In headline news, my friend's two year old child pulled down the curtain, along with the curtain rail and all its fittings, dragged the hollow tube of a curtain rail into the toilet and had himself a fine big drink through it. Mmm-mmm! That is the kind of story that makes me wanna be a mama. That will suffice for your greeting.
In less shocking developments, I handed in my notice at work today. I've given two months, which I think is reasonably fair. By handed in, I mean tearfully confessed to my lovely boss how much I hate my job. If I quit she will have to close down. That's how obscurely skilled I am. Neither of us has two years to train somebody else in the field, and the handful of people in this country who can do what we do are currently employed. Why do I have to be so mysterious? Because, quite simply, it's more interesting than admitting what we do. Also she should not have to be connected to this dubious website which contains dirty words such as SHITE and BOLLOX.
So what now you ask? I haven't a smelly notion. I do have a smelly child (soccer) though - I put him in the shower. He is not my child I hasten to add, I am babysitting him, as I am wont to do of a Thursday, but I do proudly claim guardianship if it means a cheaper ticket to anything.
But back to careers. There are options, the first one being the dole. I am awaiting inevitable rejection from a much-sought-after Masters degree. I will hear in one month. As for money, most of my neighbours leave their doors unlocked. I'll think of something. Plus I can order any provisions I may need on the internet and charge it to my company credit card. I am currently in dire need of a third dvd player.
So in order to celebrate losing my smidgen of financial security, I went to Liffey Valley and bought myself two pairs of jeans. I feel it was appropriate as I recently ripped a large hole near the crotchal area in my one and only pair of denims. I have found myself feeling vulnerable without a pair of jeans in my wardrobe. Now that I have a staple to wear again, I will try patching up the old jeans. Tattered and worn and stinking they may be, but they are the only ones who will get close to me and not leave screaming. No, they just implode.
And so we are hurtled forward to the present. I am preparing myself (spiritually speaking) for a weekend in Cork. I ain't never been to the Cork before. I hear it has bad roads and a defensive population. "We do have theatres in Cork." "Cork has cinemas too, you know." "We've got plenty of paedophiles without Dublin's help, thank you." And so on. Luckily we are visiting people who did not originate in that filthy village, although why they moved there is beyond me. Black pudding? You can get that meaty rubbish in any newsagents. Probably next to the bleach and pegs. Why they relocated to Cork shall join the warehouse of things that are beyond me, mostly due to my very, very short stature. For practical purposes I carry a small stool with me everywhere I go. (A poo?) So, it's a FIVE hour journey. That's, like, practically a whole day. Five hours, four people and a souring poo, stuffed into an old Ford Escort that sounds like a spaceship taking off. I'm going to bring a lot of music and a big bag of apples and possibly, if I can get them, some Sam Spudz crisps. Those were the car food of my childhood, that is to say, when we had a car. Mostly we ran around shouting "Vroom vroom!" Yes, my father too.
Is anybody reading this anymore? Our survey says: Doubtful..
neuro-praxis -- Not Your Average Golf Club (pricier)
It's hard to write a blog entry when you're listening to the radio: the radio is designed to distract you from your meaningless job and your empty relationships and if only for that reason alone I praise God tonight.
jnhfsgdnit.;FEAR OF THE DDDDDDDDDDDDDOG KEEPS ME AWAY FROM TNE HOPE OF HOT LIQUID!!
I apologise. My stupid husband just forcibly typed that. I thought it was far too charming to delete. We are babysitting and there is a dog in the kitchen. The husband says he cannot make himself coffee because he is afraid of the dog. By the time you get to the next paragraph I will have made that stupid man a cup of coffee and he will be sipping it happily and possibly eating chocolates as well. That, my friends, is pure love.
Quite.
Well my plans for the "Paddy's Weekend" have been smashed, it seems, to smithereens. The plan was that spectacularly Belfastian friends K & R would visit and we would shower them with love in an uncomfortable way. Turns out the female part of that couple is vomiting to beat the band and will probably not survive the journey down and as such is leaving myself and Zoomtard to stare at each other in silence across a long table eating microwaved dinners, all alone, for days on end. Bah! I even bought a new duvet cover. Two of them.
Matching duvet covers.
