Sunday, November 22, 2015

My Grandad. Tom O'Neill, Esquire.



My Grandad. Tom O'Neill. On his birthday today, my mind rewinds itself to magical times past. 

It may not have been his trade, but he had an amazing talent for woodwork and carpentry. He had a tool shed out the back, filled with all sorts of strange and wonderful looking objects, from which he'd conjure delight after delight, and gift after gift, sometimes practical, sometimes just sweet. 

He would spend hours designing, measuring, sawing, hammering and all the rest. And, he was always happy to stop and explain the whats and wherefores, even if we'd just skipped up to take a look - or mess with the sawdust.

When I was a kid, If he'd rolled a wooden spaceship out that shed door, I'd have believed we'd all be off and away to the moon. There was no doubt it wouldn't fly. No doubt at all. 

We're talking magic, after all...

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Feeling a little nutty!

National Cat Day!  

Consider adopting the best friend you'll ever have!

Sunday, May 01, 2011

And last, but certainly not least, in the way of family "fusterings" today...


Check out the photography of one of my very talented brothers. I'm hoping he'll upload some of his latest endeavors. I'm a groupie! :)

Pretty, and pretty special stuff!

It's Family Funday Sunday!


Here's the latest piece another of my cousins, Andrea Smith, wrote that was printed in the Independent today. She's a regular RSVP magazine and Sunday Indo., contributor, and she's a great, accessible and fun writer.

It'll probably make most sense to the Irish, living in Ireland (or those who keep up with such things on the home-front from abroad), as it's particular to the celebgrind there. Take a peek, and enjoy:

A twinkling of frost at showbiz funeral

Thataway--->!


My cousin (and Godson! Eek!) just started a blog. So, if you're into gaming, gadgets or burgeoning babies - check it out, and show him some love:

Just Enough Education To Perform...


Pressure's on now! Get clickety clackin' ;)

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Regrets


“Regrets”
By Donna F. Smith

I never had regrets. I lived my life working that old, well worn cliché.

The only time in my life that regret attacked me and made up for a whole life of “No regrets!” was when I was sorry I wasn’t independently wealthy or a magician, if we’re going for crazy talk. Not for the reasons most wish; big houses, jewelry, flashy cars. No. These weren’t even close to being the reasons.

My grandmother, my beloved “Nana” was diagnosed with lung cancer. I hate to even begin that sentence as a descriptor about this dear, little woman. The thief doesn’t define her life, or her passing from it. Cancer is a thief; a thief without honor. It steals the world away from people and laughs as it moves on to its next job.

Something I didn’t do. I had gone home to Dublin to spend time with my Nana, she was sick, but pretended she wasn’t. She didn’t want treatment; hated hospitals. She pretended to believe that “a bit of Vicks” would do the trick with the horrible chesty cough she had. I pretended to believe I agreed, and went to get some. Vicks couldn’t help her legs, though, so swollen and sore that she could stand for any length anymore. We pretended not to think about that. But she stood at the cooker, to make me and Grandad pancakes for pancake Tuesday; the last time she cooked. And she walked out to the gate, and stood there as my Mam and I drove off... and stood there 'til we couldn't see each other wave anymore. I cried buckets in that car, on the drive home, feeling I would never see her stand there again.

I had to leave to take a six week job back in LA, the rent needed to be paid, the cat needed to be fed, but I planned to get back to her straight afterwards. My granddad, mother and her sisters and the rest of the family tended to my Nana – at home - during her darkest days. Their darkest days. And mine – in sunny LA. I regret that something as stupid as money, or the lack of a magic wand (in my more hysteria driven moments), kept me from being with her and doing the same. My mother did what good, loving mothers do and tried to tell me not to worry, that there would be nothing that I could do. But there was. I could be with her. That kept rattling around in my head. My Nana and I had a special relationship. I made her laugh; she made me feel like I could do anything. She was the one person in my entire life that made me feel I could do no wrong. She just loved me every day and made sure that I knew I was special to her. To know me, is to know my Nana.

So I worked. I worked every day of those weeks, crying, inside and out, slipping to the bathroom during work hours to scream silently. The bathroom became my best friend, even in my own home.

Six weeks passed. They were the longest, hardest forty two days of my life. On the one hand, I wanted them to fly by so I could go home again; on the other, I didn’t want time to tick by on my Nana. I didn’t know which way was up.

The ringing of the phone at 4am woke me on what was my last day on the job. Before I even picked it up, I knew. My poor mother. The worst call she had ever made. Simple words, “I have some bad news, love…” and all my throat would let me say was “Oh.” The very last day of the job. A day late and a dollar short. Did I ever get that one now.

I can say, with hand on heart, that I truly have never recovered. To love so much, is to lose so much.

This monumental little woman. This woman, my Nana. I will miss her essence and complete and utter unconditional love, each and every day of my life - well past the day I can't stand or wave either.

For all the pain, I don't regret loving her the way I do.

More: writerly whimsy: "Those who wish to sing always find a song"

Friday, November 12, 2010

"Ye never know yer luck in the big City"


It would be my Da's birthday today. The Honorable John (Don) Smith. A man of limitless caring, generosity of spirit, and pocket; a big unjudgemental heart - and the owner of the very best type of sense of humour. A wicked jig, swift hand and behind-the-bike-shed titter were also his friends.

A million things remind me of him; these count as a few - the sound of a diesel van, witnessing goodwill, and social, chatty strangers. Hard, hard workers - and someone being nosy through their curtains! Shaving brushes, thick eyebrows, my brothers. My Mam, my Nana. And myself. I am his "daughter runnin' water" and always will be.

"Ah, sure, what are you going to do?" "Moses said "Pick up thy bed and walk!" ("It was Lazarus, Don!," says my Ma for the millionth time. And he laughed. That laugh. With that twinkle. "I'm handsome as ever." (As he looked in the mirror, slickin' down his eyebrows). "Ye little beaut." (When we were particularly crafty or "swifty"-pulling). "Sharden Farrdell" (to my life-long friend, Sharon (Shanny) Farrell - :)). "Yer as ugly as sin." (Ha! To all, but especially to Gareth, his doppelganger). "You just never know your luck in the big City." (When you had hope... when you had reason to have hope. And he always chose to.)

We will always be lucky, because of him.

My Da was, and is, love - and just such great craic. If we can fly his particular type of flag, even a fraction as high, we're doing alright.

