the closest I will ever get to the Leinster rugby team...

I had a categorically lovely night last night. My friend (who has a baby and hadn't been out in 4 months!) and I went to Dundrum, and she brought me to the Harvey Nicks First Floor Bar, where there is soft lighting and pervasive chicness, it's all very Sex and the City for a non-society girl like me. And there are cocktails... €10 cocktails, but they're kind of worth it. Vanilla and Blueberry daquiri, thanks very much, and I could happily have had four more. So it was just as well I was driving.

Then we went to eat something, and C mentioned there was a new Mexican place, which we eventually found. It's my mission in life to find a burrito that tastes like a Californian burritto. It hasn't happened yet, but Cortina's is lovely. It's really nicely decorated, simple, with wood and candles and a big photo of a Mexican waiter on the back wall. Latin minmalist, maybe :) And the coctails are €7.95...We went for a booth as it was relatively empty - there were four young men in the one beside it, but apart from registering that, I didn't take any notice, and forgot about them as sat and started chatting and debating mango salsa and guacamole purism.

Later on, as we ate (the burrito didn't taste like a burrito, sadly, but it was grand), I looked past C's shoulder, and suddenly the face opposite me at the other table became familiar as I had a burst of recognition, and realised it was Brian O Driscoll. 

Captain of the Irish Rugby Team

As that sank in, it became apparent that the two guys sitting with their backs to me were huge, and muscled, and clearly members of the rugby team as well. They were laughing hysterically, it was really sweet. I love seeing people transported in laughter, and while they were loud, it wasn't rowdy, it made you want to laugh along too. But the thing is... all the hilarity, it made them... sort of, ripple. Planes and bulges of muscle shifting around under t shirts stretched ridiculously tight across their ridiculously ripped frames.

Ok, I'll admit, there was some (considerable) shameless ogling on my behalf, but they were drawing attention to themselves. I mean, when some six foot something behemoth is laughing so hard he's straining his shirt, and leaning into the crook of his muscly young friend's neck in helpless laughter, while his friend bends his enormous arm to touch his head... it would be such a waste not to stare, right? I'll admit, the rugby boy thing is really not my thing, it never was. But these guys, you can't really help being awed by them, proud of them - born and bred in Ireland and real, real athletes. Plus, you really just don't see physique like that every day. Especially not so... bromance-y. I suppose they're well used to physcial contact with each other, it makes them relaxed with each other's company too. It was cute. And... hot. Brian came back from the toilet doing that absent minded stomach stroking thing men do. Which drew attention to his abs... and two of the others were just wearing old t shirts and low slung tracksuit bottoms, they were all scruffy and brown skinned and ... sigh.

The big guy sittng right behind us recovered a little and look around, shamefacedly, and apologised for the disruption, tears still in his eyes. I said, 'Oh lads, please, don't apologise!' and they did keep on going, but when they were leaving BOD (so apt!) apologised very nicely and ruefully, but really, I should have been thanking them, they made my night. And C said they all filed out in order of size, which is trés cute, and also makes me wonder if they naturally obey an alpha system, perhaps even without realising it :)

Brian was very leaderly.

And they all had girlie desserts, little mousses with a scoop of icecream - though presumably they can eat whatever the fuck they want, and more. The best thing was, that after I realised who they were, and as their laughter was peaking, C mentioned that she was starting to need a breast pad (as it was her daughter's feedtime at home). I couldn't blame her, the hysterical laughter of four of the Leimster rugby team's finest was close to making me lactate as well :)

That had us laughing on the table too, so the atmosophere was merry. I do feel guilty that I was a bit distracted, and that C had sat with her back to the view, but it was my birthday night out...

But I'd recommend Cortina's, we had two salsas, two veg burritos, a coffee and a coke, and it was 35 quid. And it's a lovely restaurant. And Brian O Driscoll goes there. Nice!

sex sells cherries, by the seashore

Ok. Ha. I know we tend to laugh at the Euro-practice of using naked women and sex to sell everything from shampoo to ear wax disolver, but suddenly it's starting to make more sense to me.

