views from on top of Minaun.

There's a mountain behind the cottage, a big bleak hump of one, with a power station on top. I have a vague memory of attempting to climb it as a kid, with my family, and all I can remember is looking at my new boots and the phrase 'Dunlop wellies' resonating in my head. Strange associations. 

I have not raised mountain climbing children, but wussie, soft, tv watching whiny ones, so I have not yet attempted to drag them up this one. However, we did notice a small road up the side of the hill, and we drove up on the way home from the beach one day. The other side of the mountain ends in cliffs over Keel Strand, it's very impressive. 

We drove up the tiny road, sheep along it's edges, one car in front of us. 'I hope this goes somewhere,' Axl quipped - meaning, that it wouldn't end in a sheer drop we didn't see til too late. Macabre. 'Agh, shut up,' I responded, to have Olivia go 'WHAT? WHAT DID HE SAY??' loudly. Then she wouldn't accept my 'We'll tell you when we're back down again' answer, so as not to freak her brother out. I struggled to stave off TOO vivid an image of the tip and screaming plummet.

Anyway, it ends at the power station. It was grey  and freezing and fierce windy and starting to rain, so the shots aren't so great, and the video worse. And it's full of my chatting, sorry. Might view from up there all the same. 

 

I love Andrew at the Happiness Centre

little videos for exercises and delightful German-ness. 

Testing

My search for the perfect natural aluminum free deodorant has been long and arduous.

None of those health shoppy, crystal, tea tree, sage ones ever worked for me. I had a conversation with a health food shop worker who surreptitiously agreed with me. I have a lovely smelling lemon one from L'Occitane that I like, but it doesn't last as long in hot weather/under stress as I'd like.

The sad thing is, Lush used to make a cream deodorant in a pot called Aromacreme, that worked PERFECTLY for me, and I loved the smell and format too. A wee bit sore on fresh shaved armpits, but, I can be tough, and it was only for a minute. When Bodhi was born, I sent Axl in for a replacement, and he got me two. They lasted almost four years... and when the last pot ran out, I went back for more... to find (dramatic pause) - it had been discontinued. Sad face, readers, very sad emoticon indeed.

I'd used their other ones before, but they were nothing like as effective and they don't smell great. I mailed the company, but they said it was too harsh and owy for lots of people and though they tried to tweak it many times, in the end they gave up. Bastards! It was fine for me!

The sales girl commiserated with me today and offered me a sample of Aromaco, or Aromarant, or whichever one they had in. She gave me a heft slice, but it smells smelly. Not nice smelly. She recommends using it with a dusting powder, but that's expensive, and a palaver, and it dries out anyway, on the bar, no matter what they say.

So then, armed (heh) and dispirited with my Aromarant sample, I walked past Nelson's Homeopathic pharmacy and the window display of MooGoo products caught my eye - Annie's complaining of an itchy scalp at the moment, and their shampoo that cures it caught my eye. She's worried about scalp cancer, it's a fraught life, being a red head. But then I also spotted the deodorant and was seduced inside. The ladies attest that they're both wearing it and it really works... I will report back soon, once the aluminum is sweated out of my pores and I'm back to normal!

www.moogoo.ie for anyone who's interested. There's lots of cute cow photos.

venting

Today I read someone's blog post about their happy, 15 year old marriage and the great sex they still have.

Can you say Damn, that was good? Can you say 15 years and still going strong?


I can. 


This was written by someone who feels the need to defend her lasting, monogamous marriage in a time and place that doesn't value or believe monogamy or long term relationships, or marriage - so I know it's not that she's gloating, she celebrating, promoting.

So it would be cringy and embarrassing if I commented, and said nope, I can say failed 17 year old relationship, I can say prematurely ended sex life and try as I might to fight it, this post makes me feel seven kinds of shitty and can you please not throw it in my face ever again.

So I don't, because, you know, I get that it's not about me and it's about something good, and I'm glad she has it, of course and my issues are my issues not anyone else's.

But that doesn't seem to stop me feeling shitty about it because I'm menstrual and everything emotional is overinflated this week. So I thought if I wrote about it maybe I'd be able to leave it alone. 

