then dropped the ball. So I'm trying to pick it up again.

But today she did something so cool I had to post it. Ladies and gents, I give you:

George Washington Walking His Doggy on a Sunny Day.



We went to the National Gallery last week, and while she was bored, she liked a few things - the skull in an El Greco, Cupid's willy, the room of George Washington-alikes, and getting to do her own picture, which I popped into the perspex frame on the mantel rather than hanging it up on the line crowded by Spanish students' work.

She's ecstatic, as am I. My daughter has a picture hanging in the National Gallery. And it doesn't even have a naked Brian Cowen in it!

There's a Vermeer in there til the end of May, I think? The light, it's true what they say... worth going to gaze at without being in the company of small, tired, hot children, you know.

deep breath

Ok, you people, I've decided. I'm going to take the plunge. After my abortive attempt to buy a mixer last year, I felt in my heart of hearts it's because I was destined for an even fancier one. Look at the shiny, the mixy, the sparkle!

Yes, I need fillings, and glasses, and home improvements, and a weekend in Paris. BUT. I know I will get enough use out of this to make it worth it in the end. And the joy it will bring me...

Sadly for Irish trade, I can get it from an English site, including postage and a free utensil set worth 60 pounds, for 50 less than I can buy it for here. Depressing, eh? For US readers, don't even ask how much they cost over here.

So here is both a request and an offer: it is my birthday next Saturday. If anyone feels moved to donate concrete birthday wishes to the Charity of Jo, send me a birthday card with a fiver in it. It will go towards the mixer fund. And, here's the sweet part, if you do, I promise to, over the course of the summer months, send you something mixed out of it. Cookies or the like.

ONLY if the idea appeals, though, this is a strictly just in case effort I'm trying here. No pressure!

Birthday cards empty of money would also be extremely welcome! I can't help but feel a little unloved on my birthday, much as I try not to. So if you need my address, mail me at infantasiablogATgmailDOTcom or my own address, if you have it.

Anyone know about paypal buttons?

a little blankie linkies

Or some chicken soup... for your soul
Bodhi discovered chicken soup today - soup! Noodles in his hair, wet shirt front, noodles stuck to his legs, wet nudie bum from where the soup pooled in his chair. But a small, happy, chickeny, soup eater.

forgive me goddess for I have sinned

and in a desperate orgy of work avoidance, I have searched Facebook for the men I've slept with...

a new procrastinatory low.

rant rant rant

Have you all seen the Susan Boyle Britain's Got Talent by now?

Everyone's talking about what a marvellous triumph over cynicism it is. I agree it's moving and she's brilliant and so on. But what I feel most about the whole thing is frustrated rage.

These two unbearably smug men, whose talent is making money through exploitation, and some young blond one who's there for her young blondness alone, I suspect, sneering at this woman because she dares to stand in front of them with frizzy greying hair and middle aged spread and unplucked eyebrows and she's provincial, and dares to be ebullient nonetheless, never mind that she's perfectly well turned out and she's working some high high heels.

And they snigger and sneer, and the girls in the audience look like they might fall off their seats in disgust. Disgust.

For this old woman. Who dares breach this hideous world of fake tan and g strings and teeth whitening and duct taped boobs. She dares to be real, and have confidence and have real talent.

'Everyone was laughing at you', 'Everyone was against you'. What the fuck?

And it turned out they all had to eat humble pie. Which was great.

But you know, what if she hadn't been that great? Then she would have deserved the abuse and dismissal? Because of what she looked like? Because she was 48? And she says 'but that's not all I am' and they look like she's just pissed in their prawn cocktail.

Who know what Susan Boyle was doing when she was 17. She might have been studying. Or looking after her parents. Or stuck in a village learning to sing beautifully in her church choir.

It doesn't matter why she's doing this thing in her late forties. The tragedy of it is that those fuckers, and all the little upstart children in the audience should have respect for this woman.
Because of her grey hair. Because of her age. Because she's a woman. There must have been time when age and experience were respected in their own right, instead of this cult of slutty exploited youth Simon Cowell has propagated.

Alright, I know the whole sneering thing is just part of the act, maybe they'd even heard her already,whatever. But still, 'triumph over cynicism' maybe, but I'm far less cheered by the example of how ingrained the sexist, ageist, lookist values of our society are now. Blithely accepted and lauded.

