See it here first!

Apparently Steven Spielberg was given a film camera as a kid. Now he is a very, very rich man.

My children were given the Animatazz animation software thingy (google it) from Santa this year. We are very hopeful that the below YouTube clip is the very first step on their path to greatness (and immense riches.)

Make sure you look for the sophisticated deep subtext of this piece...

Allotted

I am like, so excited! I actually couldn't sleep last night.

What has brought on this Christmas Eve stylee madness??

I got an email yesterday evening. From a guy who rents allotments.


I. May. Be. Able. To. Rent. One.



ARGJF?Ohkdkweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Waving arms and guttural noises ala Animal from the Muppets!

I'm just so excited.

I may have mentioned that.

I am not yet guaranteed one of these parcels of muck. I have to talk to the guy and see if it's what I'm after etc, etc...

But I was up till 2am researching miniature sheds - (more expensive then you'd think). And my head was full of potatoes (no change there says everyone) and cabbage and mange touts...

My teenaged self would be mortified. Practically wetting my pants with excitement over a veggie patch. Teenaged Domestic Oub is cringing in the corner - while applying an extra layer of eyeliner and listening to The Cure.

You know. I suspect 20s Domestic Oub would be a little embarrassed too. Lounging drunkenly in the snug, Guinness in hand, shaking her head sadly - 'I'll never be that uncool when I'm old' she says to herself.

But you know - that has got to be one of the advantaged of nearing forty, not really giving a damn any longer.

Hurray for Sprouts! And old age!





oh jeez, I'm nearly forty....

Mass Hysteria

No one likes going to Mass on Sundays - its dull. There, I've said it. I'll sit here and wait for the Cock to crow. (I just had to google that reference, to make sure it was a Cock that crowed and not some other bird. I think there are few things as terrifying as innocently typing 'cock' into google...)

But we go. We're a pragmatic family. The kids whinge and the confirmed heathen husband looks for any excuse not to go. He got lucky yesterday, Baby Oub woke up and seemed rather not her usual rambunctious self. They got a pass to stay at home.



But recently, he hasn't been so quick to look to stay at home in his holey pyjamas... because we discovered something... There is a lovely parish centre just beside our church. And they have a little cafe inside. The homemade scones they sell there are the best I've ever eaten. AND.... They are free on Sundays! Oh yes. They don't actually make you prove you've just emerged from Mass to take advantage of the delicious fare, but we do have some morals...

There is one other high point to Mass attendance in our locale. It is the priest who says the 12.15 mass. It used to be The Lovely Fr Joe. A very interesting man. You could listen to a sermon from him and not want to a) gnaw your leg off from boredom b) throw rotten fruit in disgust at the horrific recent history of the Catholic Church in Ireland. But The Lovely Fr Joe got moved on. Like a holy vagrant he's been booted off to the next parish. I think. Anyway, he may as well be departed to his blessed eternal reward for all the differences to us. Because we've been left with Fr Tenuous. Or Fr Trendy Tenuous Pop Culture Reference, to give him his full name.

I had high hopes for him. When he took over from The Lovely Fr Joe, he brought a bit of moon rock with him for his sermon. 'Hmm, I though. Well done for making an effort, this could be interesting.' Sadly I cannot tell you what this sermon was about as roughly thirty seconds later I was in a coma.

Mass Dodging God Doubter Mr Oubliette had his first experience with Fr Tenuous at the 5.30 Christmas Eve mass. Mr Oub looked at me perplexed as Fr Tenuous held up a talking Homer Simpson doll to the mike. The priest made Homer talk, and then tenuously parlayed the 'loving' relationship between Marge and Homer into some sort of sermon about family, or something. I'm not sure as I struggled to remain conscious for as long as I could, but the inevitable happened soon enough.

It was with great amusement that I listened to the start of his sermon a few weeks ago when he mentioned going to the movie to see Avatar. The relationship that this had to his comment on the gospel is lost to me at this stage, but I did have fun rushing home to tell my Bound for Hell for his Disbelieving Ways husband.

I was ready for him this week. I sat forward - what would be our 'in' to the word of God this week??? Of course, as hubbie was at home minding the above mentioned sick baby he missed this weeks Tenuous pop culture reference... I made him guess...

Want to know?

'The Wire' - yes, that gritty, violent cop show. I think I snorted as the words escaped his mouth. It was like - 'they are foul mouthed in 'The Wire', but Gods words are nice...'