I recently read Shanna Germain's collection of stories, Beneath Sea and Sky (available from www.smashwords.com).

In one story, she writes of a woman who's having an affair with her husband - her husband of when they first met, full of lust and spontinaeity, who she's procured through time travel, as her in-the-now husband has grown fastidious and joyless and full of contempt for her. He even hates her a little, she thinks. I found it poignant and sad and heartbreaking, and it made so much sense.

What would I do, if I could go back. What would I suffer again, to try and fix my mistakes, the mistakes of others? The list is a little overwhelming to me, the choices too enormous. How to secure happiness, with only the knowledge of what went wrong, not how to make it right?

Could I go back to 12, and convince my A-cupped mother to buy me bras with underwiring then, instead of waiting til 15, and maybe manage to stop my burgeoning D cup boobs from sagging? Could I get her to take me to a pool where I could do laps twice a week, to WeighWatchers, and learn how to be fit and thin, thereby boosting my burgeoning lack of self esteem, thereby avoiding all the scoriatingly embarrassing desperate behaviour of my teenage years? Would I change schools? Pursue success more ambitiously? I'd go to 19 and not pull out that random, fateful hair that catapulted me into a decade and a half of trichotillomania, that's for sure.

Would I choose not to start a relationship with Axl, knowing where it would lead? Or break up sooner, that time we thought about it but were too scared? Break our hearts then, when there was still time to fix them? Could I convince my mother to deal with her cancer differently? Would it have a better or worse outcome? Could I tell her something that would help her manage her marriage/break-up better, so it didn't end in misery and death?

Would I not get married, would I get married sooner? Would I be able to take back the conception of my children? Could I make that decision? Could I have any more courage to go after what I really wanted? Would I be able to do it better, filled with prior knowledge?

I'm glad I don't have to answer these questions, though it's frightening to think that the same sort of decisions are in my hands now, in terms of the actual future. I just don't know what's coming. I suppose that's why I'm not doing anything. Action is so loaded and terrifying. Well, for me, who has long felt convinced that whatever course of action I choose, it will be the wrong one.

So yeah, that story, sheesh. Having said  that, the collection is powerful and beautiful and I heartily recommend it, but it's somewhat dark erotica and doesn't pull any punches, so, I've warned you. Shanna is a brave writer, and these took my breath away. 

small note

I just noticed I spelled brie 'bree'. The last couple days I've been struggling to stop my brain writing automatic 'soundlike' spellings of what I'm trying to think. So if you spot a moronic autopilot typo (or even a plain ordinary one), please feel free to tell me!

It can take a whole village to edit a blog post... 

halfway up the hill

Along the Atlantic Drive on the way to Doeega, I spotted this place, and it called to me for a walk.

You cross the road and climb over soggy saturated bogginess, to the haven of short grass beyond. The water runs off the hills a lot, little channels open up in the peat to let it pass through - I was glad of my borrowed wellies, while sadly wellieless, Olivia stayed in the car...

 This wasn't the top. We didn't make it that far. This was more of an off to the side bit. The hillside meanders around the place, with little outcrops of rock.

And there's a view, back out to sea, sparkling.

The wind is strong, but it's warm when the sun comes out - it poured rain the night before, so everything was wet, but it didn't rain on us that day.

 The sheep path runs up a ridge that was built by some islanders, decades ago. Who knows how long? This place hasn't changed much in some time.

A sheep died. Bones and its skeleton were there too. Olivia was disappointed we didn't bring it home (!) but then said ugh!! when she saw the photo.

I think that must be the peak up there - it looked much farther away than it does in the photo! Next time, when the kids are bigger, and fully wellied, we will reach it.

Heather paints the hillsides of the island and gives it its famous purple colour, so captured by Paul Henry. The photo doesn't show you what I saw, the light, the tiny perfection of the purple jewels in the grass, the sunbleached, twisted trunk.

High up the hill, I heard water, looked  down to see a little sink hole, water rushing by, invisible under the reeds and grass that had grown over it. Music. Sadly, of course, you can't hear it or the rushing wind on the video. *Wait! You can! I just didn't realise the speakers were off! Duh.:)

Hugh Fearlessly Eats less meat!

