neuro's:blog

Catch a Glimpse

Tomorrow, due to tremendous privilege, I will attend a hospital for an endoscopy and a colonoscopy. Hopefully these pleasant, brief and non-invasive procedures will shed some light on my lifetime of tummy problems.

To prepare, I must drink four litres of Klean-Prep^TM. NO PROBLEM, I think to myself, WHY, I AM QUITE THIRSTY. I follow all of the fasting and dietary instructions and prepare the first litre, and refrigerate it, which allegedly "improves the taste".

After an hour of refrigeration I indulge in a tipple, resulting in a spray of vomit in the kitchen sink. NOW CLAIRE I say to the air, GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF; YOU'VE GOT 3.95 LITRES LEFT. I hold my nose and gulp down a half a glass, promptly spraying it back up again into the sink, along with my "light lunch".

I tearfully ring the hospital, explaining that my body is too wise to endorse tomorrow's procedures. The kindly gastro man tells me that if I cannot succeed in downing the muck, then I must also endure an enema.

Tomorrow is being renamed Black Tuesday.

neuro-praxis -- she'll post you the photographs

The Sequel To All The Other Ones

Alright, we'll start slow, easing back into this blogging lark like a vegetarian finally coming to their senses and recommencing meat-eating. This blog entry is an egg fried in a little bacon fat - not quite meat but meat-tainted all the same.

We'll start with an exhortation from Zoomspouse.

1. One movie that made you laugh
Bruce Almighty. Ok, it's a crap film. But it's got that scene where the Godsome Carrey makes Carrell speak while reading the news and it's just priceless. I actually cried laughing. Maybe my period was due.

2. One movie that made you cry
The Passion of the Christ, although it was less crying and more sobbing hysterically.

3. One movie you loved when you were a child
Finian's Rainbow. I went through a strange period of watching this low-budget no-plot piece of crap once a day for almost an entire academic year. Don't ask me why: I'm not sure I even enjoyed it. It was about a Leprechaun and some twee Irish family living in a cardboard meadow in the US.

4. One movie you’ve seen more than once
Edward Scissorhands. And I'd watch it again, damnit!

5. One movie you loved, but were embarrassed to admit it
Ah now, there are a few of these. Dirty Dancing, for one. It's right up the genre of movies I hate, and probably fulfills all the stereotypes too. That doesn't stop me repeating "Nobody puts neuro in the corner" ad nauseum, however. Another one is Awakenings. Cheesetastic. I love it.

6. One movie you hated
Lost in Translation. Yes, you heard me. I despise that piece of indulgent nonsense.

7. One movie that scared you
The Exorcist. I wish to this day that I'd never seen it. Don't watch it.

8. One movie that bored you
The Simpsons movie. Sorry.

9. One movie that made you happy
Little Miss Sunshine

10. One movie that made you miserable
Dancer in the Dark. The misery lives on.

11. One movie you weren’t brave enough to see
What was the name of that prominent movie with the eleven minute anal rape scene? Not a chance in hell, my friend.

12. One movie character you’ve fallen in love with
That sexy teenage Kevin Bacon in Footloose!

13. The last movie you saw
The Incredible Hulk (with the delicious Edward Norton).

14. The next movie you hope to see
Prince Caspian

Well, that'll do me kids. Give me a few months to think of something else to astonish you with.

neuro-praxis -- she carried the watermelon

Going Deeper With PBL

This blog is becoming all about work. Too bad. I was thinking I could write a comedy docudrama about it all. Maybe call it something sparse and arty like, “The Office”. It could be a real success, despite what you shower of nay-sayers may think.

TODAY'S MOST SUCCESSFUL PHONE CONVERSATION:

Phone: Ring ring
(at 2.15pm) Me: Good morning, department one speaking.
Person on phone: Er, sorry?
Me: Um, I mean neuro speaking. And good afternoon. And this is department one, also.

TODAY'S SECOND MOST SUCCESSFUL PHONE CONVERSATON:

Person on phone: I am ringing about Margaret Burke’s appointment with Dr. Whatserface. Blah blah blah, moan moan moan. When can I expect <extra-special service that I am unwilling to pay for, or perhaps even turn up for> to happen? I would like everything yesterday please.
Me: Let me just get Margaret’s file here. I see she has special needs. Are you her mother?
Person on phone: No, I’m her husband.
Me: Oh dear. Ha ha ha. Excuse me.

That’ll do.

neuro-praxis – Could Have Done More But Didn’t Want To

I Just Wanted To Say

The reason that you can no longer see my links section on the right is because I am VERY STUPID. I cannot do the most basic of HTML commands and as such my list of abridged links has been swallowed up into the abyss that is all the unseen code of unsuccessful programmers on the internet.

And tomorrow night I might cook a roast chicken. This is following on from the craziness whereby I made fairy cakes yesterday. The nostalgia owns me.

neuro-praxis -- She's Just Like Momma Used To Make

Whatcha Gonna Do When They Come For You?