I just really, really miss him.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

The Art of Sweaty Procrastination


There are a variety of activities one can attempt when you find yourself in residence on the surface of the Sun, or the photosphere, as it were. Some are possible, some are not. Below is a list of things, in no particular order, that I failed at today:

1. Grocery Shopping: I drag my poor cat in from her cool(ish), comfortable, shady spot under her favourite bush. She's not happy. As I leave and throw a glance back to the window, she's sitting looking out at me. If those walls could talk. This doesn't bode well for later. I hop in the truck and head to Trader Joe's. I blast the air conditioning and all is well. I get to Trader Joe's and the parking lot is a zoo. People are honking and there are a lot of red, sweaty faces. I think about cutting off a car that's trying to cut me off, but I see it's my "differently-abled" neighbor, so I don't for those two reasons. I finally park and walk inside. Even walking as slowly as I did, she can't catch up. I know this, and only feel a little bad today. The queues - all eight of them - are a mile long. Eff you, Trader Joe's, for being so delectable. This is what I get for being uncharitable. I turn on my heel and head back to the car. Can't be arsed. Homeward bound. It's friggin' hot today.

2. Clean Bathroom: By clean bathroom, I mean wash the floor. Properly. This means not skirting the mop half-heartedly around the bits you can see. It means moving everything out. Kitty litter box, twice-my-height credenza, bin. All the bits and bobs. I take a crack at it. I start putting things in the bath. Feel good about this one. Pushed the credenza and half the crap falls onto the floor. Avalanche. I fling all the shiz in a half-arsed manner into the bath. I'm feeling less sure about this. My bathroom's teeny and it's starting to feel like an oven. I feel like I want to give up 'til later. So I do. I leave everything and promise the air I'll come back when it's cooler. Just a bit later on. It's just too hot.

3. Bike Ride: My bike is one of three that are chained to my porch railing. My bike is the one that's hardest to get to. After standing in the blaring, glaring sun for 20 minutes trying to remember the combination of one of the two locks, I finally crack it. Then I take a break, mentally gearing (no pun intended) for: - I then hack away at the jungle that had grown through the chains and freedom! Two bikes fall on top of me. That hurt. I finally reach my bike - both tires flat. I oil up the chain and brakes - and half wheel, half drag it around the corner to the gas station to pump 'em up. Success. I hop on and and cycle the few feet back. I hop off and bang my ankle against a pedal. That hurt too. I lock it up to the railing again, already on my way to forgetting the combination. It's just too hot.

4. Go to the Beach: Just no.

5. Watch Telly: Taking the lazy, slug-like way out, I decide to watch some On-Demand. I plop down on the couch. Horror strikes. Where's the remote? I stretch along the couch to as far as my right arm goes (which, being almost Carnie-Folk short, is really not that far). I stretch along under the cushions. And then repeat with the left. I get a sinking feeling. No telly for me.


6. Pet Lois: I try to entice my cat to sit on the couch beside me. I make a few, lazy, high and low-pitched 'come here' noises. I pat the sofa and say things like "Come on, Lois-Pois" and "Up here, up here." After thinking about it for a few minutes, probably ten, she jumps up. I lay my head back against the cushions and tickle her ears. All okay so far. This sort of thing is often touch and go with her. As I start to pet her noggin and back, and ponder the benefits of this activity, and the correlation of same to the lowering of the blood pressure, she quietly turns her head and sinks the teeth she has left, into my hand. Not enough to hurt, but it's a warning for me to not get too crazy. Who am I, Lenny? This, I know, is also payback for making her come inside earlier. See? If she could talk, she'd say "It's friggin' hot." Oh, and "You suck." That would be the translation. She gives me the hairy eyeball for good measure. Nice.

7. Ceiling Fan Maintenance: After Lois jumps down, I point my eyes heaven-ward and attempt full chagrin. As I'm not religious in the slightest, that being an absolute understatement, I catch sight of the dust on the blades that need cleaning. That's not going to happen, of course. But in this moment, I wonder if the fan is spinning in the right direction. The spinning doesn't seem to be doing much cooling. Is the switch supposed to be up or down? It's Autumn yes, but feels like Hades Summer home, so which is it? This might be something. I reach for my laptop, which is, incidentally, within pipsqueak arm's length, and do a quick search. I am educated! Up for Winter, down for Summer. I have a vague recollection I've read this before. In fact, truth be told, I google this every year. However, I uncover a most excellent way of never having to search for this again. Up for North, down for South. Hurray! I feel so accomplished. I'm still not cleaning the blades today though. And it's too hot to change the direction of the switch right now. But when it's cooler, and I can drag a chair under it so I can reach, I'll absolutely know which way it's supposed to go. You're very welcome.

8. Take a Shower: It's just not happening. See #2.

9. Read a Book: To belabour the point even further, it's just too hot to move. Let's just get this out of the way right now; my bookshelf is too far away. Brainwave. I open up my iBook app., and read the 20 page sample of Russell Brand's "My Booky Wook." I giggle a bit. Well there you go, that was ten minutes of external inactivity, apart from giggling and jiggling; that should count for something. I feel like I might want to read the whole thing, but I like actual books. Booky wooks. I like pages. I like flipping. Real flipping where you can feel a draught. It's too hot to go to Barnes and Noble. Foiled again.

10. Taking the Lazy Over-heated Way Out to 10: This took a lot of energy -

















And tomorrow's supposed to be hotter. Wonder if I should call in sick? Wait, we have air conditioning at work. Done.

Post Scriptum: Ooh, here's my remote!

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Sighing and Oy Veying - with Jazz Hands


I'm full of secrets these days. Bloated.

I tell you, it's tough being me. I say that with only half my tongue in my cheek. And I know! It's tough being me for more than the usual, obvious and rudimentary reasons. I know. I can hear the tittering from here.

Anyway, these secrets. Some are of the most delicious and excellent kind. Some are not. Some are just the way it is. Some make me want to bust a gut; some, make me want to smoke a cigarette, or full-on carton.

Regardless, I am a very, very good keeper of special and precious-to-people stuff. People tell me things, or I happen to guess. I'm a good guesser. And although I have never, ever laid claim to having even one well-developed muscle in my entire body, I have one really solid shoulder. Two, actually.

I don't know what it is. I think, that despite me going through my day with a seemingly Pollock-painting like personality, I am ultimately very, very private and protective of self and the things that mean the most to me - and those I love. Maybe people who consider me a friend, inherently sense this about me. Of the people I consider friends, there are but a couple that I tell almost everything to. There are none that hear it all. That sounds awful, but it has nothing to do with my trust in them, and much to do with the way I'm built. It's a good thing they're not like me, because I would torment the living daylights out of them. Bugger it out of 'em. All's not fair. For my part, I can be expansive and encompassing, and soft and broad. And short-fused, prickly and maddeningly elusive. I'm so glad these friends like me anyway; and I'm so lucky that I get to love them.