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/aug/26/hugh-fearnley-whittingstall-vegetables

Thanks to Kristina for that link.

People in the comments are all snarky about the fact that he has a book to promote, but I read the article thinking, oo, I hope he has a cook book. It all sounds so good - not that I need persuading about meatless dishes, but I can't think of anything nice to cook anymore, and what I do cook doesn't work out nice (though I did make a lovely aubergine parmesan the other week, to bring to a friend's house, and she made a delicious salad to go with it, and it was a perfect meal). So a book of ideas would be great, and those descriptions were luscious.

pure magic

I have to confess, I'm feeling pmsy and spectacularly unwritey, right now. So I'll tell you about this lovely thing, but without any lyricism.

A surprise lay in the form of a bright orange sign advertising Pure Magic - the best pizza on the island!

We laughed (having missed the Graceland Chinese Restaurant which has now sadly turned into the Bayside Bistro, though the golden lions and eagles remain), we knew we had to try the pizza, if nothing else then for a laugh - there's not a whole lot of restaurant choices on the island, and much of the menu is deep fried. Side salads are a bit alarming, in one case containing potato salad, coleslaw, sweet corn and strongly flavoured 'Chinese noodles'... to go with deep fried brie and fruit coulis.

So with some trepidation, we ventured across the bog and down country lanes to find the hidden gem that is Pure Magic - of course - ! It's a kite surfing hostel and school and restaurant, hidden away back behind the lake, in Doogort.

You walk through a gate with a no sheep allowed picture of a sad sheep - through a sweet garden with magic fairy trees and hammocks, and into a sweetly decorated cosy set of rooms, all very casual and boho. There's great photos of kite surfing, and where we were sitting they were projecting an animated film onto the wall, The Triplets of Belville. We finished before the end, I'm dying to go find out what happens. I love the internet...

The pizza is evidently French, and there is evidnece of Frenchness scattered around. The only kitesurfer I know is also French and I suspect he's been there and knows the people who run it. Thin crispy crust, mozzerella could have been a bit fancier, lovely toppings Bodhi stated he wanted to marry. Crispy sweet frites and ohhhhh the side salad. The perfect balm for the pub noodles and potato salad travesty - fresh, fresh lettuce and juicy tomatoes (nothing more!) with the most heavenly vinaigrette on them. So good. Even better than the pizza.

There are guitars and amps, a piano and a book of chords n lyrics that suggest it gets musical and lively by the fire in the evenings. The hostel looks sweet too. It looks like a wonderful place to stay, makes me wish I was young and kitesufy. I love that it's there, I think the island needs a bit more of that sort of thing.

Keem Bay, the best beach in the world. It's got it all. Scenery, white sand, green water, it doesn't get busy, waves, a stream with rocks in to swim/play/build dams/run up and down in. On the last day we were there, there was a seal. I know because my fear-centre will not let me stop being on shark alert. Is it a fin? No, it's a cormorant fishing/inquisitive seal.

When we got there , there was much disapointment as last years brown peaty pools had been erased, sands shifted, and there was only a small stream, far from the rocks that created the deep pools. We didn't have the camera the first few days (Bodhi had put it in a box, so I brought the charger but failed to locate the camera and forgot about it) so I can't show you how the tides and river flow changed it from the start, but the following pics and video will attest to my obsession with recording the magic of tides and water flow and erosion. I should have done geography in college after all.

More later!

returned

I'm sorry, minimal quantitied but superimportant readers! I went on holiday and didn't tell you. Tomorrow there will be a little holiday post and repetitive beach photos and rapturising about Achill island, but for now I am Too Tired. I'm catching up on all my blogs and interesting links from Facebook, but when I try to read anything difficult, I just... can't focus. So I give up. Pictures go down easier.