I feel a little mean now, being all sneary about this well meaning man of God. Sure, isn't he only doing his best? In fact it's not very Christian of me, is it?

Oh well. I guess I'll be keeping Mr Oubliette company for eternity after all...

Poetry Bus!

Hurray, hurray the Poetry Bus is back.

Sadly, my poetry brain has atrophied in its absence... but, if rumours are to be believed, and the literary route is back, and the Poetry Bus will be passing by regularly, maybe there is hope that I can recapture my former glorious heights...

Anyway, on the theme 'Red Car', here is my latest effort...


Red Car

his car was red.
i kiss whispered in his ear.
i was his, i had the fear
he knew it.
his love like bleach
excruciating
leaving nothing
but a washed out stain
his car was red
and i sat next to him
whispered in his ear
I was his.

Abandon All Hope

I've always felt that when Cromwell suggested 'to Hell or to Connaught!' he was uttering a tautology of sorts.

Ah, hahaha, I amuse myself.

Apologies to all Connaughites.

I've just returned from visiting the in-laws in Mayo this weekend you see. And of course I'm not suggesting that my in-laws are minions of the Dark Lord. Heavens no. Nor am I suggesting that the winding roads of the rural Ballygobeelzebub remind me of the circles of hell. No.

I just don't travel well. Nor does Baby Oubliette. She's a champion sleeper. I'm that mam at toddler groups smugly crowing about how she slept right through the night from a day old and how she still takes ten naps a day blah blah blah. Those haggard husks of sleep deprive women hate me...

But in Mayo, Baby Oub has to sleep in the ancestral cot. I'm not kidding. My children have all had a spin in the cot their very own father slept in. Impressive. But unsurprisingly, this cot has seen better days. It creaks and generally isn't up to the princess and the pea standard Baby Oub is now used to.

Invariably, she wakes up in the middle of the night. And this is a baby who doesn't wake up in the middle of the night, so she doesn't know what to do. First she cries. I try to hush her as we're in someone else's house and God forbid we disturbed anyone! Well, okay, I'm not quite so concerned about that. Its more the memory of the first time one of my children woke up in the middle of the night when visiting the in-laws and I was nearly flattened by my mother-in-law in the middle of the night as she rushed to attend to my child.

So, I picked up the little munchkin, and in a technicolour example of the triumph of hope over experience, take her into the bed with us. Sigh. As I said she just doesn't know what to do when woken up - so she lies down to go to sleep with us. But a minute later, moves to another spot. Then two minutes later moves again. Continue for two hours. They're using this technique quite successfully in Guantanamo I believe.

I eventually, at 6 am, chucked her back into the crib/relic and despite a few screeches of protest, she gave up the struggle and went back to sleep.

This has happened every time we have visited the west in the past year.

Bad enough I'm not in my own home. Bad enough my children are being spoilt to within an inch of their lives (oh, the beatings that have to happen once we get to Dublin to remind the children they are not little emperors). Bad enough I have to hear about what happened to Maura, you know Maura? She lives over behind the Kelly's, married to Joe McMurphy? She worked with Aine? You know Aine? She's married to your cousin Jack O'Malley? Bad enough that its raining. Bad enough that...

But I spend the entire visit exhausted and grumpy as hell. It's not my best look.


I just know that when we leave, they tut and shake their heads. 'Why couldn't he have married a nice country girl?'

Worst bit of all?

I never did find out what Maura did. You know Maura?She lives over behind the Kelly's, married to Joe McMurphy?
She worked with Aine?
You know Aine?
She's married to your
cousin Jack
O'Malley?...........................

Wow! Milestone!

This is my 101st blog post.

I do hope its memorable.


















Oh well.

Schadenfreude

Schadenfreude

This is a good meaty sounding word. I always had trouble though, remembering exactly what it meant. For some reason, it would never stick in my head.

Then along came Iris Robinson and I'll never have to struggle with this one again.

As Baby Oubliette likes to say, while pointing a finger, 'Ha, ha! Ha, ha!"

Of course, this isn't very Christian of me. But then again, I don't think her comparing homosexuality to pedophilia was particularly Christian. Of course, her committing adultery is most definitely mentioned in the Big Guys big book of rules. I think she'll find it at number seven.

And the boy was just 19 - barely legal. Nuff said.