I had a really good conversation recently with a friend. We talked about our pasts and experiences, and loves, good and otherwise - and although I pride myself on my stealthy brass band maneuverings, he noted that he felt I was quite guarded with my heart. I was a little taken aback, as in that moment, I had been somewhat exposed as a baton wielding fraud, and he, as quite the perceptive chap. At the time, although surprised, I hadn't minded so much, as is the case with that good ol' in vino veritas; but as the wine wore off, the truth part felt too naked and known. To the listener, probably no big deal; one man's trash is another man's treasure, or vice-versa. There are probably a lot more people like me than I'm lead to believe. Than I would know.

I love people. Love people watching, and observing. I love that we never really quite know what's going on behind closed doors. Behind the curtains. Sometimes beneath, there are bells and whistles and sometimes, there might just be some surprises and secrets. The good, quiet kind - if we're really, really fortunate. Sometimes when the shades are pulled open, and the light lands and dances on those darker nooks and crannies, the person standing holding the sash somehow recognizes everything they see. I like that idea.

Well, it's that time. Late enough. Blinds closed. Curtains drawn again. And I realize I've lied already. Maybe more than once. The one I will admit to: there is, after all, someone who knows everything. My cat. And she's not talking. I think.

Oh, and she wrote this, not me. She just can't type. Or so it would seem. She's a crafty one, that moggy. She just never leaves those curtains alone. And that might not be a bad thing after all.

Sunday, August 08, 2010

It Goes A Little Suh-im Like This...


A Friday evening, full of promise. End of week, and pregnant with possibility.

It's a story as old as time. There once was an empty stomach...

You see, you take some alcohol... You open gullet. You swallow said alcohol.

You open mouth again. You repeat. Several times. I mentioned empty stomach.

You open mouth - to speak. Neurons misfire. Words sound drastically different upon exit, than inside head.

Food? Possibly. Although, too late. Collateral Damage. Done.

More words.

Bed.

Wake up. World is dark and has a Tim Burtonesque tinge. Mouth tastes like keys. Cat appears much, MUCH bigger than I remember. She Hakuna Matata's around the place. Her paws are loud. And she looks at me like I'm dinner.

Cursing ensues. The really bad kind.

Leave home. Two very blond kids speak loudly in a language I have never heard, and jump all over my body. They seem merciless. And rotten. Even their hugs and kisses are evil.

I curse inside my head. Outside. I appear focused on too much blond. Too bright.

Tummy is on a cruise to the Bahamas. From Australia.

Meet usually soft-spoken friend - who is loud and boisterous this day, in a zen-like, although today, loud and clanky restaurant. Eat some rocks and drink loud, Niagara Falls water.

Home. Friend. Chitchat. Friend creaks loudly on cushions made of tin foil and is wearing rocks for shoes.

Bed.

Curse.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Doctors Without Borders in Haiti

They do such great work. Doctors Without Borders has lost their three hospitals in Haiti to this earthquake. Please help these amazing men and women help the people in Haiti struggling to survive.

The link directly below will take you to a donations page. Please imagine if it was your family and friends suffering such devastation in such a way right now. It doesn't bear thinking about. So, if you haven't managed to donate in any way as of yet, and I'm sure many of you have, please consider Doctors Without Borders and/or Yele.org (details in my post from yesterday).

Doctors without Borders - Donations to help in Haiti

Let's get cracking and help in any way we can. Every penny counts.

Thanks.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Please Donate to the Yele Haiti Earthquake Relief Fund


Please donate to the Haiti Earthquake Relief Fund. Even if if you can only manage a dollar or two, or a couple of Euro... Every penny will help. It's a very desperate situation. Those poor, poor people. :(

Yele Haiti Earthquake Relief Fund

And direct link below to donate via internet or text message:

Donate

Let's do what we can...

Monday, November 09, 2009

The Truest Definition of Love


Our hearts are broken.

Where can we possibly begin?

This man, John “Don” Smith, although small of stature, possessed the heart of a giant. He had an iron will, but always that feather-soft heart, and his kind and happy nature rippled outwards endlessly and touched everyone he met.

He spread goodwill wherever the day – or his van – took him and he greeted everyone, new friend and old, with a cheerful smile and caring interest – and always a joke and a laugh. A genuine man, he never forgot a name, face or a story. To all these people, he was a friend. To us, his lucky, lucky loved ones, he was and still is our everything.

He was filled to the brim with unconditional love for us and even as we, his children, grew up, he continued to love and care for us as if we were still his little kids he chased around and tickled and pulled silly faces for and protected and tried to slip ‘a few bob’ to, even when we didn’t need it and he didn’t really have it. Completely and utterly selfless. He just wouldn’t take no for an answer. Through our adulthood, he continued to soothe our wounds, those both on the surface and buried deep. He filled his time with loving us and never wavered in his pride of us, even when we made mistakes, even in those times when we may not have deserved it. He redefined the true meaning of what it is to be a father, and we feel indescribably rich because of this.

He loved our Mam, right up to this past Wednesday, in the same delighting and romantic way, as he did the day he first spotted her at a football match forty-four years ago. He said just this past week, that when she kissed him, it felt the same as it had when they had first met; that feeling just never wavered. Over and over, he made sure that she and everyone around her knew that she was his rock. And she was. And he was hers. A very amazing and fortunate twosome.

He loved to make us laugh with his funny asides, and even funnier two-step, and was always the bright moment in any shade of grey day. He never complained; something to aspire to. He turned every challenge into his almost patented ‘play it by ear’ mentality. Turning every negative into a positive. This is why today is so hard. If he were here, he would be the one cheering us up, making it alright and keeping us bolstered. That was our Da. He taught us the important things in life by example; manners, forethought and caring for others through his goodwill and positive, shining attitude and tenacious nature. Fiercely protective, we only ever really saw him angry or upset when one of us he loved was slighted or hurt in any way. He taught us to work hard and play fair. To treat people well, as we’d wish to be treated, and to never take anything for granted – to be gracious. To have a sense of humor - and never forget to laugh at ourselves. To be grateful. He also taught us to play cards, snooker and dominoes. He taught us well, but beat us at our own game every time; a life lesson in and of itself. We carry him within us and will take these things wherever we go and in whatever we do, never doubting it will help make us become better and better human beings each and every step of the way.

Always a Gent, always kind and generous, always loving us. If he were here today, he would be so, so happy and so grateful to see you all, and being the very humble man that he was, so surprised to discover that he was loved to such an extent by so many.

We are bereft… and at this exceedingly hard time, when the sadness for us is just too much to bear, and in those all too frequent and wrenchingly painful moments where his absence washes over us, drowning us in what feels like a shower of stones, somewhere inside we still recognize that these memories will bring us untold comfort and begin refilling this crippling emptiness in our hearts. The light that has disappeared from us will peek through the cracks and waves. It will take a different form, but it will buoy us and push us back up to the surface. And we’ll eventually be able to breathe - and even truly laugh again.

