I've Put A Bloody Poem in a Bloody Shop! Finally!

I cracked it!

I wrote a poem!

I was in the shower this morning. While washing my hair I spent a few moments pondering my friend, the Shower Spider. He lives in the top corner of my shower. He's been there aaaaages. I'd really hope there weren't enough flies knocking around my bathroom to keep him fed. But he has been there really quite some while. Hmmmmm.

He migrated briefly to the sink area, but that didn't last. He was soon back. Most sane people would have removed him by now, but I must admit I'm kinda fond of him. And the adrenaline rush each morning, wondering will this be the morning he finally falls on my nudee body, really sets you up for the day.

Well, anyway, whatever it was about spending some quality time with my arachnid friend, but a poem popped, practically fully formed, into my head! It's not Yeats. It's not even Pam Ayres. But, it is a poem, it is festive and it is perfect (enough) to PUT IN A SHOP!

YAY!!!

So, while doing my Christmas shopping, poem clutched to my sweaty little hands, I set about joining the illustrious ranks of the International Put Your Poem In A Shop Month brigade.

I wasn't very brave, I went into Homebase. Homebase near me is always deserted. I could probably run a writing summer school in the soft furnishing aisle and would be left unmolested the entire time. Sure, yes, it was missing the frisson of danger, but my life is just one wild crazy ride as it is, so it was no harm to dial down the insanity for a few short civilized moments.

Anyway, fifteen minutes later, I left Homebase with one really nice candle and without one really brilliant poem.

And here is the evidence -

Would you pay 15.59 (down from 17.99) for a 'handkerchief' vase? sounds unsanitary personally...

The close up!

And here it is just in case even my bestest writing isn't enough...

Dear Santa,
I've been a little bit naughty
But I've also been a little bit nice
What say you still give me a pressie
And we'll go halvsies on the price.


Hurray!!!!

I've Put A Bloody Poem in a Bloody Shop! Finally!

I cracked it!

I wrote a poem!

I was in the shower this morning. While washing my hair I spent a few moments pondering my friend, the Shower Spider. He lives in the top corner of my shower. He's been there aaaaages. I'd really hope there weren't enough flies knocking around my bathroom to keep him fed. But he has been there really quite some while. Hmmmmm.

He migrated briefly to the sink area, but that didn't last. He was soon back. Most sane people would have removed him by now, but I must admit I'm kinda fond of him. And the adrenaline rush each morning, wondering will this be the morning he finally falls on my nudee body, really sets you up for the day.

Well, anyway, whatever it was about spending some quality time with my arachnid friend, but a poem popped, practically fully formed, into my head! It's not Yeats. It's not even Pam Ayres. But, it is a poem, it is festive and it is perfect (enough) to PUT IN A SHOP!

YAY!!!

So, while doing my Christmas shopping, poem clutched to my sweaty little hands, I set about joining the illustrious ranks of the International Put Your Poem In A Shop Month brigade.

I wasn't very brave, I went into Homebase. Homebase near me is always deserted. I could probably run a writing summer school in the soft furnishing aisle and would be left unmolested the entire time. Sure, yes, it was missing the frisson of danger, but my life is just one wild crazy ride as it is, so it was no harm to dial down the insanity for a few short civilized moments.

Anyway, fifteen minutes later, I left Homebase with one really nice candle and without one really brilliant poem.

And here is the evidence -

Would you pay 15.59 (down from 17.99) for a 'handkerchief' vase? sounds unsanitary personally...

The close up!

And here it is just in case even my bestest writing isn't enough...

Dear Santa,
I've been a little bit naughty
But I've also been a little bit nice
What say you still give me a pressie
And we'll go halvsies on the price.


Hurray!!!!

Block!

Panic.

I've forgotten how to write poetry!!

i want to take part in IPYPIASM but nothing! Nothing will come out of my brain!

I've tried and tried and tried and it looks like I broke my poetry bone. Sprained my sonnetness. Twisted my tercet. Od'ed my ode... (etc...)

I went along to a lovely reading tonight. The wonderful Emerging Writer was reading and was, well, wonderful. And the brilliant Louise Phillips was there too! Poetess extraordinaire Eileen Casey was running the event. I was enveloped in a hug of wordy gloriousness.

How do I feel now?

The Cat Sat on the Mat.


Arghghghghghgh!

Help!

My only friend in this lonely hour! Hic.

Block!

Panic.

I've forgotten how to write poetry!!

i want to take part in IPYPIASM but nothing! Nothing will come out of my brain!

I've tried and tried and tried and it looks like I broke my poetry bone. Sprained my sonnetness. Twisted my tercet. Od'ed my ode... (etc...)

I went along to a lovely reading tonight. The wonderful Emerging Writer was reading and was, well, wonderful. And the brilliant Louise Phillips was there too! Poetess extraordinaire Eileen Casey was running the event. I was enveloped in a hug of wordy gloriousness.

How do I feel now?