Daniel (I mean Danielle! In my tiredness I just translated a whole person!) told me his great aunt only drank this.*

You just know he can tie a knot in that cherry stalk just using his tongue, don't you?

heheheheheheh.

What does Sinnlich. Feurig. Edel. mean?

*That is to say, as opposed to other alcohol. I'm assuming it wasn't her eight glasses of water a day or anything.

the good and the not so good.

Ha! It's this one! You can get it in Lidl!

Tonight I visit my granny. She's 92 and 3/4  but she can still be good company. Repetitive sometimes. Set in her ways. But also pragmatic, humorous, cynical, philosophical.

She wants a special drink, a rare social indulgence, and I find cherry liquer  in her drinks cabinet; bought decades ago in Duty Free, one bottle of something special per holiday. It's red and sweetly warm and tastes of real cherry juice from cherries grown so long ago it's hard to fathom*. In the cupboard are two tiny teeny glasses, the shape of flowers, with belled ends that flared out at the top, not much bigger than your little finger.

We discuss Marks and Spencers, as always, she likes their trouser length options. She looks at the trousers she's wearing and says she remembered the other day that she'd bought them in Belfast - and after a well timed pause, reveals that she hasn't been to Belfast since 1939. She got them in some latter day Penny's, and they didn't cost more than 15 shillings. She doesn't like to think how many times she's washed them. I'd say she got good value out of that purchase :)

Not so fun is the mother-in-law conversations we have about my parents' marriage... she can hear no wrong of my father, given his brutal upbringing... she can't hear that my mother was devoted to him, remained in love with him throughout all the shit. But he never spoke a bad word about her. Not to her. Maybe he did to us.

Maybe not... we just got to observe the horrible way he treated her.

She lowers her voice... well, your mother wasn't the best housekeeper. I do think that bothered him. Though he didn't say it. He was loyal to her that way.

Sigh.

*ok maybe not, googleimages suggests I can get it in Lidl, lol.

hurray!

K8 had a baby boy at 6am this morning! On my birthday! Whee! And she did it natural! I'm sure she'll tell us about it soon.

Congrats K8 and all :)

wouldja lookit

I'm so touched. One very sweet friend I haven't met yet made me a birthday collage. Of all my blog pictures. And maybe a few more. It's gorgeous! I especially like the cake in the middle of Starry Night, two of my favourite things, and they seem to go so well together.

How cool is that? Thank you Nicola!

slight odd feeling

I saw someone I met through Rollercoaster breast feeding stuff, has had another baby since we met. She and her husband were sweetie pies, in their early twenties, lovely wee people. We share a last name.

She told me today her husband was so enamoured of Bodhi, the 'boy with the cool hair' that he decided to name him Bodhi too.

I don't know. It's flattering. And I did get the name from a film... it's not like it's mine.

But some part of me feels a little robbed. I went for names no one else had, you see. I've never met another Olivia or Bodhi, as it were, and now there's another one, same last name and all. I told him, and he was having none of it. 'No! I am Bodhi', he insisted. Yup, I feel a little like that too!

Well, I do and I don't. They're a gorgeous little family, it's nice that we have something shared as well.

My son is a trend setter!

UPDATE: ah, ok, the boys do NOT share a last name, our name's her name, not her husband's... so... slight overreaction above? Axel was unimpressed when I told him, too, though...

Oh Children, my Children

Olivia, stop shouting, bitching, giving teenage attitude.
Bodhi, stop whining, screaming, hitting.

Please.

Ohh, Momma needs a weekend away from you darlings. Somewhere with cocktails, a pool, a jaccuzzi and scenic walks.

grr arg

I just lost a whole blog post. Because of Blogger. Bastards!

blackbird

Olivia came home from her music class last week, and told me they'd learned a lovely song. She sang a little - and it was this:



I love that they're singing it, but it's weird to teach them the song without any background. It's a music appreciation kind of class - teach them about the Beatles for heaven's sake! Still, I suppose that's our job. Olivia's just much more open to input from sources other than her parents.

