Showing posts with label christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label christmas. Show all posts
Friday, December 25, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Fall Into Those Single File Lines
Not A Sea MonkeyThe BGF, unable to contain his excitement any longer, blurted it out. I got you an ant farm for Christmas! I fairly jiggled with excitement myself. I don't really know what ant farm is (though I doubt very much that it's what I picture in my head) but he so rarely uses exclamation marks that I reckon it must be pretty fucking exciting. I have decided not to google it, to preserve the element of surprise.
He got sea monkeys for my sister (though he called them something else that I can't remember, spell or pronounce) and I looked them up - they certainly don't look anything like I had imagined. Rather disappointing. I don't know what he's gotten for my brother (last year it was a volcano) but I'm gunning for something furred.
He had mentioned something about posting the second part of my present, cause for even greater excitement. I love getting things in the post. Was I getting an ant farm and a surprise? Yes and no. It turns out they post the live ants to you. Mam's going to be chuffed. What do they eat? we wondered. Lettuce, hopefully. Each other, more likely. And people (if those ants in my Choose Your Own Adventure books were anything to go by). Then he mentioned the note of caution on the website he'd ordered from. Do not order ants from different colonies for your ant farm as they may go to war.
Let the games begin.
I found the photo above on Found Shit, aptly enough. I also found this shit there.
My Day = Made.
Friday, December 26, 2008
BookEnds
I called him in the morning. Not quite first thing, as I (after some years of reprimands) realise that not all 27 year olds get up at excited o' clock on Christmas Day to see what Santa has brought. The sleep in his voice ("no, no, I was awake, it's okay") made me greedy for his warm embrace. He gives good cuddle.
He called me that night. Not quite last thing, though he is coming to realise that not all 27 year olds stay up until 3am on Christmas night, especially not those who have eaten their weight in pudding. I think the sleep in my voice ("no, no, I was awake, it's okay") made him think of my curly hair, and my cold feet. For I, I give good snuggle.
He called me that night. Not quite last thing, though he is coming to realise that not all 27 year olds stay up until 3am on Christmas night, especially not those who have eaten their weight in pudding. I think the sleep in my voice ("no, no, I was awake, it's okay") made him think of my curly hair, and my cold feet. For I, I give good snuggle.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
So they All Rolled Over And One Fell Out
I haven't bothered to switch on the fairy lights this evening, because there's nobody here but me. The Leitrim Lady is in Leitrim and the Swede is in Sweden, but I am here because I'm not really sure where I should be.
Tonight, Love Lane feels lonely.
At home, my family will have the fairy lights on and the fire lit. Home? Home. Nowhere on earth feels more like home than my parents' house. But.
But for my bed.
For my bed; a fold-out couch in the front room. Its rich leather seats fold out into a firm foam mattress, the whole contraption rolls on casters. I have never felt such irrational antipathy for an inanimate object.
I joke about my parents' unhasty refurbishment of their home, about the loss of my room to my sister and the loss of her room to their walk-in wardrobe. To lose one was unfortunate; to lose two, well. Now, come Christmas and all that comes with her, my jibes don't seem so funny. My stubborn streak has struck me dumb and I cannot tell them that that is why I am sat here instead of curled up on their couch.
Tonight, Love Lane feels lonely.
At home, my family will have the fairy lights on and the fire lit. Home? Home. Nowhere on earth feels more like home than my parents' house. But.
But for my bed.
For my bed; a fold-out couch in the front room. Its rich leather seats fold out into a firm foam mattress, the whole contraption rolls on casters. I have never felt such irrational antipathy for an inanimate object.
I joke about my parents' unhasty refurbishment of their home, about the loss of my room to my sister and the loss of her room to their walk-in wardrobe. To lose one was unfortunate; to lose two, well. Now, come Christmas and all that comes with her, my jibes don't seem so funny. My stubborn streak has struck me dumb and I cannot tell them that that is why I am sat here instead of curled up on their couch.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Aloysisus Wash The Dishes
It Took Two Pillows To Make That Jelly BellyTuesday just gone would have marked Crash Grandadicoot's birthday. He was fond of his birthdays as he was fond of Christmas - not for the presents (as he insisted that he already had everything that a man could ever want) but because it gave him an excuse to gather his family around him. I don't know why he felt he needed an excuse as not a weekend goes by where the small 2-up 2-down house isn't swamped by about a gazillion of us, but far be it from me to point this out. Maybe it was the excuse to dress up that he was really after. His Santy rig-out every Christmas was quite the thing, and he was a great man for modelling whatever winterwear he was gifted for his July birthdays.