So my house has no heating. Have I adequately talked about this house? It is big, ugly and stupid. It has so many bedrooms that I've started feeling like a squatter. I don't feel normal unless I've sullied a floor or smashed a window on any given day. I leave syringes everywhere - it's terrible. But the HEAT - or the lack thereof - is causing me DISTRESS. A cold neuro is not a happy neuro (I do of course speak literally here - my soul itself is a happily like a block of ice which is how it was, is and evershallbe). As I type I am wrapped in a fleece blanket and have living creatures strapped to my feet for warmth and yet still my snots are miniature icicles. The heating is broken and even if it were working, we cannot afford the oil for the tank. What is this THE OIL. It is a stupidness, that is what it is. In previous days of old, in those HAPPY WARM days in the old house in the town with a synonym for PENIS in its name, we switched on THE GAS, the reasonably priced fuel whose bills arrived 6 yearly and were never upsetting and LO! The house would fill with warmth and the water was a pleasantry and we would drink tea and listen to music and not cry because we cannot feel our joints and breathing hurts. And tonight people are coming over and AS IF IT WERE THE STONE AGE I will be lighting a fire a couple of hours in advance so that they too will not cry when here. Perhaps I should light fires in all the rooms. Tin buckets, chop up the skirting boards and away we go - instant heaters. This is a public plea. GIVE US YOUR OLD HEATERS! We will come and collect them and pay you upwards of 26 gratitude (that's an eastern European currency). And HURRY you idiots, the very child within my womb is as cold as witch's teat. Or it would be if it existed.

So, let's discuss CURRENT AFFAIRS.

Interviewer: "So Daisy, what do you think about current affairs?"
Daisy:"What do I think? Um, I like them...I think they're good?"
Interviewer: "Excellent."

I read an article recently about how autism is on the increase. All the evidence seems to point to this being true. Why I myself know of several young people who after college have gone on to be autists, some of them hiding away for months and not speaking to anybody, just them and their easel and box of Crayolas. I know one particular autist who applied to go and live in a government sponsored house on the Aran Islands designed especially for autists, to bring out their creative side. I think it is wonderful that the government would do this for them. I think it is safer for everybody if the autists are kept at a healthy distance. I even happen to know one or two people who are not autists, but would love to be - unfortunately they cannot afford to give up their day jobs. But they display all the signs of autism, including nice doodlings on their notepads and occasional aggressive behaviour.

Another important issue I felt we should discuss on this here INTERNET FORUM was the government being encouraged to tackle obesity. I was thinking this over and I don't think that pound for pound the government would win. I mean Mary Hearney would be in with a fighting chance and maybe Brian Cowen or Pat Rabbitte could tag team with her but probably the fatties would win - the government itself is not very big or strong. Besides, they buy all of their meals from Marks and Spencers which have the calories right on the FRONT of the box - not like foods you buy in Aldi or Lidl. So my point is that the government will need to eat an awful lot more processed food on a regular basis in order to have a fighting chance against the fatties. As they stand, it would seem that obesity is winning.

Now that the obligatory serious stuff is out of the way I have a confession to make. There is a hippy that lives inside me that forces my behaviour into such areas as DRINKING HERBAL TEA and contemplating using TEXTURED VEGETABLE PROTEIN MINCE in my bolognese instead of dead cow. This hippy is an idealist; and idealist who is weeping most of the time, especially about the amount of dairy I ingest. But myself and the hippy must fight, because despite my extreme wish that I could love such foods as TOFU and QUINOA I am afraid dear reader that I do not. I rather, instead, hate them with a passion that runs so deep that it blackens my heart to that of a slave trader right out of Uncle Tom's Cabin which I just so happen to be reading right now. May I just mention here by the way, that this book, which is the BEST SELLING NOVEL OF THE 19TH CENTURY and which SHAPED THE FACE OF AMERICA had never been heard of by 40% of the people I went to the cinema with on Monday night. It is now my chance to publicly declare you 40% UNCULTURED OAFS. I know you won't be hurt by that, though, as you never read my blog, as jokes and wit and humilty are just beyond you. That is why you only watch American blockbusters and eat your dinner out of MacDonalds every day and so on and so forth and your brain is shrinking.

TOO COLD TO KEEP WRITING. Plus my slavedriver of a husband is standing nearby with a whip so that I will get this place warmed and cleaned up before the unsuspecting guests arrive. They are unsuspecting because tonight we will slay them, chop them up, put them in the freezer and make pies out of them which we will eat with evil relish while cackling. If the pie is made from someone we love we might cry while eating it to show compassion for their surprising death.

neuro-praxis -- BAD BOYS, BAD BOYS

Warning: Shameless Plug

Have you heard of Mumblin' Deaf Ro? Probably not, you uncultured oafs. That is about to change. K and I have enjoyed a (cough) mild obsession with this Dublin musician's music for nigh on three years now, and having been reminded of just how great he is at a gig on Saturday night in the Wellington, I felt it was time for y'all to taste his genius.