Conversation sample:

Olivia: (variation on a theme) It's great that it's only 6 more years til I'm a teenager!
Me: that's right god help me
Olivia: And I'll definitely be making out by then
Me: you will??
Olivia: Oh, yes
Me: and is that a good thing
Olivia: Oh, Yes!
Me: okaaaay .... why is that a good thing?
Olivia: I'm not going to tell you!
Me: well, that's fine, I'll just wait and read your diary and
        find out that way
Olivia: No you won't because I will have a lock on it!

Apparently she had the same conversation with her father later, but felt stymied bcause it went like this:

Olivia:  It's great that it's only 6 more years til I'm a teenage because I'll be making out by then!
Axel: generic alarmed dad query
Olivia: I'm not going to tell you!
Axel: That's ok, I'm probably better off not knowing
Olivia:  - ! -

I love the differences in our reactions.

I must soothe you all by assuring you I'd never actually read her diary. I'm just praying we'll be friends by then, and she can just tell me stuff.

Actually, ha, today was weird - after swimming lessons, she and her little friend Ray found themselves showering at the same time while his dad and I looked on and dispensed shampoo and thwarted water-spitting fights. I looked at the two of them cavorting under the spray, and realised what a very co-ed moment it was.

Ahhh....

What lurks beneath the female gaze...

Intriguingly, this photo comes from http://www.leonardnimoyphotography.com/ I am so off to check that out

soul baring

There is this woman, and she reminds me so much of me, and she wrote this thing I've been meaning to write for ages...

Check out the F-Stop today, for a beautiful essay on bodies and shame and bravery.

they got tiny little legs and they stand so low, you gotta pick em up just to say hello...

for my favourite tall neurotic person...

for texting, maybe more...

Relatively soon after my grandmother died, my grandfather met a significantly younger woman (ten years older than my mother, I think) through personal ads. Her husband had left her for the gay life, and she'd placed an ad. She told me she'd liked his letter best, but didn't reply because of the age difference. But then her other would be suitors didn't impress, and she wrote back.

They ended up having a long, passionate, affectionate marriage. I think my mother and her sisters found it strange to see the man who would communicate what he wanted at the table by pointing and grunting, wander hand holding into the sunset. I wrote before about the revelation my step-grandmother shared with my at my aunt's funeral about how I'd come looking for them on their post-honeymoon visit, and how they were actually having sex in the hay at the time. Now that's frisky.

But anyway, it worked out for them (though he died a few years ago in his mid eighties and she misses him horribly... but she's still getting two international-tour holidays a year, so I suppose there are compensations).

And these days, the internet is the place to meet people, so personal ads don't necessarily sound so odd anymore... except, I just read one. In the Irish Times.

SINGLE, 39 yr old male, tall, dark, blue eyes, muscular, honest, romantic, seeks slim-medium female for texting, maybe more.


Meheh. Sigh. If only I was slim-medium, I could avail of the delights of a text exchange with a muscular, honest man... maybe more!

I looked at the women's one, and this caught my eye,

BLACK female, easygoing, caring, lovely, seeks similar man who knows what it is to love.

Oo. Doesn't that sound much more appealing? I wonder if she's slim to medium...


I know the rationale behind 'for friendship, maybe more' makes sense. It basically says, I'm not just looking for a shag, lets test the waters. Obviously. But doesn't the guarded suggestion of 'maybe nothing more than texting' just seem a little over cautious? Commitment issues, much? I mean, it's a big jump to  answer a personal ad. If all you're going to get out of it is a text message or two, I'm not sure it would be worth it.

Yup. Romantic potential.

Still. Good luck to 'em.

girlinpearls

This makes me want to cry for some reason. Well, ok, the reason is probably pms, but still. Isn't it beautiful?

other people's children

Before I had kids, I spent the better part of two decades googling at strangers' children as I walked past them, clutching at my heart and staggering a bit, ovaries pinging at the sight of sweetster babies and sturdy little boys and curly haired girls in sweet dresses. Baby docs, lord save me.