So we will remember him dancing and singing and joking and loving us. And we will never, ever forget the mischievous twinkle in those eyes, in that face of his, that we love so dearly. We truly wish everyone in the world was as lucky as we know we are.

Thank you so very, very much for being here with us, whether near or from far away, and for the kindnesses you’ve all shown. Take care and know you each held a very special place in that heart of his. After all, he had more than plenty of room in there for everyone.

Much love,

Don’s family
October 10, 2009

Friday, August 14, 2009

A Site for Sore Eyes


Check out this link, bathe - in fact dive, cannonball, splash around or just float, in the beauty of these photos. And while you're at it, if you'd be so kind, please take a moment to vote for this great photographer:

PlanetPlumb by Kristin L. Griffin

Only one week of voting left!

Grassy Ass! :)

Sunday, August 09, 2009

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Mission Possible

There'll be a lot of happy tears tonight! Ah, Bill.

Sunday, August 02, 2009

The Spice of Life


It's been quite a while since I've written anything. Sorta by accident, kinda by design.

I had wondered, if I just didn't write anything, anymore, would I care? I've come to the conclusion that, like drugs for some and cheese for me, the yen to sit down and scribble is something I apparently can't escape. If I didn't laugh, I'd cry. Maybe.

I've sat down this morning, with not much in mind. Well, there's always something rattling around in there, but I didn't have my usual "ah, that's what I'll post about" feeling. Truth be told, I'm bored. Too tired and lazy to do the mundane necessities today, so for once, my procrastination has sent me to write. Quite the conundrum, as it's usually the other way around. So, again, if I meander in my ramblings, wander off track and get caught in the nettles, just indulge me and leave me there with a stinging bum.

Hmm, what to write... I'm surrounded by friends, who, along with suffering their 9 to 5s, harbour secret and not so secret desires to fulfill their lives with something else. Not more, per se, just well, else. Something, that if we could wave a magic wand, our lives would be transformed. Not that their lives - or mine - for that matter, are bad at all. It's just that something that inspires you, lights you up from the inside and gleams in your eyes when you talk about it. The promise that you'll do 'it' someday. Some day we won't be slave to 'the man'. But there'll always be a man. He may not have you in an office for eight hours a day, but he's still there. However, I'd take it. And laugh and laugh. Even more than is usual for me.

My myriad family members, friends and acquaintances are a melting pot of talent just waiting for a different type of man to transport them to another realm. Some day your beautiful photos will hang in galleries worldwide. They will see what I see. Some day your band will be famous. Some day, my travelling friend, you'll sell that piece. Some day, you'll sing more than Karaoke. Some day, a renowned graphic designer! Some day, you'll be costumer to great directors. Some day, my funny friend, you will swap statistics for sitcoms. Some day, you'll make a dent with that charity. Some day, your lovely movies will be loved by more than us! Some day you can give your family its every desire. Some day. Done! Don't you wish it was that easy? Or would easy be too much? I used to work with a guy, very funny guy, who when we used to talk about winning the lottery, selling a script, whatever and inevitably it would culminate in us "rolling in it", some of us would talk about how it absolutely wouldn't 'change' us. He would look us straight in the eye and say "I'll be honest. I'd be the biggest asshole ever. The biggest dick you'd ever meet." And we'd laugh and roll. Only partially because we knew it would probably be absolutely true. Honest.

But here we are today. Plugging away to make the necessities of life. Stringing it all together. Bills and worries and day-to-day grind, like the majority of humans. I liken that chain to those paper dolls we used to cut out as kids. I never liked them all the same, so would color and feature each one differently. That's how I see life. The chain that connects family and friends, all different. I see my friends and loved ones dangling on those paper strings, some smiling, some scowling, some sad, but give 'em a good shake and they dance. And they make my day.

The best thing you can do for yourself is surround yourself with great friends and family. You can't help but laugh and enjoy the moments. I rank humour and laughter, particularly with those you care about, to be of the utmost importance. To stop and just laugh. It's what keeps us all going when those paper dragons are snapping at our heels. It's amazing how much more we can take, with friends around to make you laugh and push you on, and vice-versa, when life spoons on the absurd. When there are things to cry about. It's certainly not always 'the hills are alive' and all that all the time, but as long as there's a pulse in that mound...

I've long known too, that humor can take you far, or at the very least, a couple of steps upwind of the whip. I've often been told that I get away with murder because of my, shall we say, turn of phrase. I would probably tend to agree, as there's no other possible explanation, it seems. I like to be straight and honest. Maybe Oscar Wilde had something with his "If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they'll kill you" observation. There definitely might be something to that one, in light of the fact that I'm still ticking.

At this point, I'll reference him again, and agree: "I'm not young enough to know everything", and I'll add: but not too young not to know when I have it really good. Sometimes, that knowledge makes me laugh.

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Working Week



Giddy-up Tuesday
Thursday soon
before we know it
Sunday noon

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Support The Historic Bill to End Canada's Commercial Seal Hunt


Please follow the link to read about and support the end to the needless, heartless and cruel treatment involved in the Canadian Seal Hunt:

Stop Seal Hunting

Please... It only takes a couple of minutes. Those defenseless animals have nobody but us to speak up for them.

Thanks.

Friday, February 06, 2009

How d'ya like dem apples?



I e-filed my taxes last week and tonight I decided, ah, seems like a rainy day thing to do, I'll take a look to see when I should expect the refund.

I put in the required information and well, here's the message I received:

****


Check Your Refund Status - Result

Your return has been received and processed, however, your refund cannot be issued at this time.

Due to the state’s persistent cash and budget problems, the State Controller has directed FTB to stop sending refund requests to the State Controller’s Office for payment. Refund payments will resume when the State Controller indicates there is enough cash available to make refund payments.

****

Now, I wonder if I owed and used the same excuse would I avoid penalties and interest up the wazoo and/or the big house? Hmmm. I'm guessing nope.

Go try for yourself at the link below... it's a fun little game to amuse yourselves while you rub your non-existent pennies together. Go on, it'll be fun, tons of fun - and best of all, it's free!

https://webapp.ftb.ca.gov/Refund/Login.aspx

Enjoy. You can thank me with IOU flowers.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Brain on the Lam!


I woke up at 4am this morning. Now, to people who know me, this is not all that unusual. I'm also one of those weird, unfortunates, who, once awake, is AWAKE!

For some unknown reason, though, I woke up with a story in my head; something that, if I actually got it down on paper, just might be of interest to my little nephew.

I opened my eyes, looked at the clock in despair and then got fueled up with the idea that at least I could fill my time with something. Of course, I was starving, so I had to have my breakfast. After gobbling in a way you can only do alone, I sat down, with computer and pad in front of me - so there would be no excuses.