Well, I suppose the pleasure is in seeing the bed all nicely made up, not ruffled with stupid visiting bodies! I can just stare at their beautifully made beds all weekend. I can put the beds on the table between me and Zoomy. It can be a talking point. Because heaven knows we've talked to death the topic of ligers and tigons. He says they don't exist. This must be because he had surgery inside his skull a few years ago to have teeth removed that were growing upwards and (presumably) piercing his brain.
UPDATE!
The vomiting woman has rung to admit that her deepest desire is to be in my freshly made bed! Well, not my bed, we're not like that, you filth. So, in spite of the sicking up, she will come down on Saturday. This is a cause for celebration. I am breaking the vodka bottle seal with my left ghand as I type with my right. I did indeed mean to type left hand, but this does seem to be a night for leaving the typos in. You can never have too many ghandies about; they're ever so useful.
SKIP TO THE END
I heard a disturbing radio statistic. I warn you: I tend to believe statistics, even contradicting ones, when they are soundbitey and on the news every hour for 24 hours. As we discussed earlier, the radio is never off. HERE CAN YOU HANDLE THIS? Did you think about your bills, your ex, your deadlines? Or when you think you're gonna die? Sorry, I morphed into a nineties star for a moment. Anyway, my statistic is as follows: those who drink one can of soft drink per day tend to gain ten pouds a year. Armed with this information I have switched entirely to diet soft drinks, which is no issue, because I rarely drink them anyway. But in this life saving switch I have discovered that while diet Club Orange may look every bit as appealing as ordinary Club Orange, it just isn't. And can I say don't bother your hind legs buying a bottle of it because you'd be better off giving yourself a slap; it's quicker and more pleasurable.
Away, away, away.
neuro-praxis -- frightened by the corrupted ways of this land
PS - The children I am babysitting left a fake rubber snake on the floor and, yes, it worked, it scared the crap out of me. I am officially an old fucking dud. And this the eve of the Welshman pushing the snakes out with his big stick, yeargh!
I went to the zoo the other day and I was dismayed to see the animals living up to all of the classic zoo stereotypes that Irish children are taught in primary school. During feeding time, the monkeys actually went straight for the bananas, and only ate the other fruits and vegetables when all the bananas had been devoured. Somebody should let the monkeys know they are doing themselves no goddam favours eating the bananas like that. Makes me a bit sick, really. Friend C is up from Cork for the week, and she says when she helps with the dishes in Cork, Cork people say to her, "Oh you'll make a great wife." It's exactly the same as the monkey banana scenario, isn't it? No difference. We're all just stupid animals. Why I myself ate a banana only this morning before church, rejecting all other fruits (except for the clementine which I also ate). Point being: MONKEY RIGHTS. They need a feminism for monkeys; perhaps we could call it primatism, I could make a little magazine urging the monkeys to eat the celery, and hell the carrots too, if they want. Who says carrots are for rabbits? Fascists, that's who.
So, things went bad in work and we couldn't pay the rent (thanks Asia), so we've downsized a tad and shifted business into my boss's spare bedroom. This now means that I can have a little nap and a shower in the afternoon if I so fancy. I am also working less hours, for more pay per hour. This is a situation I would like to take the time to recommend. In my four free afternoons a week you can now locate me being happy, possibly going bowling with Betamaxnomates or editing my church magazine, inserting swear words and small pornographic images in here and there. Honestly, you are reading the words of a far more content neuro; a neuro-praxis who refuses to consider the pinch at rent-payment time. The moral of my story is basically that inactivity doesn't breed laziness, it breeds happiness. That can be a moral for your life.
Saw Capote amongst other things but go see this: it's a picture of sin and its handsome cycle, plus Keener plays a surprisingly morally vapid Harper Lee, which was a delightful surprise. Pay your ten euros for your ticket and throw some popcorn at that noisy bastard on your left. Tell him it's from neuro. Then blow him a kiss. Did I say go see Shop Girl before? If I did I'll have told you to see it at once: now it's too late so hold your breath until it is released on video...it really is something and that is the end of my boring film review segment thank God or whatever you believe in (nothing? Thanks nothing!) it's over.
Well, I finally sit down to update and my brother in law has to go and have his birthday today so I must piss off to his celebration dinner now. Thanks folks, you're a terrific audience, it's been great, I'm here til Wednesday.
neuro-praxis -- I'm a black person, did you know that?