It doesn't make me look forward to my future as an invisible woman. Or my daughter's, she's going to want a boob job by the time she's 14.

I ♥ Declan Kiberd

It was my last year of college before I realised you could CHOOSE your tutors.

During our first tutorial, packed into his crowded little office, he answered the phone and started gabbling in Irish - if we hadn't been intimidated before...

I was writing on something quite new, and there was no real criticism yet. He said I'd have to write it myself, and when I expressed doubts, he said 'Oh, I know, it's terrifying!'

And then he went on sabbatical, having marked only that essay, using generous comments like 'brilliant', 'astute' and 'incisive'.

Sob!

But he was my external supervisor for my messy, unedited thesis, and kindly argued my mark up for that. Thank you, Declan Kiberd!

He told us the story about Kavanagh and the pigs' liver, he's a master of the dirty joke. He incited us to walk on the grass in Trinity, despite the fearsome forbidding of Terence Brown!

He's a funny, lovely, clever man, full of interest and interestingness. I have such an academic crush, I'm so glad I got to be in his tutorial, and see his lectures, and meet him etc.

I just came across an interview with him, mentioning an interest in children's fiction I wasn't aware of. I don't know if anyone's interested, but I thought I'd wack up a link.

I love the photo I found - doesn't he look like you've seen him in Asterix?

daydreams

Miles away. Not in the moment. The moment isn't doing it for me.

Other things, options. Other things to be. Pretending, anyway.

Glass and wool and feathers, material, under my fingertips,
shaping; or words twisting obediently.

Colours, more than just dull grey and breathing green.

Skin. Heartbeat.

A different me.



http://fineartamerica.com/featured/escarpment-13-lorraine-roy.html

too-good dinner

Sometimes we make pizza.

Delia Smith's base recipe. Napolina pizza topping, because it tastes like pizza topping and if I was to try and make my own, it would add too much time to the recipe. Though it's doable. But, meh.

Real mozzarella, mushrooms, sweetcorn (cos that's what I like), basil, olives, sometimes, though they're too salty usually, courgette - on mine, aubergine, on Axel's pepperoni, ideally, though I've only remembered to buy it once.

A bit of olive oil? Spinach? Egg even. Anything. I'm told broccoli is the way forward.

It is heartily, delightfully fuckin' tasty. You could eat and eat and eat!

Do it!

Edit: I meant to include this link, but I had too much on my plate :)

K8 tells you how.

And oh alright. Delia.

nudist-pooist

I have blessed with two free spirited nudists for children. In the morning, as soon as Olivia comes into the bed, jaybird naked, her small brother begins an an anguished cry of 'Dressy! Dressy! Nappy!' and tugs at his jammies, until he's similarly unclothed. 'Nudie!!'

The problem is, he's not quite 21 months, and while sitting on the potty is fun sometimes, he doesn't actually USE it yet. Up til now we've been lucky. Ish. But this morning he unleashed a torrent. He managed to get the sheet, the mattress, the duvet, a pillow, my nightie, and his sister. I have baby wee in my hair right now.

And then, thinking I was safe I left him downstairs au naturel and his dad just had to clean poo up off the floor (heheh).

The upside is, when I see them racing and bouncing around, with their creamy skin and plumpy bums and strong limbs, I am so awed and grateful, be-weed or not.

Eastery pictures

Olivia's godmother sent us some egg dye. What else can I dye?

On the hunt. I love how the bunnies glittered in the foliage

We had a cookie making day last week

Easter chicks!

Easter cookies - I love the shape of these chicks. I have made, iced and eaten many. Nigella's recipe is eggy, buttery and vanilla-y and tastes like crepe if you dip them in coffee. Nice.

Sadly, I have nothing to write that is not both too personal and miserable to post about, and all this personal misery gets in the way of me wanting to post anything more palatable.

So at least there's pretty photos. I have aspirations to be one of these bloggers who illustrates with beautiful photos, I have photo blog envy.

odd egg out

On the phone Natalie laughingly asserted that I could help her with Pass the Parcel and so on. 'Not me,' I said. 'Pass the Parcel brings me out in a cold sweat, I can't bear the tension.'

But I feel a bit guilty, as I do: she's a single mother, not in a position to be hosting birthday parties financially, I should be jumping in and helping, to pay the world back for the fact that I'm in the privileged position of being married, and in a household with an income and a half, and I don't have to worry about maintenance payments, paid or unpaid.