This morning, a friend of Bodhi's was walking our way home with his mother, so I abandoned the car so they could run together. We got to the grassy patch and my small long haired son started his loping, hopping run, those industrious elbows workin, up high, and his hair all over his face, and his 70s t shirt, blue with red sleeves, and little combats. Damn the boy is cute.

And then I looked at the car beside us in traffic, with the woman in the passenger seat gazing dispassionately out at him - not a smile cracked! What's wrong with you woman? I mean, even if she'd had a tragedy, surely he'd bring a hand to her heart, a tear to her eye? Adore my child, dammit!

Actually, I know that's not quite fair, and the tragedy thing has only just occurred to me ... but for the dramatic purposes of the post, let's just run with the idea that she was child hater with a heart of stone, alright?

ugh

I have the evil pms bitchmonsters. I'm weepy and pissed off and starving. In the last couple days I've eaten half a box of chocolate cereal (maybe more) and about 7 slices of white sliced bread and biscuits and ... more.. and I'm not fucking going to Weight Watchers today, they can't make me!!!!!!!

God, I hate this shit.


Doesn't that illustration totally say mother-monster?

girl, airborne

See up there? It's very high up in the air. It's actually in the process of stopping spinning and coming back down to earth. Because it didn't occur to me to get out the phone and take a picture while my heart was in my mouth and my child was flying the frinedly skies. Olivia got all excited about this new piece of equipment at the funfair. Her dad promised to come back and go on with her, but came home and paled confessed there was no way he could, with vertiginious fear in his eyes.

Me and the kids went back down on the last day of the fair and she begged and begged to go by herself. And I craned my neck at it, and thought about my little girl spinning in the air so high of the ground, and I said, no, I can't let you do it, and next year, and ugh, what are you thinking you'll feel sick and so will I and so on, and she kept denying it all, and finally I realised that even if I or someone else was up there with her, if her swing came lose and she fell out, it's not like there's anything anyone could do, and I'd probably be better off breaking her fall on the ground.

So off we went, to get her on - and the fairground guy gestured in horror at Bodhi and shook his head, and I said, Fuck no! It's bad enough her going! - and he clutched his chest in relief :)

And up she skipped, with a grin a mile wide, to be strapped into the seat that looked impossibly big for her, feet dangling, grin in place.

And up it went, something like twenty feet in the air, and it spun, and my heart left my ribcage as she whirled in the air and I watched my baby fly. You could see her grin from that high up in the air.

And when she got down, she came bouncing and scrambling across the grass, eyes alight and laughing widely, elated and delighted and ever so slightly queasy and WANTING TO GO AGAIN!!

Horror and daredevilling. We think she gets it from the MIL, maybe, it certainly isn't from me and her dad.

ok no, beauty is...

Sugar and paper and ink and edible gold paint...

World's prettiest cupcake contender!

there was a time...

When beauty was softer...

by Anders Zorn, apparently, though I can't find it...

moments

I looked out the front window, and in next door's garden are three children. Two are mine. The sun shines, the grass is green, flowers are reaching up. My daughter stands, leans on the bench. Faces obscured by a catkin covered tree, I see the kids' friend, whose feet just almost nearly reach the ground, and my son's two little trouser clad legs and navy runners, dangling way above it. As he sits. In between two six year old girls. So rooted in his own little moment. It's lovely.

And the other day, my daughter came to ask me for something, to complain - I looked at her, saw her pale face, her not quite coping, and asked if she was ok. 'Yes, I'm tiredy,' she said. I didn't say anything, just smiled inside, to hear the little girl coming out. 'Tired. I mean I'm tired,' she ammended firmly, catching herself, sounding alarmed. I wish she would just relax, and just let herself be my tiredy baby. But her feet are too close to touching the ground for that, I suppose.

alternative funeral

My uncle's funeral yesterday was ... lovely? I suppose. A good funeral is a good thing. Lovely and gut wrenching. I didn't bring tissues - for some misgotten reason I thought I wouldn't cry. I was sitting right behind my cousins and my grandmother, and beside my brother's girlfriend who was at her first funeral since her father had died the same sudden way, at the same age last May. Even if I hadn't been sad for the loss, the waves of grief bombarding me still would have levelled me to the leaking thing I became, all tears and snotty nose.