I spent Monday evening in my Nana's along with my brother and sister, eating her out of house and home. We spent time catching her up on all our gossip and while I knew his birthday was coming up the following day, I didn't mention it. There was plenty of mention of him, as there always is, but not of his birthday. I knew that my uncle was coming over the following evening to bring her down to the Mount Jerome, where his ashes have been interred. She never thought she'd be the graveside type, turns out she is, at least on what would have been his birthday.
I thought about her on Tuesday. I thought about her all day. Wondered if I should call and if I did, what I might say to her. It's not like me - I'm never stuck for words with my nana. I thought I might text her instead, it's how I usually avoid potentially emotional or awkward situations; you can seem proactive and at the same time shunt the ball into the other person's court. And then turn your phone off. But I didn't text her. She only ever gets the first two lines anyway because she keep accidentally deleting the messages when she tries to scroll, but she's 76 (I think) so we'll let her off. What would I have said? Happy really fucking sad birthday? Thinking of you? She knows I'm thinking of her. And him.
I got a text from my mam that night, not because she was avoiding a potentially emotional or awkward situation but because she's in France. She was texting to tell me that she'd sat chatting to Grandad in a church that overlooked the local grandads at their boules (he played twice a week). She lit a candle and had a cry, but decided not to sing him happy birthday. I read the text and felt ... nothing. Swiftly followed by a sickening guilt at the realisation that I do not miss him as much as I should. And I carried on with my evening, read my book, went to bed.
This morning I am sitting at my desk in work, avoiding translation work and hiding behind my computer because I'm leaking tears as I write. I miss him much more than I had imagined.
I spent Monday evening in my Nana's along with my brother and sister, eating her out of house and home. We spent time catching her up on all our gossip and while I knew his birthday was coming up the following day, I didn't mention it. There was plenty of mention of him, as there always is, but not of his birthday. I knew that my uncle was coming over the following evening to bring her down to the Mount Jerome, where his ashes have been interred. She never thought she'd be the graveside type, turns out she is, at least on what would have been his birthday.
I thought about her on Tuesday. I thought about her all day. Wondered if I should call and if I did, what I might say to her. It's not like me - I'm never stuck for words with my nana. I thought I might text her instead, it's how I usually avoid potentially emotional or awkward situations; you can seem proactive and at the same time shunt the ball into the other person's court. And then turn your phone off. But I didn't text her. She only ever gets the first two lines anyway because she keep accidentally deleting the messages when she tries to scroll, but she's 76 (I think) so we'll let her off. What would I have said? Happy really fucking sad birthday? Thinking of you? She knows I'm thinking of her. And him.
I got a text from my mam that night, not because she was avoiding a potentially emotional or awkward situation but because she's in France. She was texting to tell me that she'd sat chatting to Grandad in a church that overlooked the local grandads at their boules (he played twice a week). She lit a candle and had a cry, but decided not to sing him happy birthday. I read the text and felt ... nothing. Swiftly followed by a sickening guilt at the realisation that I do not miss him as much as I should. And I carried on with my evening, read my book, went to bed.
This morning I am sitting at my desk in work, avoiding translation work and hiding behind my computer because I'm leaking tears as I write. I miss him much more than I had imagined.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
The Heimlich Manoeuvre
Santy came up trumps again this year; a ticket for next year's Electric Picnic. In fairness though, Santy had had a lot of unsubtle hints. We've grown out of list writing in our house at this stage (at 26, 25 and 22 respectively I suppose it's about time) but back in the day the lists always followed a three item formula: a toy, a pet of some description (not a fucking chance) and (because we were polite children and knew that sometimes Santy runs out of things) a surprise.