The Cat Sat on the Mat.


Arghghghghghgh!

Help!

My only friend in this lonely hour! Hic.

Sickness, Stagefright and Toast

Gah! International Put your Poem in a Shop Month  is slipping past me and nary a contribution!

Last year I had a really good excuse. What with being all pregnant and then all c-sectiony, and the weather being all ends of days snowy. It was fair enough that I didn't get out. But this year. What sad excuse will I roll out for my creative cravenness? My literary loucheness? My apathetic poeticness! My phlegmatic phonetics...

Well, baba has been sick. And had her first birthday. She was sick for her first birthday. All photos have her looking miserable. She was probably pissed that I made no effort for it though. What can I say, she's baby number four - oh look, you're a year old, well done. What do you want? A medal? No cake was made. I bought her the chavviest red track suit as her only present. I'll laminate Childline's number for her.

Sick... but wonderfully quiet.

That said, she did achieve two things of note this week. 1) She was so sick she didn't have the energy to screech. It was a blessed release. For the past ten days we have not had to listen to her go 'EEErnnnnnghghghghghgghgghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh' for 90% of the day. and 2) She said her first word! I was able to muster up some excitement for this. Mainly cause it was quite a good first word. We did have two possible other candidates for first word - 'Clap' and 'Dance' (a future on the stage perhaps?). But we couldn't definitely say that she meant to say these words. But the other morning was different. I was sitting there with my cup of tea, poached eggs and toast. She had a rusk. She wasn't into the rusk. She was pointing at my breakfast. I said, 'Toast?' She looked at me, thoughtful. 'Toast' she said. 

Sod this Baby Atkin diet - give me Carbs!!!

Can you beat that? How could you not love a creature whose first word was toast? She'll go far.

In other news, Big Sister Oub is in the bad books. Oh yes. As a mother I ask only that my children are brilliant and talented at all times and show the world that both my genetics and mothering are superior to all others. I don't think this is too much to ask. Well, Big sister Oub has disappointed! She has displeased me. 

It was Christmas Concert time. She was star of the show last year. Charmed the audience and quite frankly set me up as Alpha Mother among the Montessori Mafia. I was Don D'Oub. I wasn't actually there for the concert last year, what with me being held in a maximum security maternity hospital, but I did get to see her opening night triumph via live satellite link up. Hmmm, or maybe it was on video a few days later. I'm not sure. I was on a lot of morphine. (Not kidding about the morphine.)

But this year I got to be there! I could accept the admiring glances from the other mothers in person. I could be a shining beacon for nurture versus nature right there, right then!

But, I could tell from the moment I walked in that all was not well. Big Sister Oub was surveying the crowd. Cause she's a sentient 4 year old now. She knows that the crowd is made up with actually people this year. When she was three she didn't care! But now, now... now she has stage fright!!! 

Ah jaysus, me no likey!

She made it half way through before she collapsed in tears and had to retire to my knee for the rest of the performance. 

I wasn't happy. Uh huh. She has disgraced me in front of all the mothers. I will most likely be challenged by one of the other, younger, mothers in the car park now. I cannot avoid being beaten and cast from my pack to wander in the wilderness alone, looking for somewhere to curl up and expire...

Think of me, in my decline.

Remember me as I once was. Great and better than everyone else.

ahem.

I'll go write my IPYPIASM poem now... 

Sickness, Stagefright and Toast

Gah! International Put your Poem in a Shop Month  is slipping past me and nary a contribution!

Last year I had a really good excuse. What with being all pregnant and then all c-sectiony, and the weather being all ends of days snowy. It was fair enough that I didn't get out. But this year. What sad excuse will I roll out for my creative cravenness? My literary loucheness? My apathetic poeticness! My phlegmatic phonetics...

Well, baba has been sick. And had her first birthday. She was sick for her first birthday. All photos have her looking miserable. She was probably pissed that I made no effort for it though. What can I say, she's baby number four - oh look, you're a year old, well done. What do you want? A medal? No cake was made. I bought her the chavviest red track suit as her only present. I'll laminate Childline's number for her.

Sick... but wonderfully quiet.

That said, she did achieve two things of note this week. 1) She was so sick she didn't have the energy to screech. It was a blessed release. For the past ten days we have not had to listen to her go 'EEErnnnnnghghghghghgghgghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh' for 90% of the day. and 2) She said her first word! I was able to muster up some excitement for this. Mainly cause it was quite a good first word. We did have two possible other candidates for first word - 'Clap' and 'Dance' (a future on the stage perhaps?). But we couldn't definitely say that she meant to say these words. But the other morning was different. I was sitting there with my cup of tea, poached eggs and toast. She had a rusk. She wasn't into the rusk. She was pointing at my breakfast. I said, 'Toast?' She looked at me, thoughtful. 'Toast' she said. 

Sod this Baby Atkin diet - give me Carbs!!!

Can you beat that? How could you not love a creature whose first word was toast? She'll go far.