Brownies - I remade 'em - Bodhi poked a hole in them while they were cooling... he was 'just testing them'. I may have had a small sulky fit and not let him have any til the next day. Talked to the brownie recipient later in the week and discovered that they'd arrived THE NEXT DAY (insane postal system!) and that they'd been magically delicious, especially the finger hole. And as for me, I had the privilege of hearing actual intonation instead of just typed enthusiasm, and it put a huge unwipeable grin on my face.

There was lots of wind, and lots of changing cloud and sun, but only ONE solidly rainy day, and a couple nocturnal downpours. We had lots of beach time and swimming, less chilly than last year, and I count us amazingly lucky in the weather stakes!

More tomorrow x

There are some things that just can't be written. Though god knows I try. But some feelings are too big and directionless to put down properly - it doesn't all come together, it disperses in so many directions there's no way to pin it down and hand it to you properly. It's not for you, I suppose, and there's no solution, so to speak, the problem is too multi faceted to try and explain.

Bodhi broke my heart today, he's recently aquired a new baby cousin and now he wants a baby brother too. He asked me the other day, and again this morning, could we have another baby. I told him all the reasons we can't - well, not ALL the reasons, and when I talked about being tired and the baby not sleeping and needing all the attention, and too much care, he pulled out the old 'but I could look after him, I would, please, please let me look after him.' I told him it might be a girl, and he finished the conversation by joking that he'd be happy with 200 little sisters. He's loved babies since he was small, unlike his sister who is massively uninterested. It's so hard - I feel horrible, on one hand, that he wants it so much and he won't have the chance to be a big brother - and he'd undoubtedly be a wonderful big brother. But he doesn't understand how much he'd have to give up.

In terms of being the middle child, and losing my attention, and straining the not enough cash situation even further - but also the fact that he doesn't realise that if there was another baby, it would come from a new family, not ours, and there would be more loss, more leaving, he would get a sibling and love it but not be able to live with it all the time. How confusing and hard that would be for us all. Not to mention the PND. So. No babies. But it's sad for him. Sad for everyone, in all sorts of different ways.

And then I watched a video of him I took a couple years ago, and oh. My little boy. Just the same face, but chubbier, cheekier, little sweetie baby voice and so many fewer words. And his hair. God. Killed me. It's not that he's not still cute, of course, but he's four, not two, and the difference is so huge. I am slayed. I've forgotten what it's like - you think your children basically stay the same, even though their growing confounds you at the same time. How can they reach up to here, and here, and here. One day he'll be taller than me and I won't remember any of what he's like now - they're all ages at once, I suppose. Six foot, and a babe in arms at the same time. Yet, I don't really remember what it was like to hold him as a baby, in truth. Isn't that awful? I wish I had more video, more photos, even one of those creepy newborn-replica dolls. Seriously, I got an urge for one of those like each of my children the other day, just so I could remember what it was to have them in my arms as tiny ones. I know, I know, I was alarmed at myself.

I'm not sure why I feel so upset about this - other than the fact that it just sort of highlights the deadendedness of my particular situation, somehow.

Ireland rant

I am so sick of this country's lack of dependability.

Or profesionalism. Or ethic of any kind.

Fadó fadó, I lived in a small village serviced by the 84 an 84A bus routes. It made my teenage life a misery, ruined multiple evenings, messed up my parents' free time, blah blah blah. So institutionalised to the world of the missed bus/late bus/inexplicably early bus/never showing up at all bus/next bus in three and a half hours/last buss leaves at 11.20 pm experience was I, that after I left the small village and moved to a small town, I would tense at the mere sound of a bus approaching, and spiky adrenaline would shoot through my system, ready to run - even when I wasn't going anywhere. It was like that for a good year.

Last night I visited a friend, and wanted to leave earlyish, as we were both falling asleep - she'd been up since 5.30 and I wanted to let her get to bed. There was a bus in 8 minutes, or an hour, so I thought I'd better go get it. The night was a bit wet, but warm and still - we saw a bus go by out the window, but it looked to be  going in the opposite direction (that sounds stupid, but they turn around and go out the same way, so it's hard to tell). I went to the bus stop, and waited, and waited... Taxis passed, quite regularly. I could see my friend watching anxiously from her apartment window. Finally she signalled to me, and came down, saying the buses were always on time, and she thinks we might have missed it, or it wasn't coming. I didn't want to force myself back on her hospitality for an hour so I waited a bit longer, and just got the next taxi. A journey under 15 minutes, but it cost 17€. And I got out early, as I was keeping my eye on the meter. Then I got home to find a message from her on my phone saying the bus had come before she'd even got back into her building.