So imagine my surprise a few years ago when my sister went in to the other room to fetch my present and emerged with a hamster. The lady in the pet shop had been reluctant to sell him to my mother, worried that the child wouldn't appreciate the gift. "She's 21..." When they got him home they opened the boot of the car to find him swinging from the bars of his cage by his little pink feet. I was thrilled with him. He was like a little ball of cotton wool, brilliant white with bright pink eyes. And he was mad.
I named him Heimlich after the manoeuvre because when I fed him each day he'd stuff his cheeks with the entire contents of the food dish and then wait until I'd left the room to squirrel it away under his bedding, presumably in case I changed my mind and decided to take it back. He soon grew large and portly, so I trained him to do trapeze across the bars of his cage (for banana chips) and got him one of those exercise ball thingys which he used to chase the big dog around the kitchen. He'd sleep all day while I was at college, I'd wake him for playtime in the evenings. One day when I woke him I noticed he was a bit off, when I took him out to play he started walking around in circles, agitated and unable to turn to the right. I looked like an absolute tit sitting in the vet's, cradling a shoebox, tears in my eyes. The prognosis was grave; it was either a bad cold which had caused his brain to swell (!) or a tumour. The vet injected him with an antibiotic and a sedative and told me to bring him back the following day if there was no improvement. He recovered but it knocked him back, a few weeks later I went to wake him and found that he'd died in his sleep.
My brother and I gave him a funeral in the front garden, where the dogs would be less likely to dig him up and present him to me at the breakfast table some morning. We buried him under the daffodils, in an empty Tampax box. Snivelling, we waved at the neighbours who were seeing some visitors off. Two twentysomethings burying tampons in the flowerbeds... Just another Sunday afternoon in Naas.
So imagine my surprise a few years ago when my sister went in to the other room to fetch my present and emerged with a hamster. The lady in the pet shop had been reluctant to sell him to my mother, worried that the child wouldn't appreciate the gift. "She's 21..." When they got him home they opened the boot of the car to find him swinging from the bars of his cage by his little pink feet. I was thrilled with him. He was like a little ball of cotton wool, brilliant white with bright pink eyes. And he was mad.
I named him Heimlich after the manoeuvre because when I fed him each day he'd stuff his cheeks with the entire contents of the food dish and then wait until I'd left the room to squirrel it away under his bedding, presumably in case I changed my mind and decided to take it back. He soon grew large and portly, so I trained him to do trapeze across the bars of his cage (for banana chips) and got him one of those exercise ball thingys which he used to chase the big dog around the kitchen. He'd sleep all day while I was at college, I'd wake him for playtime in the evenings. One day when I woke him I noticed he was a bit off, when I took him out to play he started walking around in circles, agitated and unable to turn to the right. I looked like an absolute tit sitting in the vet's, cradling a shoebox, tears in my eyes. The prognosis was grave; it was either a bad cold which had caused his brain to swell (!) or a tumour. The vet injected him with an antibiotic and a sedative and told me to bring him back the following day if there was no improvement. He recovered but it knocked him back, a few weeks later I went to wake him and found that he'd died in his sleep.
My brother and I gave him a funeral in the front garden, where the dogs would be less likely to dig him up and present him to me at the breakfast table some morning. We buried him under the daffodils, in an empty Tampax box. Snivelling, we waved at the neighbours who were seeing some visitors off. Two twentysomethings burying tampons in the flowerbeds... Just another Sunday afternoon in Naas.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Blessed Is She Amongst Women
I've mentioned my mild allergy to religiosity before but I had to swallow it the other morning and attend mass with my nana. I had stayed overnight with her and she sprung it on me over breakfast; "I just thought we could do that and then go in to see him... you know, that way I could say a few prayers and tell the priest not to call here to the house on Christmas eve with communion for him". Pack your bags, we're going on a guilt trip! I made a half-arsed non-joke about waiting for her in the car but my going to mass would mean she'd have one less soul to worry about, so of course I went in with her.