I sat poised, pen in hand, and I thought. I thought about my grocery list, my bushy eyebrows that need an appointment with the weed whacker; my laundry, my family, my friends, my bike, the weather... the list goes on. I did the dishes, fed my cat, called home, surfed the web and sat down again. 9am, really?

I decided to move location - I took my pad and pen and went from the couch to my table and chairs in the sun outside. I wrote a few lines and then over the next ten minutes, differing neighbours said the following - in no particular order: "Hello!" "Hey" "Hey D, you don't have to write me love letters, just tell me!" "Hey" "The government knows there's Martians, you know" "Happy King Day!" "You got a hair cut!" "My cat is beautiful, no?" "You smell nice" "Hello" and "It's a pink day, yes?"

Now, I'm quite the sociable "Hiya, howya doin'" type of person, but I had a pen and paper in hand and I looked severely constipated. Constipated, people!

Well meaning as it (mostly) all is, I came back inside.

I have now forgotten what I wanted to get at the grocery store, have made an eyebrow appointment for later this week and a snack sounds good. NO!

Oh crap, mocking is catching. My brain is actually costive now. It's also making a weird clicking noise.

Okay, back to it...

But you know, before I make my nephew slay any dragons, get swallowed whole by his Nintendo DS or steal any treasure, I'll just make a quick cup of coffee first.

Monday, December 29, 2008

Loots' View


Check out this gallery of beautiful photos taken by a great friend of mine. I've put a permanent (and direct) link on the right sidebar, but it can be found here:

Planet Plum

Enjoy :)

Saturday, October 11, 2008

All Fall Down

I usually love this time of year here. If you happen to be out and about when the sun goes down or are up just after the birds, there's that slight nip in the air that has me longing for my hat and scarf and the need for hot chocolate and intermittent use of my windscreen wipers.

It was a really blustery night last night. This morning there are half brown leaves, mixed with the green all over the place and this out-of-nowhere wind has managed to push stuff under cars, into our gutters and doorways, and before it's done with us, will most likely try to wreak havoc on our roads and pathways. Although it happens all around us, at different times everywhere in the world, it takes us by surprise when it's our turn. It appears and announces itself, with little advance warning. But it shouts its arrival.

I think the wind tossed around last night almost as much as I did. But it's sunny right now. This, for me, is a welcome respite, because it always brings the promise that things never stay the same. That things will change again in time.

I love the sun and heat, but I know the landscape moves. It's a sight for sore eyes. So, as it gets cooler, we'll root out our scarves and hats, our defenses against the elements, and make our way through this change. Then, just as we're tired of it and hoping for warmer weather, it'll peak over the horizon bit by bit and warm us up again.

It's only the beginning of this season, though, and no doubt it'll get colder before it moves again. But as we always do, we'll hold hands going over the icy patches and point out to warn each other about the slippery spots. We'll pull on our boots and trudge through when it reaches our knees. We'll wrap ourselves up in every stitch of warm stuff we have between us.

That's why right now, I'm digging in every drawer I have; to keep even just one step ahead of the weather man.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Unfortunately... it sometimes does take a Village.

Any abuse, child, marital, animal, familial, stranger to stranger - is unacceptable.

In my opinion, whether you're white, black, pink or purple or a combination of all - whether they're white, black, pink or purple - or any combination - there's no excuse. Living where I live I've seen every shade of people treat their kids very well, and very badly. I've also seen white Irish kids being beaten up and down stairs and up and down streets.

It happens in all cultures and all countries. Below is just one of those such incidents - one of too many that happens in our own backyard; in a home, in a town, in a country somewhere - where a type of kitchen martial law rules and there are usually no repercussions to the terrorist, yes terrorist, except for down the road when the broken hearted beaten child not always, but often, is destined to repeat the sins of the father, as it were - or mother and sister, as is in this case. And in between there's no real childhood, no true happiness and joy - just pain and sadness and betrayal and more confused hatred preparing to spew forth into the world. It's one circle of life that has to stop going 'round.

Here's an article that appeared in the Sunday Independent, an Irish newspaper, by my favorite journalist - Andrea Smith:

The Beating of a Child is not acceptable in any culture - by Andrea Smith

Thanks Andrea, for shining light where this ugly aspect of life everywhere lives. Although worldwide, it holds the same address - that dark corner. And thanks for having the courage of your convictions. Some child somewhere thanks you too.

Two Daddies

"Won't remember" Pfft! Oh ye of little faith...

Don't sniffle... don't do it ;)



Unrelated: I opened the fridge door on my face this morning. How's that for a wake me up?! Brains to burn, I tell ye.

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

"A friend hears the song in my heart and sings it to me when my memory fails" ~Anonymous


It's been a while.

Quite a bit has happened lately, it seems, in mine and friends lives. Happy times, sad times.

Isn't it strange and disconcerting and really hard sometimes, how, when something wonderful happens in your life, it can all of a sudden be piggybacked with something equally as sad. And sometimes, it feels like some unseen entity is just sitting there waiting to flip the coin on you. It's said you have to take the bad with the good, but why? Who made that rule up? Whoever it was needed a good kick in the tuchus. I've never been any good with rules anyway.

Of course, there are those rare lucky times when it's all happy happy, joy joy and I wish that were the case for a couple of people I hold very dear, but it's not.

Speaking for myself, I know I have a tendency to bury myself away and go into hibernation to lick my wounds and deal with my inner hurt and turmoil (and I know, I know, I don't always take my own advice,) but of all people, I understand that need in others. Having said that, I've always been better at looking after, than being looked after. My family will attest to that. But there comes a time where we just have to give in and just take it. Accept it. And say thanks. I love my family and my family loves me. And they're true, real friends. I'm very, very lucky.

And so we have friendship. The good thing about real, true friends is that they become another kind of family. They can take on any shape you need to shove that square or triangle into. You can cry, yell, laugh, whine, ignore or just have no words, but no matter the shape, it miraculously just seems to fit. And just so you know, I'm trisquarcirculangular. And I'm here. And I can be there in no time at all.

Isn't that what family is for?

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

It's not just about the meat...

Cows and Chickens are treated just as badly, if not worse, while being 'farmed' for their milk and eggs as they are, along with pigs and fish, for their meat.

And while any effort is to be applauded - absolutely every effort and consideration helps - don't let the mythical terms like 'cage free' or 'free range' - or even, sometimes, 'organic' - fool you. Yes, those are better options... but these farms get around these terms in a myriad of ways. For instance "Cage Free" or "Free Range" oftentimes just means more, a lot more - go into a space that's not "technically" a cage - they're all just piled in together into a bigger 'cage' or area. Loopholes upon loopholes.