For fuck's sake! The bus was over 20 minutes late. There was no way to tell when it had left, or what was happening to it. This is why I don't use public transport. It's a fucking trial and the stress involved is not worth it. Usually I just don't drink, but I'd had a stressful week and I wanted to just enjoy myself for a bit. I NEVER get to, because of this sort of thing. Bastards.

THEN, this morning I baked brownies, to send to Germany. Last time I tried this, they never arrived, even though I sent them via registered post. The tracking service basically doesn't work - I queried them when they didn't show up, and heard nothing. A month or two later, I tried again - turns out they'd been sent back to Ireland as the German post system doesn't seem any better than ours. But An Post, in their wisdom, had let them sit there.

Oh, you mailed them in Feb, they were returned on the 22nd of March. It's not July - we'll send them back to you now, they said.

Wait, I thought. They're 6 month old brownies. I don't really... delivered by van the next morning.

What the fuck is wrong with them?

Oh. Right. So this morning, I tried again, baked some PERFECT brownies, ran to the post office before they shut and checked they'd go out today. No. Not til Monday morning. If I could bring them into Dublin, they'd go today. I had to take them back and will do it all again on Monday.

GRRRRR ARRRRRGGGGGG.

games

Bodhi: I'M NOT SNUGLETTTTT!! I'm Attack Mole.

Olivia: Come on, Snuglett!

Bodhi: I'm ATTACK MOLE-AH!

humans...

Surely cutting down a tree like this is nothing to be proud of. Perhaps this is the problem with our approach to the world. 

excited!

I just bought some lovely watercolour pencils in the stationer's in Bray for half price - €10. Woo! They're just what I'm looking for. I have a little project to work on, especially when I'm on holiday with no internet. For a fortnight. Arg.

I'm no artist, sadly, but I am Arty - and I'm hoping that's going to be enough to make something out of not a lot. I'm all enthused about it - splish splash scribble.

In other nice news, I went to the Anti Room film club last night, saw His Girl Friday, and won a raffle prize - I wanted the Tintin dvd box set for the kids, and the Betty Octopus necklace that was so gorgeous, or the Wagamama vouchers, but I'm sorry, I've been yearning for the next season of True Blood so hard of late, and there is was, waiting for me! Season Three! Pristine! I was sitting beside a sweet American lady who donated it, and she gave me downloading tips, bless her, so hopefully season 4 will be in the near future too.

So thank you, Anti Room and kind lady, and see you next month.

I'll come back and do links when I have time, but the beeper is beeping!

I was hoping to get a chance to vote for David Norris for the Irish presidency. He was doing so well, in terms of popular choice - I think it would have been a real turning point for Ireland to have him as a president. Mary Robinson was wonderful, I don't really know about Mary MacAleese, but I think he would have been a good choice, as an intellectual, emotionally aware, outspoken modern thinker.

The papers dragged up all sorts of statements he made previously about not agreeing with the age of consent, and there was this:

But like his literary hero, Norris is now bearing the brunt of the country's conservative forces. Two weeks ago, Helen Lucy Burke, a Dublin restaurant critic notorious for her waspish reviews, went on an Irish radio programme to remind the country what Norris had said in an interview with her nine years earlier. The Protestant gay rights campaigner had appeared in Magill magazine and spoken about the ancient Greek tradition among adult males of having sex with young boys. Although Norris strongly denied having endorsed adults engaging in sex with children, and has campaigned for victims of child abuse, the quotes proved explosive. Even his supporters feared that his campaign had been stopped in its tracks.

Those fears, however, appeared overly pessimistic: an opinion poll still gave Norris a 39% rating, 20 points higher than his closest rival.

The quotes were taken out of context and built up into something completely incendiary.