In other news, Big Sister Oub is in the bad books. Oh yes. As a mother I ask only that my children are brilliant and talented at all times and show the world that both my genetics and mothering are superior to all others. I don't think this is too much to ask. Well, Big sister Oub has disappointed! She has displeased me. 

It was Christmas Concert time. She was star of the show last year. Charmed the audience and quite frankly set me up as Alpha Mother among the Montessori Mafia. I was Don D'Oub. I wasn't actually there for the concert last year, what with me being held in a maximum security maternity hospital, but I did get to see her opening night triumph via live satellite link up. Hmmm, or maybe it was on video a few days later. I'm not sure. I was on a lot of morphine. (Not kidding about the morphine.)

But this year I got to be there! I could accept the admiring glances from the other mothers in person. I could be a shining beacon for nurture versus nature right there, right then!

But, I could tell from the moment I walked in that all was not well. Big Sister Oub was surveying the crowd. Cause she's a sentient 4 year old now. She knows that the crowd is made up with actually people this year. When she was three she didn't care! But now, now... now she has stage fright!!! 

Ah jaysus, me no likey!

She made it half way through before she collapsed in tears and had to retire to my knee for the rest of the performance. 

I wasn't happy. Uh huh. She has disgraced me in front of all the mothers. I will most likely be challenged by one of the other, younger, mothers in the car park now. I cannot avoid being beaten and cast from my pack to wander in the wilderness alone, looking for somewhere to curl up and expire...

Think of me, in my decline.

Remember me as I once was. Great and better than everyone else.

ahem.

I'll go write my IPYPIASM poem now... 

Schools, Boobs and Lost Tribes of Papua New Guinea

What's Team D'Oub up to at the moment? Lots and nothing. Never has the name of this blog been more accurate.

One is rather domestically imprisoned at the moment. But, we're looking at the last month of 2011, Baba Oub will be 1 year old in a couple of weeks, so roll on 2012 and maybe a return to creative ways.

What we have been doing is obsessing over secondary schools for eldest Oub child. We went to visit another one a week or so ago. They had an Open Day. Everyone turned up. I mean everyone. Old ladies had heard that Confey College was open. Prisoners applied specially for day release so that they could have a look. Tribes from Papua New Guinea who had heretofore never made contact with the rest of the human race showed up. My youth, missing in action for some time now, was spotted strolling the corridors.

It's a great bloody school. Excellent results, lovely building, co-ed, polite students. Clean toilets. I dunno - how important are clean toilets to the over school experience? I've been in the loos of the other two schools and urgh, mingin' just isn't doing them justice. "So, Mrs Oub, why did you pick Confey College for little Master Oub?' "Clean toilets."

But, things are never simple. We did our tour of the school with the rest of the seven billion inhabitants of earth. And we were just generally blown away. Seeing as we felt there might be a bit of competition for spaces, we decided that I'd pop into the school super soon and put sons name down. Because this school has an unusual enrollment policy. You pay them a non-refundable 100euro, your child is guaranteed a place. Simples.

So, off I headed the very next morning. Knock, knock, knock on the secretaries door. One little conversation later. They're changing the policy. The board of management are putting into place a proper enrollment policy. A policy, if it is in line with the policy followed by pretty much every other school in the country, will see us bottom of the list!

But of course.

I tried bribing the school secretary. I tired flattery. I tired threatening her! Well, I didn't actually threaten her, but Baba Oub was in the room, so there was an air of menace... But to no avail. We've put his name down. Time will tell...Sigh...


What else have I been doing?


Breastfeeding. Extreme Breastfeeding. I should be put in a packet with instructions on the back that say 'Just Add Water'. I am a shrivelled husk. Baba Oub has discovered the auld pulling up of the top. My beleaguered boobs are being pawed at day and night. And when Mr Oub is done, baba is always hungry.

This blog post has been disturbed four times by demands for milk.

She is drunk on the power. No longer does she have to wait for mama to decide that she can have a feed, no, she can grope like the office letch for access anytime she bloody wants to. She is a milkcoholic. It's just boob, boob, boob, all the time. And she just screams if she can't. She's like an addict! Is there rehab for babies who like boob just that little bit too much? A twelve step program to recovery? It's time for her to admit that she is powerless over boob and that her life has become unmanageable... She needs to make a list of the people she has harmed and make amends to them all...

Hello, my name is Baba Oub and I a boobaholic.

She got so drunk on milk she woke up in the laundry basket, not knowing how she got there...

And, last but not least, here's what I made in pottery class last week. (Can't show you this week as I didn't have my phone with me. Please try not to be too inconsolable.)

Right, I'm off to write a poem for International Put Your Poem in a Shop Month! It may well be about schools and boobs. But then, aren't all poems?
 

Schools, Boobs and Lost Tribes of Papua New Guinea

What's Team D'Oub up to at the moment? Lots and nothing. Never has the name of this blog been more accurate.