Ro writes songs that are pure poetry. Humorous, smart, touching (not the inappropriate variety), memorable. I have been humming the tracks from his first album, Senor, My Friend (which you can buy here for a ridiculous €7 including shipping), since I laid hands on it many moons ago. There is a unique quality to Ro's music that I find genuinely moving. We liked him so much that we asked him to play at our wedding and, despite not knowing what kind of off-centre plums we might be, he dutifully obliged, and even offered to do it free. Talented and nice. I HATE that guy!

Go here to listen to three classic examples of Ro's superb songwriting. Here is what other Important People^TM have got to say about him.

"An idiosyncratic gem . . . cherish it. **** - The Irish Times

"This must be one of the least heralded Irish albums to come along in a while. But it abounds with so much wit, invention and humility that it is also one of the most likeable. Rarely has frustration been so sympathetically articulated." - The Slate

"One of the lost classics of Irish indie pop" - Mongrel Magazine

"Mumblin Deaf Ro spins yarns about obnoxious graduates, failed lovers and blindly optimistic boxers which manage to combine insights sweet, sad and (occasionally) sharp." - The Event Guide

"Filled with hilariously skewed and witty lyrics." - The Sunday Trubune

"It's refreshing to come across a songwriter who isn't afraid to throw a few amusing lyrics into the mix, and yet at the same time can melt your heart with the intensity and honesty of his words. Senor, My Friend is definitely something not to miss out on." - Eclectic Honey

"For me, even at this foetal stage, this record is destined to be one of the year's finest Irish releases. Mumblin' Deaf Ro's music is of remarkable feeling, imagination and honesty. It gushes pure talent." - Cluas.com

"A diamond in the in-tray" - Village Magazine

"A valuable lesson to us all." - RTE entertainment.ie

Ro's next gig is in Bewley's on Grafton Street on August 24th at 8pm. K and I had tickets for Radiohead that night but we've actually decided to see Ro instead. Why? Because Radiohead are just boring now. If anyone wants to buy some Radiohead tickets from me, by the way, pop me a mail. I am sure we can come up with an extortionate deal where I make a lot of money and you get to go see a completely un-tired, fresh and non-dull band.

So go to Bewley's. Seriously. What have you got to lose? It's not like you've got to mandatorily strip on entry and yodel for your supper. No. Really. You probably won't have to do that.

/end plug (temporarily)

neuro-praxis -- Honestly, I Am Not Ro

Fold Your Hands Child

I desire chocolate! In further news, nothing has really been happening. I awoke today with bizarre summer congestion and a very constricted throat, which is still feeling a little on the swelly side, so I have lazed about in my pyjamas all day, being forced to take a hideous decongestant by my nurse-and-mother-like husband, who has been very firm and no-nonsense, and not in the sexy way.

I was feeling better in the evening and entrusted my dinner to the internet. That is to say I made dinner based on an internet recipe. Now I know I have a bit of a bad track record with cooking food, but tonight's chicken satay tasted basically like rice smeared with peanut butter. And chicken. Most of my dinner is still sitting in the rice bowl in the living room, congealing itself into a vaguely terrifying mess. Tomorrow it will have reproduced and may be singing oriental showtunes. Zoomspouse ate dutifully, as he does.

I had good intentions to write a lot and tidy up and shower before K got home tonight from homogroup, but a friend called and we talked for an hour and he sabotaged EVERYTHING. You see that, Keith? You SABOTAGED EVERYTHING. Darn right you did. My revenge will be far into the future, but it will be sweet. You will be forced to eat leftover chicken satay. Until you explode. In which case I had better busy myself shortly by making twenty kilogrammes of the stuff and allowing it to obtain leftover status.

I am listening to Belle and Sebastian. Aren't I hip? They fit into the kind of image of myself that I would love to construct someday. Hippy-esque, folk-tastic, natural fibre wearing, vegetable growing, soy-errific at-peace-with-the-world type person. But instead I wear makeup tested (probably) on little piglets and I eat frozen pizzas and have managed to kill every plant I have ever owned, or that my landlord has ever owned. There is one exception - my friend L gave me what he declares to be an unkillable plant, which is by the front door, and which I am watching cagily for signs of mortality. Anyway, the songs, they are nice, even if they are about being raped or corpses falling on you while in battle. I hate when corpses fall on you! And you're all like, eugh! Get off me corpse!!

This laptop is covered in crumbs and I have got some dishes to attend to. And some personal hygiene to attend to. And some reading of Lionel Shriver to attend to. So there!

neuro-praxis -- She Walks Like A Peasant

I Keep My Visions To Myself

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!

Don't Be Afraid of Turnips

They won't eat you, silly, you eat them.

I wrote about whores. It was inevitable really.