When I get there, I apologise, and say I won't be staying. Being menstrual, and the morning I've had with Olivia, and the two kids taking turns to have hysterics, I could no more stay in a house of hepped up girlies without seizing on the floor than I could gnaw off my own arm.

That's fine, that's fine, but you'll come in for a cup of TEA, at LEAST.

I will.

And an egg and spoon race.

Natalie has a go, playing competitively with her 11 year old son. And then, surprise, a mum's egg and spoon race! Yay! And I feel something inside me sicken and turn over, that old old feeling.

But I laugh, it's fun, the egg drops. I scrabble to pick it up, ha ha. There is is, that shutter of shame and helplessness slamming down, I'm the clumsy four year old again, struggling, clinging on to the door handle, refusing to go to sports day, torn between fear of the humiliation and fear of my father if I don't go when he tells me. I laugh, it's fun, but I can't do this. I can't.

Olivia approaches, disappointment and disapproval on her face.

'You didn't run fast enough'.

bellx1 are my heroes

trousers

I went to BellX1 in the Olympia last night.

Last time we saw them we had to sit through the most woeful, turgid support band I've seen in years, so this time we took our time, got in late, I even ordered a Guinness, though the band sounded good, only to discover it was the Walls! And then we had to wait for our pints! So unfortunately we only caught two songs, and they sounded great. And most interesting of all, they were using a drum and bass track and had the drummer on film behind them, seamlessly blending in, even doing a bit of prerehearsed interaction. It was consumately professional and smoothly done, I was wowed. Inspiring.

Bellx1 are uncategorically excellent. The successors to U2 as Ireland's flagship band, I think.

The set, the lights, what they do with the songs, it's all to a standard of artistic excellence that is Raising the Bar.

They played a lot of older stuff, unlike in November when they were previewing the album - but the new songs fitted in very well, more than I thought they would - in November it was all quite keyboardy and electronic sounding, but a lot of last night was heavier. Close your eyes and sway away into the sound, heavy. So good!

A beautiful surprise was a guest appearance by Lisa Hannigan, for the encore, for their Cake Sale duet. She's unassuming, and lovely, and sounded gorgeous.

They're clearly pouring money back into the music, the new electric guitar toy he was fiddling with a little nervously last year is confidently broken in, everything flows perfectly.

They even have a new song called Breastfed, introduced with a Pat Mustard intro, about nobody buying UHT milk because it's shite - and I think it's pro-breastfeeding, but I'd better check to be sure, you never know with their lyrics. But if I was Paul Noonan's mammy, I'd be proud to have fed that mind and voice and six foot something frame, I tell ya.

His voice is angelic as always. His dancing pleasantly staccato and mad. The man is so sweetly funny, I love his joke about not videoing them being too lost in music, as we might catch them making their sex faces. The best bit about that is thinking about him making his sex face...

My only complaint is about his terrible, terrible trousers. They are a shiny looking grey. They taper. The hem sits at his ankle. He's a skinny man, but they make his arse look big. They were actually a distraction, I couldn't look away. Honestly Paul. Trinny and Susannah need to come for those trousers, their time is up.

But worst, almost, than the trousers, was the noise. Of the crowd. I don't know whether the sound was down more than usual, or it was the weird acoustics of where we were sitting upstairs, but my God, the chat. Blahdeblahblah over the music, even the loud bits. People shouting into phones and blathering at each other. A giant rattling hum of noisy talking. Why?

Why do people spend money on tickets just to shout to each other? Why not listen to the songs? The rudeness of shouting over a quiet song... I dunno. It's weird.

It happens all the time now. Comedy gigs are the worst. What's wrong with people, eh?

I'd love to post some video, but I am lacking in technology. I'm going to keep my eye on Youtube though.

Check out a real review at Swear I'm Not Paul

God, this is not smooth, but it's taken over three hours to get this far! I had to rush out and bring my car to the garage, I'd forgotten to go! And now I have to change a nappy.

So that's it!

YES!!

Axel just fixed the hoover!

And he put a new fuse in the lamp, and it works, and he put a stronger bulb in it, so I can see to work now - if I could just afford new glasses, I might save myself from going blind!

We leave simple things that need fixing on the long finger.