One is rather domestically imprisoned at the moment. But, we're looking at the last month of 2011, Baba Oub will be 1 year old in a couple of weeks, so roll on 2012 and maybe a return to creative ways.

What we have been doing is obsessing over secondary schools for eldest Oub child. We went to visit another one a week or so ago. They had an Open Day. Everyone turned up. I mean everyone. Old ladies had heard that Confey College was open. Prisoners applied specially for day release so that they could have a look. Tribes from Papua New Guinea who had heretofore never made contact with the rest of the human race showed up. My youth, missing in action for some time now, was spotted strolling the corridors.

It's a great bloody school. Excellent results, lovely building, co-ed, polite students. Clean toilets. I dunno - how important are clean toilets to the over school experience? I've been in the loos of the other two schools and urgh, mingin' just isn't doing them justice. "So, Mrs Oub, why did you pick Confey College for little Master Oub?' "Clean toilets."

But, things are never simple. We did our tour of the school with the rest of the seven billion inhabitants of earth. And we were just generally blown away. Seeing as we felt there might be a bit of competition for spaces, we decided that I'd pop into the school super soon and put sons name down. Because this school has an unusual enrollment policy. You pay them a non-refundable 100euro, your child is guaranteed a place. Simples.

So, off I headed the very next morning. Knock, knock, knock on the secretaries door. One little conversation later. They're changing the policy. The board of management are putting into place a proper enrollment policy. A policy, if it is in line with the policy followed by pretty much every other school in the country, will see us bottom of the list!

But of course.

I tried bribing the school secretary. I tired flattery. I tired threatening her! Well, I didn't actually threaten her, but Baba Oub was in the room, so there was an air of menace... But to no avail. We've put his name down. Time will tell...Sigh...


What else have I been doing?


Breastfeeding. Extreme Breastfeeding. I should be put in a packet with instructions on the back that say 'Just Add Water'. I am a shrivelled husk. Baba Oub has discovered the auld pulling up of the top. My beleaguered boobs are being pawed at day and night. And when Mr Oub is done, baba is always hungry.

This blog post has been disturbed four times by demands for milk.

She is drunk on the power. No longer does she have to wait for mama to decide that she can have a feed, no, she can grope like the office letch for access anytime she bloody wants to. She is a milkcoholic. It's just boob, boob, boob, all the time. And she just screams if she can't. She's like an addict! Is there rehab for babies who like boob just that little bit too much? A twelve step program to recovery? It's time for her to admit that she is powerless over boob and that her life has become unmanageable... She needs to make a list of the people she has harmed and make amends to them all...

Hello, my name is Baba Oub and I a boobaholic.

She got so drunk on milk she woke up in the laundry basket, not knowing how she got there...

And, last but not least, here's what I made in pottery class last week. (Can't show you this week as I didn't have my phone with me. Please try not to be too inconsolable.)

Right, I'm off to write a poem for International Put Your Poem in a Shop Month! It may well be about schools and boobs. But then, aren't all poems?
 

Enjoy the silence...

This blog post is a tribute to John Cage's 1952 composition -  4′33″.

Enjoy the silence...

This blog post is a tribute to John Cage's 1952 composition -  4′33″.

Pictures...

So, it's November.

The Diva Baby of Lucan has calmed down a smidge. Not enough for me to reply to emails. Read our book club book. Write anything. Shower.

But, I shan't complain. It turns out she has hidden talents. We had a photo session yesterday - you know the sort of thing, family portrait, all of us looking uncomfortable and forced, captured forever to hang pride of place in the hall (for extra humiliation.) But Diva Baby was a natural! Her first word was practically 'I'mreadyformycloseup'. She turned, looking over her shoulder, eyes popping! If she can avoid the D'Oub snail like metabolism (it's me glands!) and our horror of physical exertion, then she could be a supermodel. But, like, one of those supermodels that goes to Oxford too...

It's been all about the visual arts in the D'Oub household lately...

Myself and the Mr have obviously gone and got notions of being Charles Saatchi and decided what we really needed was a massive art collection. We've been doing with mass produced Ikea prints up till now.  I'm not going to slag Ikea prints off or anything, they've done us very well up to now. But I think there comes a time in a persons life when they just have to get something original up there. Having grown up in a house with a mammy who was an artist, whose works covered all our walls, I felt the need for some actual art work.

We had a budget set aside to have the interior of our house painted. Sure Mr Oub could have done it, but I wanted it done while I was young enough to have the eyesight good enough to enjoy it. But, we've gone and spent most of what was earmarked on pictures. They will have to cover up our manky paint job. Maybe Mr Oub will have to do the painting after all.

First up, thanks to the wonderful Titus, we came across the fantastic artwork of the artist Matt Kish. Loved his Moby Dick pictures. Couldn't resist and bought two!

 

It's a bit blurry, but I think you get the idea.

Framed and at the bottom of the stairs.