Her parish church is massive, it must have a capacity of 1500 or more. The congregation on Sunday numbered about 60. Most of them were alone, most of them were middle aged or older. Almost all of them chose to sit alone too - whatever mass gives them, it's not the comfort of a sense of community. The liturgy was familiar from my years of attending mass as a child; there is some consolation in the routine of standing, sitting, kneeling, going through the motions. So far, so inoffensive. Until we got to the homily (the priest's chance to freestyle for a few moments after the gospel has been read). This week's topic? Vaginae.
Did you know that the Virgin Mary was a virgin? "She was a virgin prior to the conception of Our Lord. A virgin even after his birth, for through some miracle she was not defiled by the act of giving birth, her virginity remained intact. She chose to preserve her pure and virginal status ever after". Words bellowed in admiration by a celibate man in his mid seventies who has presumably never seen a vagina and thinks himself the better for it. It grates on me that the Catholic faith worships its leading lady for her intact hymen above all else.
Post Scriptum:
The plural of vagina is vaginae. Who knew? (not I)
Her parish church is massive, it must have a capacity of 1500 or more. The congregation on Sunday numbered about 60. Most of them were alone, most of them were middle aged or older. Almost all of them chose to sit alone too - whatever mass gives them, it's not the comfort of a sense of community. The liturgy was familiar from my years of attending mass as a child; there is some consolation in the routine of standing, sitting, kneeling, going through the motions. So far, so inoffensive. Until we got to the homily (the priest's chance to freestyle for a few moments after the gospel has been read). This week's topic? Vaginae.
Did you know that the Virgin Mary was a virgin? "She was a virgin prior to the conception of Our Lord. A virgin even after his birth, for through some miracle she was not defiled by the act of giving birth, her virginity remained intact. She chose to preserve her pure and virginal status ever after". Words bellowed in admiration by a celibate man in his mid seventies who has presumably never seen a vagina and thinks himself the better for it. It grates on me that the Catholic faith worships its leading lady for her intact hymen above all else.
Post Scriptum:
The plural of vagina is vaginae. Who knew? (not I)
And So This Is Christmas
At some stage today I plan to:
- Wash
- Make gingerbread men
- Walk the mutts
- Make a turkey and ham pie
- Reply to all the messages I've gotten over the last two days
- Go out, get festive, find a man under some mistletoe
Monday, December 24, 2007
Off He Goes Again
Crash Grandadicoot has plumped for alternative accommodation this Christmas; the plush environs of St James' Hospital. Saturday was awful, he was very very ill, thankfully things look to be improving. I got the call early on Saturday morning when I was still struggling with Friday night's excesses and spent the afternoon trying to hold back the tears and the snot bubbles. Hopsickles aren't good places to be when you're hungover; the smell of overcooked cabbage and contagious disease permeates everything and turns your already delicate stomach. My sister, meanwhile, was doing her best to hold in the snot bubbles herself and to entertain the 17 members of my dad's family who'd arrived in my parents' house for our Christmas kris kindle. Bad timing.
These things do seem to happen around Christmas time, but it may be no bad thing. I feel lucky that there is so much else going on to lift the spirits, so much love and support on hand, so many welcome distractions. We had another family gathering this afternoon, the one over which he usually presides, dickied up in his Santa suit (stuffed with pillows) to dole out the presents. I had expected a subdued affair but he had rallied so much by this morning that everyone was in buoyant humour, so we drank a toast to his health and made with the merry. Hopefully tomorrow's turkey and ham will go a ways to restoring him to health, and he'll be back to my nana soon. She'll miss him tonight.
These things do seem to happen around Christmas time, but it may be no bad thing. I feel lucky that there is so much else going on to lift the spirits, so much love and support on hand, so many welcome distractions. We had another family gathering this afternoon, the one over which he usually presides, dickied up in his Santa suit (stuffed with pillows) to dole out the presents. I had expected a subdued affair but he had rallied so much by this morning that everyone was in buoyant humour, so we drank a toast to his health and made with the merry. Hopefully tomorrow's turkey and ham will go a ways to restoring him to health, and he'll be back to my nana soon. She'll miss him tonight.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Diplomatic Incident Narrowly Avoided
Do NOT Want"I got her that thing I was telling you about" said the Swede in a stage whisper, nodding emphatically in my direction. "I got it in a different colour though". He left the room and the Leitrim Lady turned to me with an uncomfortable, apologetic look. "Your Christmas present... I really hope he hasn't. I told him not to. Fuck..."