He seemed to sail over that one relatively undamaged, but then the stronger guns came out - it seems in 1992, Norris wrote a letter asking for clemency for an ex partner convicted of the statutory rape of a 15 year old boy.  
On Seanad Headed Notepaper, no less.

There is outrage. Norris supports child abuser. On headed notepaper! Rape is rape is rape, shriek the shrieky people.

From different things I read, there are these bits of information - Norris seemed to have felt that Nawi had been set up a bit. The age of consent in Israel is 16. Did he know? Was there a wee bit of entrapment involved? Another article I read mentioned a relationship. Does this mean Nawi is a sleazy and cynical exploiter of gay youth? Does it mean he had a genuine, if misguided romance? I don't know, in fairness. Norris questioned the validity of the impact statement made at the time. Nawi is seen in some circles as a hero, a mediator, a Jew who speaks out against the injustices he sees his government perpetuating. He's been targeted before.

Norris was already struggling, not with the public vote, but with the political system that makes it very difficult for independents to get into the presidential race. He and his campaigners have been accused of naivety. Maybe. I don't know. I wish it didn't have to matter.

Here are the things that I feel about this. I am wary of being too quick to support the act in question here - after all, I don't know the real details any more than the shriekers do. I do know this though - I had sex when I was 15 and it was emphatically not rape, despite the fact that it would legally have been termed statutory rape. Ok, it wasn't with an older person but had I made that choice to sleep with someone years my senior at the time, I wouldn't have appreciated my choice being rephrased by anyone else. I feel concretely certain about this, whatever the hypothetical person's motivations might have been. I also suspect gay sex to have its own cultural signature, that is perhaps not directly comparable to hetero sex, but hey, I suppose that's murky water to start wading into.

I'm not saying Nawi made a great decision, but I am open to the idea that it's possible that the the teenager in question was not damaged by it and I wish people were a little less hysterical about the whole idea.

I also would have loved to have Norris as our president. I think it would have said a lot for our modernity, for how far we've come. I think he would have been a gracious, humorous, wonderful spokesperson for our country.

But, well, we fucked him over instead. And who will replace him in the running instead?: Dana. Good old Dana. I suppose we're getting what we deserve.



  

in the 1990s

I'm appalled by this. Representatives of the Divine? I do not think so. Dear God, indeed.

http://www.thejournal.ie/readme/column-beating-the-bullies-in-the-bishops-palace/?utm_source=facebook

ugh

I can't find an envelope I'm looking for, my insurance cert is in a pile of papers some unlocatable where and I burnt the nice spaghetti sauce I made when I put it back on to simmer more after dinner and forgot to turn the flame all the way down. Now I've wasted food, filled the house with burned smell and I don't have anything made for tomorrow :(

Boo to me.

If I ever needed Google Wherethefuckisit? it's now.

Oh. I need my insurance cert because I have to show it to the Gardai to prove I have one, after getting busted for being on the phone and not having tax. Le sigh. However, I've just remembered I've ten days not seven, and will go back to worrying about more immediate issues. 

oh dear

I had a cake fail on Sunday. The inlaws had suggested they might come down to the mother in law, with their baby who finally got out of hospital, which Axl and I thought was just a bit mad, so we didn't really take it seriously. Then we got a call late Sunday morning that they were on their way.

So I foolishly made an overambitious layer cake, one that needed lots of setting, wobbled it together and briefly refrigerated it, baby under blanket decor on it and all.

Yeah, it didn't survive the trip down to my mother in law's: I thought it would just fall over but it actually fell in half, being dubbed and earth-cake by Axl. The baby's blanketed body fell into the gaping chasm in the middle. It really did look like an earth cake actually, with all those chocolate layers torn open. Sigh.

Then last night I took Olivia to Harry Potter, which I would have enjoyed more if I hadn't been feeling queasy and headachey throughout. I got home to find that Bodhi had vomited salami all over himself in Axl's car and was in bed moaning. Then I got sick later, and woke up every hour to bring up bile for most of the night. I am well purged, today, I can tell you.

Now I have to make a cake for my granny, who is 94 tomorrow. I can't quite face it, I have to admit. Cream. Bleurg.