So delighted with ourselves and the pictures, we've been keen to find ourselves some more. I came across the artist Nicole Tilley in the Cow's Lane market a few weeks ago...

She does etching thingys - something about copper and wax and stuff... here are the two prints we bought

We haven't had them framed yet - the village framer is our new best friend, we're putting his kids through college at this rate. But soon they will be up on our messy walls to delight all and sundry.

Inspired by all this, we then discovered a little known Lucan artist who we feel has real promise. Even if her kids ask why she gave herself a beard.

Till next time, whenever that may be :)


Update: Just for Titus, I give u the work of Mr D'Oub, professional pumpkin carver!!!

Pictures...

So, it's November.

The Diva Baby of Lucan has calmed down a smidge. Not enough for me to reply to emails. Read our book club book. Write anything. Shower.

But, I shan't complain. It turns out she has hidden talents. We had a photo session yesterday - you know the sort of thing, family portrait, all of us looking uncomfortable and forced, captured forever to hang pride of place in the hall (for extra humiliation.) But Diva Baby was a natural! Her first word was practically 'I'mreadyformycloseup'. She turned, looking over her shoulder, eyes popping! If she can avoid the D'Oub snail like metabolism (it's me glands!) and our horror of physical exertion, then she could be a supermodel. But, like, one of those supermodels that goes to Oxford too...

It's been all about the visual arts in the D'Oub household lately...

Myself and the Mr have obviously gone and got notions of being Charles Saatchi and decided what we really needed was a massive art collection. We've been doing with mass produced Ikea prints up till now.  I'm not going to slag Ikea prints off or anything, they've done us very well up to now. But I think there comes a time in a persons life when they just have to get something original up there. Having grown up in a house with a mammy who was an artist, whose works covered all our walls, I felt the need for some actual art work.

We had a budget set aside to have the interior of our house painted. Sure Mr Oub could have done it, but I wanted it done while I was young enough to have the eyesight good enough to enjoy it. But, we've gone and spent most of what was earmarked on pictures. They will have to cover up our manky paint job. Maybe Mr Oub will have to do the painting after all.

First up, thanks to the wonderful Titus, we came across the fantastic artwork of the artist Matt Kish. Loved his Moby Dick pictures. Couldn't resist and bought two!

 

It's a bit blurry, but I think you get the idea.

Framed and at the bottom of the stairs.

So delighted with ourselves and the pictures, we've been keen to find ourselves some more. I came across the artist Nicole Tilley in the Cow's Lane market a few weeks ago...

She does etching thingys - something about copper and wax and stuff... here are the two prints we bought

We haven't had them framed yet - the village framer is our new best friend, we're putting his kids through college at this rate. But soon they will be up on our messy walls to delight all and sundry.

Inspired by all this, we then discovered a little known Lucan artist who we feel has real promise. Even if her kids ask why she gave herself a beard.

Till next time, whenever that may be :)


Update: Just for Titus, I give u the work of Mr D'Oub, professional pumpkin carver!!!

Who am I?

Okay, okay - feeling a lot less grumpy today - not much has changed as such, but I guess it's not 3am, the time when all problems band together, drink a few quadruple espressos and hiss at you.

I'm sitting here at the kitchen table threatening the children. It's homework time and they're just not in the mood. Hard to blame them. And for some reason they're not quite believing me when I say I will sell them if they don't shush.

And why this luxury, this blogging in the middle of the day?

Because the baby is in jail.

Mr Oub, as he does, got a notion in his head. And decisive, as I dithered, he set up the monstrously huge playpen (aka Babyjail) in our already crowded kitchen. I was all bitter, get it out of my beautiful kitchen like. But then we were all overcome... a bit like when you live beside a motorway and have gotten used to the traffic noise, but then you move and it's all quiet. It was odd. Strange. Baby Oub likes her cage. She shut up for once in her short screechy life. Whatever the bars are saying to her, she likes what she hears. We don't know quite what to do with ourselves. Other than prepare for a possible incarcerated future for our youngest child.

I'm an innocent mon!

So, I sat down to do a bit o' blogging. Horror of horrors, I am discovering that I have misplaced the funny. This post is just not going to get any more rib tickling than this. I dunno. Maybe it is possible to run out of your sense of humour - I may be dour forever mour. Not a great loss to the world of comedy perhaps.

But in the spirit of making people laugh, and it being my birthday week, here are a few old IDs I found recently as Mr Oub and I tried to clean out the study (once again). The study is our little landfill. Feck it in and shut the door. Methane is produced there. Hmm. Okay, maybe that was the kids.

Anyway, Here are some classics.

Mr Oub likes this one. He was getting a little lechy. I was not best pleased. I was all jealous of my previous self and like no, you will not find yourself a time machine and go back and cheat on me with my younger self. Or something...

I remember that beige cardigan. Crazy student me...

And this one is a classic. My journalism class had oh so wisely decided to go out on the batter the night before our pictures were to be taken. I look so rough on this id you could probably use it as sandpaper.