Please take a moment to click on this link:

www.aldf.org/mendes/

...and please, please sign the petition - it only takes a few seconds:

Petition

Me and all the little maltreated calves, at least on this dairy farm in California, will be forever grateful for your kindness.

Here's some of the press (and those in the US, please try not to buy dairy products from those companies who do business with this place):

Unfortunately, just one of many of these types of places...

It's always best to do your research - if not only for animals, for your health and knowing just what you're putting into your body. Recently here there was an exposé done on a farm in California (more info here) about its treatment of cows - and although these cows couldn't walk to their own slaughter (a no-no by law) - the workers used all manner of means - waterboarding, pushing them with diggers and shocking them - while they lay collapsed on the ground - to get them (possibly sick and diseased cows) by hook or by crook, right onto your dinnerplate.

I swear... Factory Farming makes me sick and sad all at the same time. Everyone and everything with the capacity to feel, deserves some semblance of caring and respect.

By all means, enjoy your choice of food or dairy product - we all have that right - but please, please, please check the labels, do a little research and if you can afford it, buy the organic option. Just do what you can do, what you're comfortable with or what's realistic to you personally; every little thing helps - even just informing yourself and being aware. Try even just one day a week - or month - eating vegetarian or vegan - it's amazing what it can do for your health and energy level, the animals and the environment.

Food for thought - my brother informed me that, apparently in Ireland, something like 75% of "Irish Chicken" sold in Ireland is not from Ireland at all.

Yes.

Read Labels. Research. It will make a difference to us and the animals.

Anyway... thanks. I'm tired. Goodnight.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

"Herdlerpress - Read all about it!!!"

Or, not!

I submitted a piece to the LA Times (I wanted to fail BIG!) late last week - and I got my first rejection e-mail today. Woo Hooooo!!!



As I hadn't expected to hear anything, except maybe their collective laughter of disbelief echoing all the way to the beach from downtown, this is going in my plus column.

Of course, the speed at which they replied could be taken a couple of ways. However, I'll choose door number 2 - and say, hey, at least they didn't leave me hangin'!

Be afraid, be very afraid... I'll keep pluggin' away like the hapless hack I am!

:)

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Extra, Extra! Hump Day Round-Up!


My brother, Stephen, is my favorite photographer. The (amount of) photos on his site really don't do his talent its full justice... so I'm hoping that this will push him to put up more - some heretofore hidden gems that are my absolute favorites. I usually feature a different photo by Stephen every week or two on this page (top and to the right) to pretty up the joint. You can get just a further taste of how he sees the world through his lense, here:
Shutterblography

My cousin, Andrea Smith, is a music publicist and freelance features writer (Go Andrea!!). Andrea regularly contributes pieces to the Sunday Independent (for those who don't know, that's an Irish newspaper). She's a lot of fun and her honest humor, compassion and individuality shows through in her writing. Check out some of her work here:
Andrea Smith

Both of the above links are permanently featured in the right hand column, over there above the clocks ----->

For anyone reading my Adventures In Chairs - you'll be happy to know that it's gone. G.O.N.E. gone! Hooray! Farewell, old thorn in my side. I hardly knew ye :)

And last, but not least, a BIG (woo hoo!!!) congratulations goes out to my friend, Sharon F. She's on her way to obtaining her doctorate - a PhD in Criminal Psychology. She's been accepted to every institution to which she applied (I won't mention the institution I feel she really belongs in ;) ) - so far, it's 8 for 8! She makes my heart swell with pride - I know, I know... I'll stop embarrassing myself ;)

I'm going to have so much fun with the ol' "Is there a doctor in the house?" gag. Tee hee.

Monday, March 03, 2008

Some Mothers Do 'ave 'em...

Unlike here in the US, it was Mothers' Day in Ireland, and other parts of the world, yesterday.

The dictionary definition of a mother:
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1) - Cite This Source - Share This
moth·er1 /ˈmʌðər/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[muhth-er] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
–noun
1. a female parent.
2. (often initial capital letter) one's female parent.
3. a mother-in-law, stepmother, or adoptive mother.
4. a term of address for a female parent or a woman having or regarded as having the status, function, or authority of a female parent.
5. a term of familiar address for an old or elderly woman.
6. mother superior.
7. a woman exercising control, influence, or authority like that of a mother: to be a mother to someone.
8. the qualities characteristic of a mother, as maternal affection: It is the mother in her showing itself.
9. something or someone that gives rise to or exercises protecting care over something else; origin or source.
10. (in disc recording) a mold from which stampers are made.
–adjective
11. being a mother: a mother bird.
12. of, pertaining to, or characteristic of a mother: mother love.
13. derived from or as if from one's mother; native: his mother culture.
14. bearing a relation like that of a mother, as in being the origin, source, or protector: the mother company and its affiliates; the mother computer and its network of terminals.
–verb (used with object)
15. to be the mother of; give origin or rise to.
16. to acknowledge oneself the author of; assume as one's own.
17. to care for or protect like a mother; act maternally toward.
–verb (used without object)
18. to perform the tasks or duties of a female parent; act maternally: a woman with a need to mother.
—Idiom
19. mother of all, the greatest or most notable example of: the mother of all mystery novels.


I'd had great intentions of writing this and posting it yesterday, but it happened to be the one weekend when I had friends in town and we were constantly on the move; the one day when the mother (or Mudder!) who deserves it most in the world, who deserves to have accolades and devotions up the wazoo, privately and publicly laid at her feet, didn't, from me. And that just shows you. Kids!

Most mothers love their children. Most mothers will make sacrifice after sacrifice for their young, doing everything they can to ensure their happiness and ensure their stealthy journey towards that time when kids think they know better. Some mothers, unfortunately for their little children, and to the detriment of the adults those children become, don't sacrifice at all, but today is a day to celebrate the good ones. They do it all.

Most mothers wouldn't consider what they do for us, through love, as a sacrifice and most of us children don't realize what their love means and just what it takes. When we’re children, it’s a bit like the wizard behind the curtain – we don’t see the magic and miracles, the sheer force of will, the cranking and creaking of the pulleys and chains behind the drapes. We don’t see how what we have was come by. At the time, all we see is what we’ve got.

I think it was George Bernard Shaw who said “Youth is wasted on the young,” and how right he was. The older we get the more we realize just what our mothers have done for us and just how much personal sacrifice and loving is involved, if a mother is worth her salt – our scratched knees, boinked noggins and twisted ankles hurt them more than us; what panic and terror it conjures up in their minds, us wandering off the road (or going to "the forest") without telling them, for ‘it was only ten minutes’; how our slights and hurts we feel from teachers or other kids at school, make them, normally peace loving people, want to pounce and scratch at the offenders like a lioness protecting her cubs - and what we, as we blindly trample our way into our teen years, with nary a look back (but usually with a cheeky reply), can do to their hearts. And that sting they feel, when we seem to want to spend time with anyone else but them.