I turned twenty three this week and celebrated with burgers in Eddie Rockets and eight friends. It was good. I received an unholy amount of presents, the most original of which had to be from the delightful Hot Anorak who bought me a COWBELL - yes that's right - A COWBELL - to attach to my drumkit and hit to make nice noises. I haven't worked out how to attach it to the drums but when I do, the neighbours will never sleep again. Maybe the cowbell will finally provide me with some common ground with the cows in the field behind my house (that's right! we have cows! and we are 30 mins drive from Dublin city! ha! it's ridiculous!). Me and those cows have never gotten close. This is probably the glue that will bind us together forever now. I thought this day would never come. Hallelujah! Moo!

I did a brave thing and faced potential rejection by applying to UCD for a masters degree in library and information studies, which will qualify me as a sexy librarian who will seductively remove her glasses from time to time to stun the nerds. I have decided to reject the place awaiting my presence in NUIM in bioethics. If I have learned anything from my current job, it is that I do not enjoy working alone, and an MLitt and PhD in bioethics is a very much alone thing. So no. NO. I want to do something where I talk to people, albeit in whispers. I will keep you posted on my imminent failures.

I did something bizarre in my masters application that nobody could understand without context. I included in the envelope a poem that I wrote last summer. It was a risk and it will either prove to be the clincher or the nail in my large coffin. Either way, I am glad I sent it. I have my damn reasons, you goddamn judgers.

OG is moaning on about being hit on by a guy who helped her out in an awkward situation. Why moan OG? WHY? I think that's a delightful way to meet a potential fertilising machine. Be glad, I say, be glad!

I have been dreaming quite a bit recently about my cousins, none of whom I have seen in many years despite their nearness geographically. Is my subconscious speaking to me? Or are my dreams just meandering poo like everybody else's? Dream analysis my arse. I would rather eat two bags of uncooked frozen peas in Tesco than study dream analysis. PIH. That's me spitting on the subject.

I have spent the whole evening writing. It was a good way to spend the evening. My brain is slightly stretched; a bit shapeless. Off I go now.

neuro-praxis -- Makes The People Come Together

The Only Way is Up, Baby!

UNTRUE!

I haven't been updating much. If you check in every now and again this will be a failure obvious to you. When I do update, however, the entries are of a quality too low to mention. Hysteria mixed with desperation mixed with lies are only good from time to time. Usually it works on Thursdays.

Anyway, my absence has been because I have been wandering. In the wilderness. Of my brain. Making "decisions" about my "life". I have come to some conclusions. I feel more relaxed than I have felt in the last six gruelling months. It is time for my annual evaluation. If you despise clichés, now is the time to guide your cursor up to that little x on the top right hand corner of the screen. It should be familiar to you in those emergency moments when your mother walks in and you rapidly click out of your porno haunts.

1. What did you do in 2005 that you'd never done before?
Slept in a luxury caravan. French-kissed a dreamy boy. Wore a wool product. Became the manager of a thriving (AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA) business. Gnawed wood. Learned joined-up writing.

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I have never made a new year's resolution in my life. This year I have started accumulating the prototype neurolist of resolutions. Check back in in 365.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yes, AGAIN. H had another baby (fertile!) and the rats in our attic multiplied in a thoroughly fruitful fashion.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
I can't watch them every second.

5. What countries did you visit?
Only France. Quite a let down on 2004. And a cake.

6. What would you like to have in 2006 that you lacked in 2005?
A big, big fat redundancy cheque, a life-enhancing accredited qualification that steers me into Happy Place^TM, cancer and a roly-poly-schmoly. AND NO YOU CAN'T BORROW IT!!

7. What date from 2005 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
August 14th. We didn't mention it to anyone but K and I found a baby and raised it as an evil genius who took over the frozen foods department of the new 24 hour Dunnes in Maynooth. Proud moments.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I bruised the ribs on my right side while playing football but none of the internal bleeding got out of the skin at any point. Score! I also reduced the night time light switching ritual from four on-offs to a mere three.

9. What was your biggest failure?
I failed to get a first in my degree. ARGH. TWO FUCKING PER CENT MORE. THAT'S ALL I WOULD HAVE NEEDED. ARGH. I also killed everything that is beautiful. Oops.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Why does he hit me? It's probably my fault, isn't it?

11. What was the best thing you bought?
An envelope full of Anthrax. Just you wait.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
My church family's. The bag of thai sweet chilli crisps. It let me eat it.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Yours. PIG.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Rent. BAH!

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
I won a breadbin in a parish raffle!!!!

16. What song will always remind you of 2005?
I Want You - Rachel Yamagata
Suddenly I See - KT Tunstall

17. Compared to this time last year, are you: happier or sadder?
I couldn't be happier if I was rubbing lime on my torso.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Drunken driving. Anonymous breathy phone calls to neighbours.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Narcissistically obsessing.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?
Too late, scumbag.

21. How will you be spending New Years?
Same as last year: at a CHURCH PARTY where we will drink orange pop and play WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE and not touch in case we give each other AIDS.

22. Did you fall in love in 2005?
Hey baby, I've been loved up for seven years now.

23. How many one-night stands?
I gave up one night stands and switched to flashing my la la at strangers. Less personal investment.