UUrghgghhhhhhh

And here, for no reason at all, is a picture of a trio of swans I made at pottery class last night. Quite.

 

Byes :)

Who am I?

Okay, okay - feeling a lot less grumpy today - not much has changed as such, but I guess it's not 3am, the time when all problems band together, drink a few quadruple espressos and hiss at you.

I'm sitting here at the kitchen table threatening the children. It's homework time and they're just not in the mood. Hard to blame them. And for some reason they're not quite believing me when I say I will sell them if they don't shush.

And why this luxury, this blogging in the middle of the day?

Because the baby is in jail.

Mr Oub, as he does, got a notion in his head. And decisive, as I dithered, he set up the monstrously huge playpen (aka Babyjail) in our already crowded kitchen. I was all bitter, get it out of my beautiful kitchen like. But then we were all overcome... a bit like when you live beside a motorway and have gotten used to the traffic noise, but then you move and it's all quiet. It was odd. Strange. Baby Oub likes her cage. She shut up for once in her short screechy life. Whatever the bars are saying to her, she likes what she hears. We don't know quite what to do with ourselves. Other than prepare for a possible incarcerated future for our youngest child.

I'm an innocent mon!

So, I sat down to do a bit o' blogging. Horror of horrors, I am discovering that I have misplaced the funny. This post is just not going to get any more rib tickling than this. I dunno. Maybe it is possible to run out of your sense of humour - I may be dour forever mour. Not a great loss to the world of comedy perhaps.

But in the spirit of making people laugh, and it being my birthday week, here are a few old IDs I found recently as Mr Oub and I tried to clean out the study (once again). The study is our little landfill. Feck it in and shut the door. Methane is produced there. Hmm. Okay, maybe that was the kids.

Anyway, Here are some classics.

Mr Oub likes this one. He was getting a little lechy. I was not best pleased. I was all jealous of my previous self and like no, you will not find yourself a time machine and go back and cheat on me with my younger self. Or something...

I remember that beige cardigan. Crazy student me...

And this one is a classic. My journalism class had oh so wisely decided to go out on the batter the night before our pictures were to be taken. I look so rough on this id you could probably use it as sandpaper.

UUrghgghhhhhhh

And here, for no reason at all, is a picture of a trio of swans I made at pottery class last night. Quite.

 

Byes :)

Hmmm...

It's nearly three am. There really isn't any point blogging now, cause there's no one around to read it. By the time morning rolls around, this post will most likely have quietly slipped down the blogrolls of the blogosphere, gently tripping off to binary purgatory unnoticed.

And that's ok.

I'm in a little bit of a grump.

Why?

Ah, hard to say... I think I feel that life is in a bit of a transitory phase at the moment. Things are changing. Evolving - will it emerge from it's chrysalis a butterfly or a moth?

Is it that it's my birthday next week? Just shy of the dreaded 4-0. I don't think it's possible I'll be 40 next year. I'm actually17 you know. Have been for years. But at forty,  if you're average, life is half over. Jaysus. A bit scary. I need to get a move on. Achieve! Don't I?

Or is it that my 20 year school reunion is on tonight and I'm not going? Couldn't work up the enthusiasm to see a bunch of girls I haven't been arsed to see in twenty years - just cause it's been twenty years since I saw them last...

Or is it that we're looking at secondary schools for the eldest Oub child and suddenly it doesn't feel like playing anymore? Yikes, this is an actual person we have to guide and grow. Where has the cute toddler who said funny things gone? He was far easier than this real, growing, creature who we might fuck up. The responsibility.

And then there is my lovely aunt whom I am very very close to. She is into hospital for open heart surgery on Wednesday. It's bloody scary. And I'm not so much worried that she won't come through it all - she has the best doctors - it's more her having to go through this awful time at all. The fact that she is getting old.  It's also seeing the same with my parents. Does one start counting how many years you have left with them?

And when and where and how do you balance these concerns with the reality that there isn't much you can do? That life is life and it'll have it's wicked way with you one way or the other.

(It may come as no surprise to you all that it was just my philosophy course marks that dragged down my over all finals results, leaving me with a 2.2, not a 2.1. Bitter, moi? )

But enough.

It's now half past three and the baba has decided to wake up and she's yelling.

Not much to be said about that.

I'll be tired in the morning, but maybe I'll have left the grump behind.

Hmmm...

It's nearly three am. There really isn't any point blogging now, cause there's no one around to read it. By the time morning rolls around, this post will most likely have quietly slipped down the blogrolls of the blogosphere, gently tripping off to binary purgatory unnoticed.

And that's ok.

I'm in a little bit of a grump.

Why?

Ah, hard to say... I think I feel that life is in a bit of a transitory phase at the moment. Things are changing. Evolving - will it emerge from it's chrysalis a butterfly or a moth?