Some mothers (along with the superstar dads, of which I have one) will never have new clothes or get their hair done, so that we can have our red typewriters, books or skates, video games and bikes. And as we become teens, they will continue to do the same, just so we can, frivolously, attend the school disco wearing something that's in fashion. And they're just happy that we're happy. It goes on and on, repeatedly, as we hungrily eyeball our adulthood.

And as we reach that milestone, you would think it would stop there; for some mothers, it does. Some mothers feel that when their kids reach the age of eighteen (if not earlier), their job as a parent is done. Some mothers.

Then there are those few mothers who will continue to show their love as if time has stood still, as if not a moment has passed since the day they brought you into the world. A few mothers will hug you and try to comfort you, even when you elbow them away, thinking you’re too old for that. A few mothers will scan your brain and know what you're thinking, even when you yourself, don't. They will find great joy in the smallest of your successes and pain in your smallest of woes. A few mothers will know when you hurt or when you don't want to be alone or say that there's nothing wrong, even when you try to pretend - that type of mother will love you even when you don't deserve it.

Mothers, few and far between, will, at the time of the worst loss and sadness of their lives, place your heartbreak above their own to comfort you; will fold away their own grief to ensure that you don’t turn to ashes and disappear from view, along with that terrible loss. They will bail you out of yourself and those situations when life chooses not to love you and they will help you to walk for a second time. That same type of mother will be there for you when the world decides not to give you everything you want and need; when the universe gives you the finger or a swift kick in the jubblies, when life doesn't wish to be kind to you - when it shows you it’s nowhere close to being a mother. And just when you reach a time in your life when you feel you're as adult and "old" as it gets, your mother loves you like the little child with plaits and freckles you long left behind – and she does it just exactly when you need it the most. Some mothers are a credit to their own beloved mothers and made them very, very proud.

My mother is the best of all of these mothers and more. My mother is a champion. The word ‘love’ doesn’t cover it. The world hasn’t got another of this mother. If I were forced to choose, she would be #19 above. There has, however, been no dictionary definition created to encompass the depth and meaning of my mother (~and my Fadder ain’t in any way shabby either~). But it is Mothers’ Day.

So, thank you, Mam. Thank you for the typewriters, books, clothes, dinners, protection, loyalty, friendship, pride in me, support of me, fun, love and caring I didn’t, and couldn't, truly appreciate at the time.

And thank you, Mam, for continuing to laugh at my clowning around :)

Few may read this, but one person I know will. My mother. Because she's my mother.

It's a day late, but Happy Mothers' Day, and every day. I love you.

XXX

P.S. My toothbrush fell down the toilet this morning - that'll teach me!

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Update - Here a chair, there a chair...

Ahem, I know everyone has been waiting with bated breath for an update; on tenterhooks, and all that jazz. No, no, please. I apologize for the delay. Drum roll please... -- well, it's still here.

So far, it's been used as:

1. An elderly persons' rest stop.
2. A rubbish bin.
3. (possibly) A litter bin for piddles.
4. The "can" in kick the can by the kiddies.
5. A springboard onto my steps by my own cat.
5. A point of ridicule/source of amusement for all and sundry.

I'm going to put it on the street this weekend to see if I can drum up business. I'm going to put a sign on it that says "Needs A Good (or Bad) Home." At the end of the weekend, if it has not been adopted, I and a couple of accomplices will don woolly hats pulled low over our faces and it'll wear "cement shoes" and "sleep with the fishes," as it were.

Wish us luck!

Monday, February 25, 2008

Up the Dubs!


Congratulations to my fellow countrymen and women - and those involved that have discovered that Ireland, and particularly Dublin, creeps into your veins - on the success of their film "Once."

No doubt they invested their blood, sweat and tears - and all of their cash and a lot of craic - getting it to the screen. It undoubtedly paid off, because last night they snookered the Academy into giving them the award for Best Original Song ("Falling Slowly").

Fair play to you, lads. Bula Bus!!!

Here's a trailer:



And awwww. Thank you, Jon Stewart, for letting Markéta Irglová have her moment:



Isn't it funny how her Czech and Dublin accents have collided?! Lovely. I hope the success and media this film and song have garnered now with this award, goes a bit of a way towards more widespread tolerance as times continue to change in Ireland - for all the new people, from all different places, finding new homes and lives there, just as the Irish have over the years, elsewhere. At the end of the day, we all just want to feel we belong.

Sláinte.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

"Hold on to your f**&@ing hat!"


I'm sure you've all seen those ads on television for this medication and that. Usually (while trying to mind warp and fleece us), and depending on the drug being hawked, generically attractive young, middle aged and/or elderly people, unrealistically mind you (particularly the geriatric generic), are seen running through meadows, rock climbing, looking depressed, awaking in crisp white sheets with crisp white curtains blowing lightly in the breeze and... well, you get the idea. At close of the commercial there's always a rolling set of possible side effects, a scroll as long as the cast and crew credits of any Hollywood blockbuster. This laundry list of horrors seems always, at least to me, much, much worse a fate than the condition the medication is prescribed for.

As if these all aren't bad enough, I personally find the ones targeted specifically at "women's issues" and "feminine hygiene," etc., even more grating and ridiculous. The ones where (at least in the US) the women are all very gentle and softspoken - the kind of voice used only if you were completely Stepford, drugged up to the eyeballs, or trying to placate a nutjob who is brandishing a gun at a WaMu (that name change still doesn't make them 'cool' by the way) - so annoying and patronizing. What the #%@* do they take us for?

Well, last night I was watching SNL (Saturday Night Live) - it was the first show back since the WGA went on strike, so my tuning in was a combination, I'm sure, of extreme lack of new telly material and the fact that Tina Fey was hosting - reunited once again with her pal and comedy cohort, Amy Poehler.

Now, I love Tina Fey and I love her show "30 Rock." And Poehler never ceases to crack me up ("Blades of Glory" anyone?), so I had to at least check it out. Anyway, just as my age started to reveal itself and I was starting to fade, the following skit came on:



I don't know whether I was just severely lacking and in need of a good giggle, or should be prescribed some of that there Stepford medication, but I absolutely rolled. Their dead-on parody was lulling me, as it was meant to do - between the wig, the use of pink on black and white and the gormless music and hopped up tones and expressions of the women - until around .40 seconds and then kapow! When I saw the... ah well, if you haven't seen it, I don't want to spoil it for you. Just take a look.

I'm so glad this ended up on youtube.