24. What was your favorite TV program?
If you could wash yourself with it, I watched it. Momma's got to watch her stories.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Less hating, more pizza.

26. What was the best book you read?
Make & Furnish Your Own Miniature Rooms by Marian O'Brien. That book changed my life.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Bright Eyes and Sufjan Stevens.

28. What did you want and got?
Matching underwear. Free pickles. Warts in special places.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?
Maybe Joyeux Noel, a quality foreign romp. Maybe Cheaper by the Dozen 2, a quality Steve Martin romp. We will never know.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 22 a good eleven months ago. I can't remember what I did. Something to do with pipes and hospitals and Ukrainian vodka.

32. What one thing that would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
A FIRST CLASS HONOURS DEGREE. WHY DO YOU KEEP BRINGING THIS UP?! BASTARD!!

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2005?
It was a binbag slash nouveau riche slash scrubs kind of a thang. I like to keep it fresh.

34. What kept you sane?
As usual, the good Lord. And all them tubs of butter just waiting to be devoured!

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Maybe Zach Braff, although he looks horribly feminine at times. I emailed him to let him know about this problem.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?
Can't remember. Politics are for saddies. (Can't remember.)

37. Who did you miss?
Gravy.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
Gravy.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2005.
You only get out what you put in. No wait, wait, life is not a rehearsal. No no no, there is always light at the end of the tunnel. No - THE PROOF IS IN THE PUDDING.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
I don't think this one is going to change for a long time.

No guilt in life,
No fear in death;
This is the power of Christ in me.

I Forgot My Shirt At The Water's Edge

How can I work? How can I work? It is Friday afternoon and I would rather eat my left eyeball than work. Lie! I would not rather do that. I would rather work. But I don’t feel like it. How can I work? I am listening to great music and the best kind of weather is outside (cold and sunny) and there are two days ahead of me that are making discreet promises to be fun, including lie-ins and meals at restaurants paid for by K’s birthday vouchers. Now that’s the kind of gift I like for him to get! Stuff where he needs a hot date! And I am ever so willing to step up.

Stig has gotten the sack. Not a surprise, he’s useless. Still, a half ounce of virtual sympathy is eking in his direction. He can’t help it he was born with those defects. Sorry you lost your job Stig. Now there is ever more time for you to write things on the internet that I can read. And more time than ever for you to watch the movements of that girl you met a few months ago in the video shop.

K has been nagging, a lot, for me to update. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW. I sometimes find a question more amusing when the question mark is omitted. The question mark was always omitted in the past, you know. It was only recently invented by some fellow from an Austin Powers movie. Before that, you had to guess about whether a sentence was a question or not. You could tell it was a question, I found, by seeing did it ask something. You gave it question status by increasing the pitch of your sentence to the squeal of a pre-pubescent girl towards the end. And that’s how things were done in the old days. How I long for those times. Now almost every written encounter is hampered by the chains of grammar. downwithallthatuselessshitforonceletsbefreetrulyfreeexclamationmark

I had lunch with a beautiful friend and it was mostly celery. I love you. I don't love your celery. And it is now repeating on me, like the Simpsons, only not good. Bad.

I bought most of my Christmas presents but I haven’t wrapped them yet. That’s a little ceremony I like to perform drunk. I find it gives my gifts the charming wrapped-by-a-child appearance. This is also when I write the cards.

That’s a nice one.

More later. I PROMISE.

neuro-praxis -- Deserves A Quiet Night

Give A Little, Helps A Lot

Man's greatest enemy: DINNER

So. Tuesday eveing. I'm a bit tired. I attempted something easy. Sweet and sour chicken and vegetables with rice noodles. Lovely. I stir fry the meat, add my peppers and onions and other colourful delights, and tip in a jar of Tesco Healthy Living Sweet and Sour Sauce. Beautiful. And now. Now for the noodles.

This was a noodle experiment. I was suspicious of these new noodles and their unappealing packaging, but had been advised of the healthy and delicious nature of this particular kind. K took it as his moral duty to prepare them according to the instructions. Three minutes in boiling water, a quick rinse and drain, and a good slicing with the old scissors to aid servation.

All good. But the result?

Brains on a plate

A little taste revealed that they were indeed the devil incarnate in food. Oh ho! we thought wisely, perhaps when we mix them with our delicious sauce they will soak it all up and become a delicacy worthy of a self-important monarch! It will be morsels of joy we shall consume tonight!

Not so

This sad discovery made Mister Balloon feel very sad, and very hungry.

Sad, hungry

Poor Mister Balloon. He was very very sad, and very hungry indeed. A depressed, ravenous balloon.

Suicidal?

Mister Balloon, if we are being honest, had more than one problem in his life. Not only was his dinner inedible slop, but he had very sore piles on his bottom, and worse than this, he was bald.

Suddenly, he had a "brain"wave! The noodles had another use!

Happy solution for all

And so versatile too! Check out this stylish do!