The three of us were in the sitting room later when I got a text on my phone, from the Leitrim Lady (all of 3 feet away).
So the good news is he didn't buy you what he was originally thinking of, in fact he got you a nice present. His original thought was an inflatable man and when he told me he got what he was looking for only in a different colour I thought it was a black inflatable doll...
He's a lucky man to have such a sage advisor. Last year we had a Christmas dinner with a few friends and he insisted that I open my present first. I tore back the paper to reveal a gift box from La Senza and everybody held their breath while I lifted the lid (me thinking if this is a lace teddy and suspenders, this cunt is moving out) only to reveal a cuddly pink hot water bottle that say Huggable across the front.
Reminding me of my single status via a large wind-filled man effigy would not have gone down well. He skates on thin ice, does the Swede.
The three of us were in the sitting room later when I got a text on my phone, from the Leitrim Lady (all of 3 feet away).
So the good news is he didn't buy you what he was originally thinking of, in fact he got you a nice present. His original thought was an inflatable man and when he told me he got what he was looking for only in a different colour I thought it was a black inflatable doll...
He's a lucky man to have such a sage advisor. Last year we had a Christmas dinner with a few friends and he insisted that I open my present first. I tore back the paper to reveal a gift box from La Senza and everybody held their breath while I lifted the lid (me thinking if this is a lace teddy and suspenders, this cunt is moving out) only to reveal a cuddly pink hot water bottle that say Huggable across the front.
Reminding me of my single status via a large wind-filled man effigy would not have gone down well. He skates on thin ice, does the Swede.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Pat's Chat
I didn't get around to doing my Christmas shopping yesterday as planned, owing to the rain and the fact that I'm a lazy bitch when I want to be. I ventured out this morning though and managed to get about half of it done, which I think I deserve a medal for given the ferocity of the crowds on Dublin's streets. I was walking along Westmoreland St. laden with bags and ill humour when I saw Pat Ingoldsby sitting by the huge metal container inexplicably parked by the side of the road.
Pat's an Irish institution, a relic of my childhood. I love his poems, the humour and the humanity of them. Sometimes they make me feel very sad and worried for him. I've bought books from him a couple of times when he was having a bad day (I've never bought one in a shop). He was gruff and I was disappointed, which is funny as I don't expect any of the other authors I read to entertain me as I make a purchase. Today was a good day though, he greeted my hello with a beaming smile and chatted to me about his books. I asked him to write the dedication in Irish and asked him as Gaeilge, eliciting another smile. Tá Gaeilge álainn agat, a deir sé, Gaeilge ón chroí. I'd love to have stayed and talked with him for longer, maybe got him a cup of coffee and kept him company for a while. He has an extraordinary warmth and energy about him, an air of eccentricity and giddiness, and loneliness. I'd love to have stayed, but I didn't. I lacked the courage, afraid that I'd impose, or bore him. I regret it now; he's man enough to tell me to piss off home if he doesn't want me annoying him and who knows, he might have been gumming for a cup of coffee.
Tomorrow I'll post one of my favourite poems of Pat's. I'm too fuckin tired tonight though, after my interrupted night's sleep...
Pat's an Irish institution, a relic of my childhood. I love his poems, the humour and the humanity of them. Sometimes they make me feel very sad and worried for him. I've bought books from him a couple of times when he was having a bad day (I've never bought one in a shop). He was gruff and I was disappointed, which is funny as I don't expect any of the other authors I read to entertain me as I make a purchase. Today was a good day though, he greeted my hello with a beaming smile and chatted to me about his books. I asked him to write the dedication in Irish and asked him as Gaeilge, eliciting another smile. Tá Gaeilge álainn agat, a deir sé, Gaeilge ón chroí. I'd love to have stayed and talked with him for longer, maybe got him a cup of coffee and kept him company for a while. He has an extraordinary warmth and energy about him, an air of eccentricity and giddiness, and loneliness. I'd love to have stayed, but I didn't. I lacked the courage, afraid that I'd impose, or bore him. I regret it now; he's man enough to tell me to piss off home if he doesn't want me annoying him and who knows, he might have been gumming for a cup of coffee.