I've never been to Glasnevin before. It's nice enough, but the conveyor belt system is a bit alarming. I was worried I'd accidentally crash the wrong funeral - apparently that happened to someone during the one before us. People were dying in droves, it seems, this week. One straight before, and one after. But the sun shone, and it was mostly warm, unusually - I've only been to one sunny funeral, and it was beautiful, a country graveyard in Thurles, with the hills in the distance, and the river, and sheep bleating, and daffodils blooming, and grandchildren playing uilleann pipes and fiddle by the graveside of their grandfather. A happy funeral.

Not so much Oisín's - but his band came and played gentle Beatles' songs in one corner, blocked out by the amount of people crammed in and looking for somewhere to stand. Oisín, not one for pomp, was buried in a willow coffin that looked oddly like a giant picnic basket. Photos were placed on top, and lily of the valley from his garden, put there by his children. Little tokens from his life, his bass, his football shirt and so on.

The minister was a Humanist one, who did little but organise the ceremony - my father made a sweet speech about the happiness Oisín had found, his girlfriend read a poem she'd written and kept it short and sweet and dignified. Then his friend Art, who I'd never met but who had known him since his school days came, and gave the most astounding eulogy I've ever heard.

The man is very suave, dark haired and dapper, with a gentle, articulate, educated voice. he was confident and warm and funny, and at home speaking to a crowd. His speech was the most unIrish thing - it ranged from stories of Oisín as a child, as a youth, funny bits about his habits and eccentricities, affectionate and entertaining. He made everyone laugh, with perfect comic timing - stories of going to festivals with him in their youth - how much he truly loved women - pictures of him sitting outside his aged, tiny tent, shirtless, and bantering with passing women. And then how a sign appeared on the tent itself -

VACANCY-

DOMESTIC HELP WANTED

(FEMALE)...

APPLY WITHIN

.

But he also did what my father was afraid to do - he mentioned the dark days of their abusive childhood, and the damage that my violent grandfather did to their lives. How Oisín had been through a lot that really made it hard for him to be happy. About what sustained him. And most unIrish of all, he was grateful to my father for paying for his brother to go to his therapist, and discussed the peace and happiness he found as a result.

It was long, entertaining, and poignant, and part of me listened with my mouth open. I would be proud to have a friend like that stand up for me, I have to say, it was humbling, and he was a credit to my uncle. I loved that he said what my father couldn't say, and gave him credit that made him happy. And helped people remember and honour the flawed, funny, pained, well meaning man and father my uncle was. It made me wish I'd seen more of him. In just the right way.

I know it's not fair, as I'm not religious, but the average Irish Catholic funeral service leaves me cold at best, angry at worst. There are too many stories of unfamiliar priests getting the deceased's name wrong, etc - the prayers and communion are no comfort to me, they seem impersonal, pointless, to me. And too often the platitudes and remembrances uttered are insincere and saccharine, sentimental. Especially in the case of those who've had hard or unhappy lives.

But this was so real, honest, full of integrity. It was so human. Focused on the man who died, not the afterlife, the glory of a god, things which may or may not be remotely relevant. Friends and family, and their grief and care.

I think the best advice you can take from the story of a stranger's sudden death is this: put your house in order. Now, while it's still painless and divorced from reality. Say what arrangements you want to be made, what music, what surroundings, order your eco coffin! Don't leave it to your loved ones to cast around in their grief, afraid of uncertain guesswork and family feuding like my mother did!


I wrote about this before, but after my mother died, my aunt was so shocked and alarmed, she wrote out all her wishes, down to location and music for her funeral, how she wanted it to be. She wrote her life story, her philosophies down for her grandson, how she felt about him and her family, etc. It was an immeasurable help and comfort at the time, and will continue to be, I'm sure.