Is it that it's my birthday next week? Just shy of the dreaded 4-0. I don't think it's possible I'll be 40 next year. I'm actually17 you know. Have been for years. But at forty,  if you're average, life is half over. Jaysus. A bit scary. I need to get a move on. Achieve! Don't I?

Or is it that my 20 year school reunion is on tonight and I'm not going? Couldn't work up the enthusiasm to see a bunch of girls I haven't been arsed to see in twenty years - just cause it's been twenty years since I saw them last...

Or is it that we're looking at secondary schools for the eldest Oub child and suddenly it doesn't feel like playing anymore? Yikes, this is an actual person we have to guide and grow. Where has the cute toddler who said funny things gone? He was far easier than this real, growing, creature who we might fuck up. The responsibility.

And then there is my lovely aunt whom I am very very close to. She is into hospital for open heart surgery on Wednesday. It's bloody scary. And I'm not so much worried that she won't come through it all - she has the best doctors - it's more her having to go through this awful time at all. The fact that she is getting old.  It's also seeing the same with my parents. Does one start counting how many years you have left with them?

And when and where and how do you balance these concerns with the reality that there isn't much you can do? That life is life and it'll have it's wicked way with you one way or the other.

(It may come as no surprise to you all that it was just my philosophy course marks that dragged down my over all finals results, leaving me with a 2.2, not a 2.1. Bitter, moi? )

But enough.

It's now half past three and the baba has decided to wake up and she's yelling.

Not much to be said about that.

I'll be tired in the morning, but maybe I'll have left the grump behind.

The People's Republic of Ireland

So, I should have been updating my blog for the last hour or so, but I was otherwise engaged. I was composing a snitty - yet non-libellous - email to my local political representatives giving out to them for not nominating Senator David Norris for president. Yes, it's all a bit closing the barn door after the horse has bolted - where was my email beforehand promising them all sort of deliciously democratic delights for their vote? The things a girl can do with a mandate could make your eyes water!

But no, I didn't email them beforehand as I just assumed they'd do the right thing and nominate him. I know, am I really that stupid? It appears I am. Really. It's embarrassing. So, now they've all been informed of my disgust (am sure they're just quaking) and I've promised my vote next time to some bloke who thinks Trotsky was David Cameron's more conservative older brother.

(Breaking News!- It appears that Waterford County Council have just done the decent thing and nominated him. Good on ye Waterford CC. That's more like it. )

And the thing is, I'm not even sure I am going to vote for the senator. I really quite like him, I think he'd be a brilliant president, the perfect person for the country right now. But I would like a little clarification on some of the more controversial things he's said. But, without him in the race, then I never will get that clarification and I will not be living in the democracy I thought I was living in.

This country's politicians really sucks sometimes.  Hmmm. A lot of the time.


(Breaking news! - Just got a reply to my email from local TD (MP or Congressman for my international readership. Lol) TD says that the councillors "acted in good faith and according to what they thought was the right decision for South Dublin County Council to make". )


Sigh.  So it was the right decision. Wow, winning argument! God forbid they give us any actual reasons... oh, hang on - because there are none! No one is going to come out and say they didn't vote for him because he's gay or because they know he's so popular that he'd stop their guy winning the election.

Gah.

But silly naive me for thinking there was any honour in politics. I really must have had a blow to the head recently. 

So, come on Dublin City Council, meeting this evening, do the right and democratic thing! Nominate Norris! 


BREAKING NEWS! - Yay, Dublin City Council stood firm for democracy and Senator Norris is now on the ballot paper! Hurray for democracy! And I'm sure my day long email flame war with the Mayor of South Dublin County Council had no influence...)

The People's Republic of Ireland

So, I should have been updating my blog for the last hour or so, but I was otherwise engaged. I was composing a snitty - yet non-libellous - email to my local political representatives giving out to them for not nominating Senator David Norris for president. Yes, it's all a bit closing the barn door after the horse has bolted - where was my email beforehand promising them all sort of deliciously democratic delights for their vote? The things a girl can do with a mandate could make your eyes water!

But no, I didn't email them beforehand as I just assumed they'd do the right thing and nominate him. I know, am I really that stupid? It appears I am. Really. It's embarrassing. So, now they've all been informed of my disgust (am sure they're just quaking) and I've promised my vote next time to some bloke who thinks Trotsky was David Cameron's more conservative older brother.

(Breaking News!- It appears that Waterford County Council have just done the decent thing and nominated him. Good on ye Waterford CC. That's more like it. )

And the thing is, I'm not even sure I am going to vote for the senator. I really quite like him, I think he'd be a brilliant president, the perfect person for the country right now. But I would like a little clarification on some of the more controversial things he's said. But, without him in the race, then I never will get that clarification and I will not be living in the democracy I thought I was living in.

This country's politicians really sucks sometimes.  Hmmm. A lot of the time.