The lamp's been out since Christmas.
I'm not handy, sadly.


Due to the risible state of out economy and our leaders' management of it, we're all fucked.
Christmas has been cancelled by Brian Cowen. No more bonuses for people on the dole.


I'm getting huge yearnings to sell our house, move up the mountain, build a wooden house, raise hens, grow veg...

Except I'm in even less of a position to do that now, than I ever was.


Ooo, anxiety anxiety.

how good am I to me?

Roses and a cd of Dr Hook love songs? Oh yes. If no one's gonna buy them for you, you have to buy them yourself. I even asked for the cd for Mother's Day, or Valentine's day, whichever, but did not recieve. I have to admit to standing in Tesco before Mother's Day, gazing at the big beautiful bunch of pink roses, the kind that look all round and tissue papery, while envisioning the forecourt looking but no doubt expensive bunch I knew I'd get, with the flowers I don't like in them.

They were nice, and are still holding out, actually, but oh, those pink roses.

So the other day I looked at the cd again, and it was the Last One, so I took it as a sign. And there were some poor little roses on sale for €2.99, so I grabbed them too, even though I knew they'd droop by the next day, which they did, but hey.

And then, on Saturday, I was miserable about my husband talking to me like I was shit on the floor over something bizarre and ridiculous, on the way home I stopped in Donnybrook Fayre and bought PESTO, fresh pesto, oh, the lyrical basily greenness of it. With quinoa pasta and organic broccolli for dinner, and a Lindt egg. A little one now, not an Easter Egg.

So yes, it's soothing my soul with THINGS and FOOD, which may not be healthy, but it's in the interests of feeling I deserve treats, rather than drowning my self hatred in suppressive fats and carbohydrate.

A little bit different, anyway.

If you think this is an indulgent and boring post, just be thankful I'm writing about it instead of the actual issue. Blech.

It's a horrible rainy day, the sky is virtually on the ground, it's cold.

Here are two things that are good today:

The first is eat pray love by Elizabeth Gilbert. A friend gave it to me for Christmas and I am devouring it slowly in tiny increments. It's beautifully written and I feel like she could teach me anything.

And the second is what I made my daughter for breakfast - just right for this sudden rainy grimness. Three words.

Hot
Toasted
Cinammon
Bagle.

Mmmmm, you'd almost press it to your face for a warm bagel facial and try and absorb some of the aromatic spicy doughy heat into your heart.

Wheat eaters, go get yourself one.

a finger of fudge

I was reminded today, that I noticed a woman coming out of the newsagent at the supermarket the other day, a middle aged, bespectacled, greyish haired woman in a blue anorak, eating what appeared to be a Cadbury's Fudge.

It struck me as strange that she would be eating a finger of Fudge. Incongruous, somehow. I didn't quite believe my eyes - a feat of observation considering my eyesight and the distance - clearly I can recognise chocolate bar wrappers from twenty paces - a talent!

Perhaps the incongruity is due to the ad campaign, now the only people I expect to see eating Fudge bars are conker-wielding schoolboys in shorts and round caps, circa 1952.

my favourite song of theirs

All acoustic here.




Bodhi watched it, then right at the end went, 'Gasp! Daddy!'

postcard

The sun is still shining. Is this our summer again? Or will there be a drought?

Last week we went to the beach, as mentioned. It was windy on the strand, but the sun was shining. Back in the carpark, five convent school girls in dark turquoise uniforms were standing round a little blue old style mini, one in the driver's seat. Chatting, eating ice cream cones.

It was so iconic looking. Blue skies, blue uniforms, blue car. What a life! Seventeen, with wheels, full of hope and ice cream.

One last go!

Alright, all, tomorrow is the day.

I'm a little scared not enough people are going to show and I will look a tit.

Though encouragingly, there's Holemaster, Darren and Liz, Sarah Gostrangely and possibly Rymus who will (hopefullly) be attending. Which is pretty cool actually. I should reward them by linking, but I've the dinner on and they're all in my new improved blogroll.

Thursday 2nd April
Greystones Theatre

The Juice

The Cujo Family

Blind Yackety



Doors open 7pm
Music 8 - 12
Tickets €10
Available from the BSP office/Box Office/Door

OUR SCHOOL NEEDS A NEW ROOF!

www.myspace.com/thejuiciestmusic

www.myspace.com/stoneymoany