I feel worn out. It brings up so much. How different life would be if we had the people who left too early still with us. The absence of grief. It's crippling, that thought. I know it's neither here nor there, and unproductive to think like that. It's hard not to, sometimes.

I got to the afters, yesterday, and god, but I could have drunk a bottle of wine. Somehow salad sandwiches didn't quite do the trick. But I just ate half a tub of Ben and Jerry's, so that will have to do for now :)

porridge

I suppose intellectually I understand why people don't like porridge. The plainness. The lumpiness. Bad childhood memories, maybe?

From my point of view, though, it's hard to relate to the porridgehaters.

Oats. Flahavans organic, quite small so they cook down fast and smooth. Milk of choice (rice, in my case, currently, despite its supposed arsenic content, sigh).

You let it come to a boil, then turn it down and stir it now and again. I like to put blueberries in it, that burst in little hot purple pops when you bite down on them, and spread tart sweetness through the vanilla flavoured porridge. If I was being unhealthy, I'd put some butter and salt in too. And flax seed (healthy, not unhealthy).

My kids have it with maple syrp, which is dangerously deliciously too sweet-sweet.

Cinnamon and butter and salt and vanilla is good, too, in winter, when you need something spicy and warming. Or pears.

It's the mix of stodgy, creamy, salty, warm, sweet textured spoonfuls that do it for me. The plainness is a good thing, somehow.

Porridge, I love thee.

Oh. I forgot a bit. And then I wrote it and lost it, when my little darling smallest one leaned against the dodgy connection.

My mother used to make me poridge for breakfast, and leave it in the bottom oven of the Aga while I was getting ready. So by the time I got to it, in one of my grandmother's handmade bowls, it would have solidified and have a skin on top. Each spoonful would be creamy and buttery and warm and slightly resilient. I love it like that, but I'm never patient enough to let it happen.

I will admit that I felt sorry for the language student I had once who was from the Orthodox Christian church and told us they celebrated with Christmas Porridge - with nuts and raisins and cream. Oh, said my friend when I told her. That sounds like my mother's everyday porridge.

Yes. I wouldn't be a proponent of Christmas porridge at all, it may be lovely, but it isn't chocolate and roast potatoes, no indeed.

I have  a feeling I've posted about this before, but it is a constant in my life. And also, I'm summoning the energy to report about the funeral, so I'm avoiding.

a funeral

Tomorrow, I have a funeral to go to.

Last Wednesday night, my 55 year old uncle died in his sleep. A man full of plans, just waiting to finish his boring day job, the one he'd been too afraid/prudent/cautious etc to leave earlier and do something for himself that he would enjoy, care about. Instead he lived for his weekends, his garden, his projects, his house in the West.

He lived alone, and no one found him til the next afternoon.

It's shocking. You don't really believe it can happen, despite the fact that it happened to my aunt nearly two years ago. It happens to people all the time, I know, it's just ... can you live like that? Waiting for the lightening strike?

But it does make me aware of my mortality to an unpleasant degree. It's skewed maybe, but I suddenly feel far closer to 55  than 25. That's a country I'll never see again, as someone said to me today. And yes, the years are speeding by. My mother died at 57. Her sister at 58. My great grandfather at 57. What if that's where I get to? I could have two decades left.

My daughter is 7 next month. I'll be 34 in a couple weeks... decades, slipping on by. How do I have a 7 year old? Is this why people have lots of children? To slow down time? To get another chance?

My grandmother is 92, and has to bury her son tomorrow. Well. Cremate him. It's not fair for her, she's lost so many, and never thought she'd live to see this. He called her every day. For decades... my parents sneered at that, but the truth is that I talked to my mother most days too. It's not good to be so close, I think. It's too hard, when things go wrong.

oh, my heart

Did anyone else love Harriet the Spy?

isn't that beautiful?

You know when you start a day just needing to hear a song? I did today, unEastery as it is. Four times and counting.