(Breaking news! - Just got a reply to my email from local TD (MP or Congressman for my international readership. Lol) TD says that the councillors "acted in good faith and according to what they thought was the right decision for South Dublin County Council to make". )


Sigh.  So it was the right decision. Wow, winning argument! God forbid they give us any actual reasons... oh, hang on - because there are none! No one is going to come out and say they didn't vote for him because he's gay or because they know he's so popular that he'd stop their guy winning the election.

Gah.

But silly naive me for thinking there was any honour in politics. I really must have had a blow to the head recently. 

So, come on Dublin City Council, meeting this evening, do the right and democratic thing! Nominate Norris! 


BREAKING NEWS! - Yay, Dublin City Council stood firm for democracy and Senator Norris is now on the ballot paper! Hurray for democracy! And I'm sure my day long email flame war with the Mayor of South Dublin County Council had no influence...)

Airfield

We went to Airfield yesterday. The sun had actually come out from its witness protection program, so we took hasty advantage and legged it over to this lovely working(ish) farm and took in the new piggies, hens, cows and Giant Connect 4. Obviously the Giant Connect 4 is a very rare breed, and possibly only bred in captivity these days. But I must say, it was very friendly and the kids enjoyed playing with it very much. As long as they don't ask to get one of course. I'll have to remind them, a Connect 4 is for life, not just for Christmas ...





Hands up who thinks I'll do a 'Spot the Pigs' gag? Ha!







There was ham in them thar toasties. And nary a qualm raised it's guilty head. Really, this was only minutes after cooing over the new piglets. Ruthless. And I had just killed a wasp with my iPhone. Bloodthirsty, the lot of us.





Big Sister Oub was inspired to dance by the beauty she saw around her. The natural splendor, God's scattered glitter of wildflowers, filled her soul with an unstoppable urge to express the joy it inspired. Either that or she's a little teapot.





How exciting, more pigs. Spotty. And one had an odd looking bottom. As city types, born and bred we debated for a while whether this odd looking bottom was correct pig genitalia or an actual deformity. We decided, kids and I, that surely God had not intended the piggie privates to look quite this startling. So, in all probability it was a slight developmental whoopsie in porcine utero. We didn't hold it against him. Or her.



Exhausted from fighting, they lent on each other, much like when boxers snuggle after a particularly ferocious flurry of thumping.





Big Sister would say 'Cheese' and be looking at the camera and Little Sister would look at her (maybe pondering, cheese? Where??) And then she'd look at me and I'd yell at Big Sister to look back at the camera and she'd look at me and say 'Cheese!' and Little Sister would look away again (Where?? Where? Why do I keep missing this phantom Cheese??!) I gave up after try number 10. By which point everyone was cross and the baby was really quite hungry.



So, all in all a fun day. We tried to trick Mr Oub into thinking we'd wasted the only sunny day this year going to Ikea. Sadly, he believed us that that's where we'd been and wasn't cross at all. Just sadly resigned. Oh well.

Airfield

We went to Airfield yesterday. The sun had actually come out from its witness protection program, so we took hasty advantage and legged it over to this lovely working(ish) farm and took in the new piggies, hens, cows and Giant Connect 4. Obviously the Giant Connect 4 is a very rare breed, and possibly only bred in captivity these days. But I must say, it was very friendly and the kids enjoyed playing with it very much. As long as they don't ask to get one of course. I'll have to remind them, a Connect 4 is for life, not just for Christmas ...


Hands up who thinks I'll do a 'Spot the Pigs' gag? Ha!



There was ham in them thar toasties. And nary a qualm raised it's guilty head. Really, this was only minutes after cooing over the new piglets. Ruthless. And I had just killed a wasp with my iPhone. Bloodthirsty, the lot of us.


Big Sister Oub was inspired to dance by the beauty she saw around her. The natural splendor, God's scattered glitter of wildflowers, filled her soul with an unstoppable urge to express the joy it inspired. Either that or she's a little teapot.


How exciting, more pigs. Spotty. And one had an odd looking bottom. As city types, born and bred we debated for a while whether this odd looking bottom was correct pig genitalia or an actual deformity. We decided, kids and I, that surely God had not intended the piggie privates to look quite this startling. So, in all probability it was a slight developmental whoopsie in porcine utero. We didn't hold it against him. Or her.

Exhausted from fighting, they lent on each other, much like when boxers snuggle after a particularly ferocious flurry of thumping.


Big Sister would say 'Cheese' and be looking at the camera and Little Sister would look at her (maybe pondering, cheese? Where??) And then she'd look at me and I'd yell at Big Sister to look back at the camera and she'd look at me and say 'Cheese!' and Little Sister would look away again (Where?? Where? Why do I keep missing this phantom Cheese??!) I gave up after try number 10. By which point everyone was cross and the baby was really quite hungry.

So, all in all a fun day. We tried to trick Mr Oub into thinking we'd wasted the only sunny day this year going to Ikea. Sadly, he believed us that that's where we'd been and wasn't cross at all. Just sadly resigned. Oh well.