Farrah Fawcett

And so the moral of the story is this: if your food looks like brains or entrails, and tastes worse than a spoonful of pimple ointment, then find a friend who needs the food for his or her own unique purposes.

It might just save their life.

Peoples of the world: stop judging...and start living.

neuro-praxis -- Ringing For Chinese

The Future Is No Place to Place Your Better Days

Well it would appear that I have returned from the dead. Death wasn't as bad as I expected it to be, but I am sure that this is something that you will see for yourself as time goes by, unless you are some kind of ethereal spirit that simply floats about the place as a glowing orb of light and hangs round retro nightclubs. In that case, I'm not sure if death will ever darken your door.

Well, the housemates have been away, holidaying around the coast in one of their fathers' boats. I feel so darned poor. We never even had a caravan. Hell, we didn't even have a car. We would just sit in large cardboard boxes obtained from skips nearby, paint wheels on them, and drive away with our imaginations.

Those were the days.

K was also away, doing some sort of scavenger hunt or something for work. He was gone four days, leaving me rattling around the vast expanse of our three bed semi in the isolated housing estates of Kilcock. No housemates, no husband.

So what would any self-respecting Irish woman do in such lonely circumstances? You got it: have a Lancôme makeover party! No I'm lying. (None of you thought for a moment that that might be true though anyway, right?) No, instead, I had a killer tinny party with more Dutch Gold and rowdy neighbours than you could shake a stick at. No...that's also untrue. I watched a few movies with some friends, caught up with my brother, ate some Japanese food, soaked up some Dublin sun.

I also found my spiritual home: the mosque. No, not the mosque. I don't love Allah: I love Jesus. ROLL ON EASTER. No, my new spiritual home is Café en Seine on Dawson Street. I spent Sunday afternoon lounging there with some of my lady friends and a rather friendly fellow from Leuven, the town in Belgium where Stella Artois is brewed (thanks Leuven for your tasty and expensive beer!). There was a jazz band but no cover fee, my Chardonnay was five euros a glass but the most expensive meal on the menu was €11, and almost everything was made of marble. MARBLE, BABY. It was French. It was pretentious. It was artsy. It was laid-back, but real laid back - not posey laid-back. There was no pressure to keep buying drink after drink as the waiting staff were too busy preening themselves and swapping phone numbers and black clothing to give a fiddler's fart about what we were up to (which just happened to be stealing the compost from the vases of the forty-foot indoor tree by our table, frantically shoving it into our handbags). Dreamy.

So I didn't get anywhere with my thesis in the last ten days but to discuss that would mean I have to take some of my "relaxation pills".

(Oh how I wish I had "relaxation pills".)

I saw The Machinist tonight. I won't review it; blog movie reviews are the pits. THE PITS. That's something my mother always says. My mother often gets a mention round these parts actually, doesn't she? Well I suppose it is reasonable seeing as I grew inside her nutritious womb for nine months.

Here she is, then, in fine form.

Back to the movie. Maybe watch it, but go in a good mood. It has left me feeling about as cheerful as a chubby ovarian cyst. Go read the reviews for yourself that I linked to it, and take care to wear your meat helmet (or whatever it is that you use for comfort) before viewing.

Speaking of ovarian cysts, due to some menstrual irregularities (am I allowed to discuss this without people dropping dead of shame?) I began to fear that I had some. Cysts, that is. Several hours with the doctor and lots of stolen blood and urine samples later, I was set free today with a large prescription for hormones of some kind, and it would appear that all is not well with neuro-praxis. She shall deal with this henceforth by referring to herself in the third person. But fear not: neuro-praxis will probably mention the outcome of the tests at some point in the future if she is in a divulge-atory mood. For now, she will be nursing her bruised veins and empty wallet. (Heroin? Heroine?)

The first rule of period club is -- you do not talk about period club.

So what else has been happening? We've been preparing at church (site under construction, by the way) for the biggest gala (GA-LA-LA-LA!) of the year. May I invite each of you to our Sunday evening Easter celebration - March 27th at 7pm in Maynooth Post Primary School. It should be good. You'll made welcome.

And Bono is coming. YES.

Well, that's the cookies out on the plate. I'm off to listen to some delightfully chilled Silje Nergaard now and to drink some tea; strong with a little milk (are you taking notes?). And maybe talk to that guy I accidentally married six months ago (half year anniversary tomorrow, folks).

It's been great, thanks very much. I'll be here all week.

neuro-praxis -- Showcasing For The Profligate

Find Me

This needs to be done from time to time.

The top search strings in google and yahoo and other such zones of seeking for this month that caused folks to stumble upon this here blog are as follows:

1. clothespegs
   
2. ferrero rocher origami
   
3. neurolife hair treatment
   
4. corroborate
   
5. hemorrhoids loud flatus (my personal favourite, that)
   
6. jake gillenhall
   
7. maud gonne fuck (er, what?)
   