Tomorrow I'll post one of my favourite poems of Pat's. I'm too fuckin tired tonight though, after my interrupted night's sleep...
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Halp!
I'm taking my last day of annual leave tomorrow, to go shopping. Not the nice kind of shopping where I spend hours trying on things that I hope will make my boobs look big and my bum look small.* No. Christmas Shopping. Being a little bit anal, I've made a list. Being not quite anal enough, all I've managed to list are the people I'd like to buy for rather than what I'd like to get them.
It goes thus:
My Brother
The weight of an entire family's expectations rest on me coming up trumps here. Each of us (5, including my parents) buys for just one other, so in effect if I fuck this up, I ruin Christmas. It needs to be good. I'm at a loss. Likes: beer, the 1980s, girls. Dislikes: vouchers.
The Self-Appointed Head of Our Social Committee (friend)
The result of another Kris Kindle draw. She's got better looks, better taste and nicer stuff than anyone else I know. I once gave her a framed photo of us all and made her cry. She's wise to that one now though. I haven't a fucking clue what to get for her.
The Swede (flatmate)
Anything that needs to be assembled and has moving parts and/or sexual connotations is pretty much a winner. Suggestions welcome.
The Leitrim Lady (flatmate)
The voice of reason and conscience in our little household. She's incredibly thoughtful and keeps me sane, I want to get her something that shows how much I appreciate that. Our apartment has a no pets rule though, so a hamster's out.
Lady Muck (cousin, aged... um, 8?)
Yet another kris kindle. Something plasticky with sparkles? Cigarettes? I don't really know what 8 year olds are into these days. Again, suggestions welcome.
Miss Donegal (work colleague)
Soon to be Mrs, she would be happy with a hand-painted potato as a present. But that just makes me want to get her something really thoughtful.
The thoughts of traipsing around Dublin's soggy streets tomorrow are so appealing that I might just be tempted to stay at home and study. I know that if I put it off for much longer though that the shops will get busier and it'll be worse, much, much worse.
Pray for me... And make with the suggestions!
*I detest and refuse to wear either padded bras or control pants (even the name! fuck off!) so I'm eternally on the hunt for some magical garment with miraculous properties
It goes thus:
My Brother
The weight of an entire family's expectations rest on me coming up trumps here. Each of us (5, including my parents) buys for just one other, so in effect if I fuck this up, I ruin Christmas. It needs to be good. I'm at a loss. Likes: beer, the 1980s, girls. Dislikes: vouchers.
The Self-Appointed Head of Our Social Committee (friend)
The result of another Kris Kindle draw. She's got better looks, better taste and nicer stuff than anyone else I know. I once gave her a framed photo of us all and made her cry. She's wise to that one now though. I haven't a fucking clue what to get for her.
The Swede (flatmate)
Anything that needs to be assembled and has moving parts and/or sexual connotations is pretty much a winner. Suggestions welcome.
The Leitrim Lady (flatmate)
The voice of reason and conscience in our little household. She's incredibly thoughtful and keeps me sane, I want to get her something that shows how much I appreciate that. Our apartment has a no pets rule though, so a hamster's out.
Lady Muck (cousin, aged... um, 8?)
Yet another kris kindle. Something plasticky with sparkles? Cigarettes? I don't really know what 8 year olds are into these days. Again, suggestions welcome.
Miss Donegal (work colleague)
Soon to be Mrs, she would be happy with a hand-painted potato as a present. But that just makes me want to get her something really thoughtful.
The thoughts of traipsing around Dublin's soggy streets tomorrow are so appealing that I might just be tempted to stay at home and study. I know that if I put it off for much longer though that the shops will get busier and it'll be worse, much, much worse.
Pray for me... And make with the suggestions!
*I detest and refuse to wear either padded bras or control pants (even the name! fuck off!) so I'm eternally on the hunt for some magical garment with miraculous properties
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