Friday's post* was some shitstorm in a teacup, eh? The rest of my weekend was pretty quiet by comparison, I spent Saturday afternoon washing every stitch of clothing I own and ironing none of it (new policy) and Saturday night in Naas watching Kindergarten Cop, eating chocolate and huffing over nothing much at all. Good times.
My sprawling, bawling critique will likely have lost me a reader or two, so to balance things out I did something I had been meaning to do for a while - I emailed the link to my Crash Grandadicoot posts to my mother. She spent a few hours shuffling through them in reverse chronological order, had a browse around some of the other posts and then emailed me to tell me how reading them had made her laugh and cry. Most importantly she told me that she loves me, even though I'm puking this stuff all over the internet for strangers to read. Confident that I hadn't lost her affections, I decided that this might be a good time to break it to her about the sex column... and the TV3 exposé. So I did as any savvy kid would do and waited until I had cover - in the form of my Nana and some of my parents' friends who had come for Sunday dinner. Over roast beef and Yorkshire puddings I told them all about my secret double life as a peddler of filth and they took it very well. Nana even said she was proud of me (though she added that she's proud of all her grandchildren so I think she was speaking of a general pride, not one specific to my smutty scribbles). My coming clean to them happily coincides with my getting my arse in gear and republishing the columns in English. It'll be a little like waiting for the VHS release instead of forking out for the cinema but if you're curious and have a few hours to spare (they're as long as some of Friday's comments) I'll be publishing them in the sidebar from now on.
*It's sparked a few posts elsewhere; AJ reckons an apology is in order, Alexia offers an alternative view, Andrew and Darragh think it's a topic worth discussing, and Eli Mordino plans to wax lyrical on it himself. Jazz Biscuit, meanwhile, called me a super heroine (albeit one who likes to headbutt things) and then shot his load. I'm flattered. It's the closest I've come to pleasing a man in some time.
My sprawling, bawling critique will likely have lost me a reader or two, so to balance things out I did something I had been meaning to do for a while - I emailed the link to my Crash Grandadicoot posts to my mother. She spent a few hours shuffling through them in reverse chronological order, had a browse around some of the other posts and then emailed me to tell me how reading them had made her laugh and cry. Most importantly she told me that she loves me, even though I'm puking this stuff all over the internet for strangers to read. Confident that I hadn't lost her affections, I decided that this might be a good time to break it to her about the sex column... and the TV3 exposé. So I did as any savvy kid would do and waited until I had cover - in the form of my Nana and some of my parents' friends who had come for Sunday dinner. Over roast beef and Yorkshire puddings I told them all about my secret double life as a peddler of filth and they took it very well. Nana even said she was proud of me (though she added that she's proud of all her grandchildren so I think she was speaking of a general pride, not one specific to my smutty scribbles). My coming clean to them happily coincides with my getting my arse in gear and republishing the columns in English. It'll be a little like waiting for the VHS release instead of forking out for the cinema but if you're curious and have a few hours to spare (they're as long as some of Friday's comments) I'll be publishing them in the sidebar from now on.
*It's sparked a few posts elsewhere; AJ reckons an apology is in order, Alexia offers an alternative view, Andrew and Darragh think it's a topic worth discussing, and Eli Mordino plans to wax lyrical on it himself. Jazz Biscuit, meanwhile, called me a super heroine (albeit one who likes to headbutt things) and then shot his load. I'm flattered. It's the closest I've come to pleasing a man in some time.