8. we came in drastic like tameless horses
   

It's reassuring to know that no matter what kind of internet perversion you're after, you'll probably stumble upon me. More of this nonsense later.

neuro-praxis -- Giving Cold And Flu The Old One-Two

A Little Older, A Little Wiser

WHAT DID YOU LEARN TODAY NEURO

That one cent pieces bounce well on the pavement but that two cent pieces bounce badly, and are best kept for throwing into the river and making wishes that will inevitably come true, causing the earth to internally combust semi-silently, like a terrible, terrible fart.

WHAT DID YOU DO TODAY NEURO

I spent most of today with Lydia, who does not read this blog. FINE LYDIA, FINE. She is my oldest friend (but not for much longer). Her brother (a wee fellow of 22) and his wife have just had a baby a few days ago and I flittered away my afternoon adoring him. I even wiped his bottom free of faeces. The baby's bottom, not Lydia's 22 year old brother's. You sick pervert. The baby is exceptionally beautiful but can neither tell jokes nor make a decent cup of tea, so I've definitely had better company.

OTHER STUFF

I ate good Mexican food but the best bit was the free eskimo mint at the end. Oh, it was so minty and crunchy. Mmm. And free, yeah.

I walked around a lot today. Now I'm tired. Car is good, *grunt*.

I listened to the Cocteau Twins cd some more: Adrian owns it. Man, it's no wonder you're depressed. They're some melancholic bastards. Good, though.

There's more but I can't get it out in a way that won't sear you with boredom. Dully-dull Dullpants here needs her beauty sleep. (Have you seen the state of me?) Badly.

neuro-praxis -- Not Into Budgeting

Corroborate Me

The weather was so fantastically bad that we overturned our jazz club notion and instead K, I and Les 'Ousemates Extraordinaire went to the local greasy spoon for burgers and then to O'Keeffe's for a pint, booya.

I am now decompressing, alone, just me and my laptop, while the rest of the losers in this house infect their souls with such television junk as The West Wing and...whatever else is on.

The last exam went mediocrely. I want the results now. I request that one of you contact my university and make this happen. Stat.

I cannot entertain you because there is nothing left inside me. I am a dishrag of small proportions. Grey in colour, and possibly in need of a wash. I want to listen to lugubrious piano songs and stare at the ceiling. I'm not exactly sure why, but I'm sure it will cheer me up.

I have a very full weekend ahead but the part I am most looking forward to is the Scottish night hosted by my Scottish friend, who is going to tie us down and force-feed us haggis through tubes up our noses, as is the custom where he's from. Or so he says. And we will all be wearing kilts. Leather kilts; very short. In fact, he sent a long letter detailing how we are to dress and what we are to bring. The list included a bottle of hard liquor, two clothespegs and a whip. Team-building exercises perhaps? Wearing only your underclothes and using just two clothespegs and a whip, work together to build a tower that represents "unity"!!

Here's hoping.

The upshot of this spout of very windy weather is that the next door neighbours' new fence fell down again. Ha ha. They recently put up a very ugly, very tall wooden fence that blocks our view of the rest of the street and casts a shadow on our lawn. The Irish weather detests it, however, and it collapses repeatedly. Whenever it falls, Mags and I whoop with joy and send then anonymous "YOU'LL GET WHAT'S COMING TO YOU" notes made from letters cut out of Woman's Way magazines. They don't know who they're from but it makes them edgy.

K is back, and he is kicking his new fair trade football around the bedroom, so I had better go and sedate him.

neuro-praxis -- Is Not Your Mother

Death Becomes Her

According to the clock and the calendar, I have an exam today, but according to my brain, it is not until tomorrow.

I can remember the period when I was a child when I first heard that the next day begins, not in the morning as I had presumed, but at midnight. A pretentious little girl who lived on my street informed me. Her mother had apparently recently filled her in on this little factoid. I completely and utterly did not believe her. She was the kind of precocious seven year old who spent too much time with grown-ups, and was full of adult phrases such as "oh for pete's sake" and "meet me at 12 o'clock sharp". She also called her mother "Phil" instead of Mammy. Like...piss off. I only hang around with you because you have a climbing frame, swings and a slide in your back garden. And your mother gives us Smarties based on our age. (Yes, she actually gave you four Smarties if your were four, and twelve if you were twelve. Being the youngest child on our street, the injustice of this was unbearable for me.)

I was far too sensible to believe that the new day began in the middle of the night. God, how dumb could you get? Middle of the night indeed. The new day begins in the morning.

I stand by that.

I belatedly saw Fahrenheit 9/11 last night and it was so bad that I shall not give you a link to read about it because I do not wish for you to be poisoned by manipulative tripe. Mister Mickey Moore is so biased that he makes you feel compassion for that fundamentalist victory thief. The best part of the movie was when I drank the beers. The worst part was when it was not over.

I have recently gotten back in contact with an old web friend (no, not Spiderman) but John, an all-kicking all-punching bag of computer science frenzy. Check out his blog, particularly his links to "beautiful people". There are some fantastic blogs listed there for your perusal and enjoyment. Be there or be triangular. (It is no longer hip to be square.)