(Wonder if she found that hatchet at one of those 'provide for the needy' outfits. Yes, I'm still grumbling)

(and if the fascist bastids remove the above, try here: http://youtube.com/watch?v=fQL2q-wjAsg )

P.S. Her Clinton/Obama bit was really hilarious too.

ETA: For anyone with an interest in political satire (and Female Power! Ha! I'm talking more about Tina in this instance), here it is:

Monday, February 18, 2008

This is no Blanch... that's for sure. And more's the pity!


Remember when "poor" meant "I'll take it!"? Or you could leave something outside, even accidentally, and it was gone in five seconds flat? Mmm, me too.

Where are those nimble fingered tea-leaves when you need 'em? You know, the ones who would rob your tires while your car was in motion? What happened to that class of fella? Have things changed so much in the world, that you can't bank on those things that meant the most? The things that you held dear? Where is the justice?!!!

And also, along with the old, good-time crooks letting us down, it would seem the poor of 2008 are a different breed of poor, than the days of yore, poor. Apparently, the needy are not so needy these days. And those who work to help the poor and needy are not in the market for a really nice--free--chair; they'd rather sit on the floor and/or would prefer to waste gas to come in person to view, sniff and then turn their noses up at said chair.

Let's see, it all began when I was hoodwinked by a really good friend (who shall go unnamed), into taking a really nice chair. Let me make this clear, this is no crappy chair; this chair IS nice. I just don't have any space for it. And so, it sat in my living room awaiting an even newer new home. Bearing this in mind, I spent a few days vigilantly swatting my cat and her claws away during the daylight hours, but at night, she would have her wicked way with the chair's arms. Still, I persevered. Still, it remained nice.

After a week, and having cleaned my apartment from top to bottom, I got tired of the chair eating my living room. I moved the chair outside of my apartment, pinning it with a really nice--and wordy-- note. So far, everything about this situation is nice. But, no go. I went online and booked a pickup with a group that --sounds like-- 'Starvation Barmy' (AlvationSay Rmyay, pig latin, for the Americans) and knew my chair troubles would be over within four days, the soonest it could be picked up. I was jubilant. In the meantime, I left a note saying if anyone wanted it, they were welcome to it, thinking I could always cancel the pickup if necessary. I'm that much of a giver, you see.

No go. The chair sat there. Tuesday rolled around and while I was making my coffee, I heard the pickup guys outside. I ran to the loo and a minute later, I head to the door to view the empty chair-shaped space. I thought. Well, the chair was still there, along with a note that said "We don't want your effin' chair." It didn't really say that, but that's how I read it. A preprinted note said it was not acceptable for, tick, tick, a couple of reasons. Reasons I honestly couldn't get my head around. A small stain at the back of the chair - the part of the chair that's usually pushed against a wall-- or with a little elbow grease would be a distant memory-- but nope, apparently the poor would rather sit on the floor. Denied. If I had the space, I'd take this chair in a second. What am I saying, I did take it... (damn you, **** *********!)

I have to say, after this I turned into a maniac. I kept my eye on the window and if tenants of my building, or visitors of tenants, even glanced the way of my apartment/chair, I would be out that door chasing them down, twisting arms and giving my pitch. Still no takers. Furthermore, I had to fend off next door's cat--who's in heat for the first time-- from taking a piddle on it. I'm exhausted. There's now my briefest of notes to date, attached to a sheet over the chair in thick black marker, stating "FREE CHAIR," just like that. I don't know whether I actually meant "This chair is free" or "Free this poor chair!" My imagination is working overtime. I believe this chair has now grown a pair of eyes and is sporting a smirk. And it's smirking in my direction. I find this chair ceases to be as nice as I once thought. I think I might now hate this chair.

So there you have it. My only recourse now involves a hatchet and the dumpster... and let's just say, I'm looking forward to it. Now if only I could find a hatchet. Wonder if the organizations for the poor have any of those? Maybe I'll go look at their collection of hatchets, sniff and turn my nose up at what they've got, 'cause you know, there's a scratch on the handle or something. Yep, that's the ticket. That'll teach 'em.

Screw you, sounds like "Starvation Barmy" and "IllWill."

And friend, who shall remain nameless, never mind, I still love you. However, if you visit me while this chair sits here, I will somehow break off a kitty-scratched arm and I will forcibly beat you with it. Das righ'. XXX

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Fiona Lily



May all your carrots taste like cupcakes and all your shoes have magical ballerina powers :)

Happy Birthday, sweet and funny little girl.



We love you much, much more, even, than you love Smyth's Toy Store :)

Thursday, February 07, 2008

"Do you use a big wreckin' ball?"

This little Dublin girl means business. She's not too hot on her school. And with a prank call, she's determined to enlist the help of a demolition company to take care of the situation. Very funny. I love how they're all just crackin' up!



Thanks to Sharon for telling me about it. Ah, it'd make you miss the craic at home, where a laugh is just a laugh and all that jazz. It also reminds me of Conor for some reason. :)

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

And one for the road...



For more, check out:

http://millerandgreen2.blogspot.com/

and:

http://millerandgreen.blogspot.com/

Let's hope LA can get back to (ab)normal soon.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

On this day...


58 years ago, my Nana and Grandad got married.

Oh, how they've loved each other. Oh, how they've loved us.

And oh, how I've loved them.

Monday, January 28, 2008

"I didn't do nuffin'!"


I've been thinking about the different jobs I've held. Some were short and therefore not so sweet; some were like chocolate. But swirled within each of 'em was some ingredient I could slag off. Here are a few of the most slaggable offerings (in no particular order):

1. Being 'called,' via intercom, loudspeaker and ol' school style through hallways, to trudge all the way up to El Jefe to retrieve a coke from the fridge in said Jefe's office within arm's reach of El diab... I mean, el jefe.

2. Riding around every day in a limousine (torture beginning at 6:30am) with a blind in one eye boss-man. And having to sit. right. by. him. (pat, pat) and take notes.

3. Being yelled and screamed at in a PMS-24-hours-a-day fueled rage for being stupidly full of initiative.

4. A futile attempt at strong arming me, by the new fat and lazy female director, to chase a female porn star down "La Croisette" to 'drum up interest' and in turn, leave my pride at the Carlton. Futile. God loves a trier.

5. Very first job. Office affair. Not mine. "Easy Single" sandwiches in the toilet cubicle. First job. 'nuff said.

6. Perfecting a blank expression witnessing boss burping, farting and sliding off leather chair while using dictation machine. Boss also perfected blank expression.

7. Having begun a job two weeks earlier, I get reamed a new one for something he told me to do a month previous. Now, I'm the first to admit my mathematical failings, but those numbers just don't add up. Oh, have I mentioned he was schizo? No? Right.

more to come...