And an unEastery post is this, Janine Ashbless is the naked writer at F-Stop this weekend, with a very naked description of the depression she suffered. Like everything she writes, it's so well done. AND you get to see her ass...

I'm reading her book Wildwood at the moment, all pagan wild creature leafy sex, it's like she wrote it for me!

This is what I'm doing today. Fairy smut, Glen Hansard, and spongecake.

See Baby Bunny post below for proper 'holiday' sentiment.

:)

happy chocolate bunnyday, sweeties!

holy resurrected lord easter jesus, readers

Save me.

Olivia's little friend is over painting some Easter eggs. She has a hideous case of post nasal drip and she's sniffing and snorking every five seconds.

This is a condition that leaves me with the screaming urge to punch someone in the face and claw my own ears off.

BLOW YOUR FUCKING NOSE, CHILD!!!

I know it doesn't help. I've been there. But that doesn't make me feel any less hysterically homicidal.

la grand mére sans déjouner

My mother in law is an odd one. She doesn't seem to understand about children needing feeding. Or wht happens if you give them biscuits and ice cream instead of ... lunch.

Axel says that when he was a kid, meal times were regimented, one o clock lunches and 5.30 dinners and that was that. These days it's all out the window. She's started eating porridge for breakfast, and apparently no longer eats lunch as she's so full. So she took the kids out today, and stayed out with them til 2, even though I said I'd be back before lunch. They'd had biscuits in her house, and an icecream I could smell on Bodhi's wailing, sweet dairy breath as he had his third meltdown in the supermarket.

It's weird. Weird weird. There's more to it than that, but I won't go on.

In bad mother news updates, I nearly left it too late to get Easter eggs (nobody seemed to have much stock this year) and I had a couple hours of panic when two supermarkets and two convenience stores were sold out. Axel tracked them down though, and got the requested Mint Aero one for Olivia (she's a woman of taste). But what would I have done? It's a scary thought. No Easter Bunny = mama doesn't love you...

The bunnies were crap this year too (or at least, at this late remove) so Olivia's getting a kitten, and I actually found a baby jaguar for Bodhi, who loves Diego. Diego is for boys. Not Dora. I see him telling strangers that his name's Diego quite often, which is always met with confusion and delight.

Dammit. The bunny is meant to hop around, all animated and bunny like. Bad bunny! No carrot!

one of those nothing much posts

I'm still slowly recovering form the weekend. And my sore toe! Ow! Interesting bruising...

We had aa successful cookie decorating day yesterday, with Olivia's friends, except for Dade belting around like atightly woulnd spring, and him and the dog peeing everywhere. Oh. And his diy bum wiping-then-sitting all over the sofa incident. Sigh. At least there's some drying weather today, no more snow.

I'm dithering. I'd like to make easter cupcakes with little iced chick and bunny cookies on them, but I'm worried I'll eat them all if I do. My lovely friend brought me a mini lindt egg back from her shopping when she came to collect her son. How sweet is that? My favourite! Go eat one, quick, run!

What do I need to do?

I'm 1200 words in to an post for Danielle's salon blog.
I haven't bought any easter eggs yet! Or bunnies! Yikes. And now Olivia is reading, so she's looking over my shoulder and saying 'does that say 'eggs yet?' This could become problemical.
She spends all day bitching or shouting at Bodhi in an angry or peeved voice, which sounds completely awful, and then I give out to her in exactly the same tone and kick myself... but what can you do? Entertain them endlessly? Ugh, whatever. Sibling misery is its own form of entertainment, right?
A story I wrote for an anthology got accepted and it's great because it's something I really wnted to be involved in but I was sure the story was all wrong, so happyhappy me.
Also, I'm fitting into lots of clothes I haven't worn in ages again, happyhappy me.
I still haven't booked a holiday house ... I hate making decisions. I need a life-assistant.

Ahhh well, the sun is shining. Though I put out the washing in my bare feet, and my probably fractured toe did not appreciate it. I wonder will we really have a heat wave summer this year?