Speaking of hips, and while we are roaming the streets of my litter-filled past, allow me inform you of a tasty truth: I have had surgery on my right hip twice. As a result, it aches whenever bad weather is coming. It is aching right now. Oh wise oracle hip, so you reckon it is going to rain? WELL NO SHIT SHERLOCK. Bad weather is coming?? Thanks for that. Because it's not like bad weather plonked itself down on the proverbial Irish living room sofa this season and has been farting and spitting profusely for quite a while now or anything. Where was my hip's jibber-jabber pre the Asia disaster? Probably off warming itself by the radiator in a nice pair of corduroy trousers under the desk where I study. Stupid hip *mutter mutter*.

There is something in my life right now that is causing me and my housemates a great deal of discomfort. Since approximately the end of October this year, I have ceased to sleep at night. Or during the day. The short of it: I'm not sleeping. I have not yet reached zombie status. I have not yet formed for myself an alter ego that makes soap out of the fat of rich ladies' asses. I have not begun a club that meets in basements around the city where businessmen "furdle one another with thumps" (thanks embee) and "lamp" each other rotten (thanks Dave) with bared fists and midriffs exposed for all and sundry to gawp at. No, I am not there yet. But perhaps I am in a worse place, for I have taken up...knitting. Yes, it is true, and I refuse to be as ashamed of this as I ought to be. I have begun a project: a wide and long blue scarf which I will cheaply thrust upon an unlucky friend come next birthday.

I knit, clicking my needles loudly at ungodly hours of the night (when even the Lord Himself has hit the sack). I also listen to Spin FM's delightful through the night dance music, and that is where my housemates' discomfort comes in. WELL POOR THEM. Boo hoo, look at me, I can sleep ten hours a night no problem, turn off your radio you bitch, boo hoo. Etc. etc. Their giving out would drive you demented.

If you are the praying type, pray for me tomorrow between 15.30 and 16.30 while I battle through an obscure Modernism examination. If I fail, I will know that it is because of your lack of faith, you disappointing children. If you are not the praying type, please post me a tenner.

neuro-praxis -- Lolloping To Bed With An Ache In Her Head

neuro is IN TROUBLE. Also, POLITICAL.

I was a bold girl, it would seem! Some emails I have received:

Dear neuro

[Name withheld]

...and...

As someone with high moral standards (I am the treasurer of two churches in west Dublin) I am disgusted by the photographs of your husband. I am quite sure that I know you and will be informing your church leadership of your disgusting behaviour.

K.T.

Uh oh! And...

I don't know your real name, sorry, to Neuro Praxis,

T.G.

No, he's not. : ( And...

Dear neuropraxis

[Name withheld]

You're all so ready to comment on your disgust but let me tell you this: when K was at those memorial "statues", he was weeping. What you see in that photograph is clearly an expression of distress. I already stated that he had to drink whisky in order to calm down, which is very unusual for him.

Frankly, I am quite hurt by the fact that you feel you can mock him (and by proxy, me) for our compassion.

I have had enough of this. I'm off to the memorials of the Bhopal disaster and the Bam earthquake and then the Srebrenica Massacre.

Oh wait...they don't exist!

IF MY BLOG WERE AN EGG IT WOULD BE CLASS 3, OR GRADE 3, OR WHATEVER. Point is: it's crap. CRAP.

[edit] Having taken into account the weighty opinions of my readers...I have decided to delete this entry and enter it in the Archive of Shameful Misdemeanours, thus CHANGING HISTORY.

It was here, and now it isn't. What a mindfuck, eh?[/edit]

There is No Point in Denying that I Am Alarmed

The more I look at that, the more creeped out I feel.

I spent the weekend as guardian of two children, who, let's face it, were no work at all. I still don't want babies, though. Sunday afternoon was the best: I became a child again for approximately two hours as we played with the rather fantastic play-dough. I made a lizard, a plate of spaghetti, a snail and, my finest creation, a pebble. I am feeling inspired to become a sculptor.

I finished a three thousand word essay on whether or not The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot is a proto-Christian work at 3am last night. I barely understand a shred of what I have written so I expect an A+.

Last night K and I decided to have an impromptu date and just hopped in the old automobile and went our merry way. Hurrah! The freedom is asphyxiating. The car has become a delightful addition to my little family. VROOM VROOM. We had a moment of terror on Sunday after church where the indicators were flashing, despite the fact that they were off, and the bastard just wouldn't start. I rang my father, the knower of many things, who (despite the fact that he has never owned a car with an alarm) advised me that it had simply been immobilised by the alarm. WHATTA MAN WHATTA MAN WHATTA MAN WHAT A MIGHTY GOOD MAN. He was right and we zoomed away, waving our scarves out the window and singing songs from 1960's British musicals.

Remember Salt-N-Pepa? Those bold girleens. I loved those laydeez. That was back in the day when I thought nothing could be cooler than being a rapping black chick who said rude words on telly.

In terms of what I think is cool, not a lot has changed.