I haz (not) internetz

Or something. I hear people who like LolCatz (Google ‘em, I’m too lazy / jaded to link) talk like that. Anyway, I’m having serious internet problems which are hindering my blogging capabilities. Were my internet so disposed, I could blog about:

• the nightmare of moving a wardrobe comparable to Mariah Carey’s 10 miles in a Subaru Vivio
• Shakira’s new video for She Wolf
• the new American Apparel store; although to be fair, that may be better suited to my new fashion home, Style Bitches are Vicious
• Heidi and Spencer’s possible pregnancy
• the fact that the Mary Kate Olsen I’m following on Twitter may not be the real MK / may be a foreign imposter

But alas and alack, no internetz = no online thoughts. Situation will be rectified by Saturday, when I shall be blogging away happily again, albeit in another location.

Also, keep an eye out in coming weeks for a feature by yours truly on the lovely meet-ups of Ireland courtesy of Twitter in The Irish Times‘ Saturday magazine. Mama, I’ve [almost] arrived!

Baby animals vs baby babies

Were I clever enough, I could be making a fortune with a blog about my cat. Like this one. I do like baby animals, prompting M at work to chirp: “You know what you need? A baby.” This is a terrifying thought. Kind of because of what Eoin Butler has to say on the topic, but also because, well, babies kind of leave me cold. I don’t hate them; on the contrary, other people’s babies are obviously a miracle of life and something to be revered and enjoyed etc etc. I’m sure my mother’s turning in her desk chair.

I just. . . I don’t. . . ooh and aah over them. I happily ooh and aah to my heart’s content at pictures of cute animals, on the other hand. I loves them. Bringing me to the point: were I able to (a) find my cat and (b) make my cat adorable things that didn’t involve rubbing her hair all over everything and (c) make her stay still long enough to take a photograph, I could be rich.

Yo’ comments are whack

And as an addendum, might I suggest paying attention, those of you who think one sentence is a paragraph. You know who you are and, frankly, it hurts my eyes.

Captivity literature – epic

So the elder sibling was home for the weekend. Family fun. A choice excerpt would be something like:

Me: Can someone help me wedge this dress onto me? Is it just not going to fit?

The sister: Just squash your boob in there. . . no, no, it’s too small.

Me: Well take it off, I feel claustrophobic!

Mother [to the sis]: You’ve got so thin, haven’t you?

Cue stunned silence from all.  Mammies really know when to stick the knife in – or, rather, seeing as I was stuck in the knife with no discernable way out without cutting off my arms, of twisting it. Bless ‘er.

Anyway, while the sis was home showing me up and generally being quite mean and accomplished, she lent me a book she’d just read, The Blue Tattoo by Margot Mifflin. As I am more than halfway through I am now quite the authority on captivity prose and all that lies therein, and know everything there is to know about the Mohave tribe. Boasting aside, it’s really interesting stuff: it tells the story of Olive Oatman, and as my summarising skills fell apart when I reached age 15 and realised, at last, that the point of a book review is not to tell the story (one of my earliest memories of a heartbreaking revelation) I’ll allow the book jacket to do the honours:

A life change of sorts

I blogged a wee while ago about an impending life change. It is this: I am moving home. The economy being what it is (and believe me, I do hate platitudes about our current economic woes), work being unreliable, my rent having the potential to be beyond next month’s means have combined to mean that I’m moving home. The long-term plan – and isn’t it everyone’s? – is to buy a place of my own, possibly around Christmas 2010, but that does depend on my having reliable work and stable finances, so we’ll have to see how that goes.

I’m not pleased about the move, per se, but there are a few things I will be glad about, namely: Mummy’s cooking; our housekeeper, Sally (am I supposed to say “home help” now? That sounds like a hospice service, but I’m sure there are some PC-related rules about it); the views; rejoining the gym and returning to spinning classes (so nerdy but I miss it); having time to read my book on the Luas.

Things I will miss include: S and her general ability to make me feel like there’s a lot I could accomplish (no, S, I’m not sure how you do this, but you do, so thanks); cycling into work; the ability to visit friends, go to the cinema and go for pints at a whim; the old ladies on the 122; and being able to visit Roseanne at such short notice. We’ll see how my lifestyle will adapt to these.

But for now, I’m homeward bound, like Simon and Garfunkel. It feels like a step back, but I’m trying to make it feel like a step forward, so you’ll have to forgive general positive thinking bullshit that I may come out with in coming weeks.

This is how I felt last Wednesday night in Crawdaddy

And time goes by. . .

Inspired by a recent tweet, I got to thinking about all the things the next generation won’t understand. The Wonder Years is, I’m sure, one – not that they’ll get a chance to think about it. Add to that My So-Called Life and Buffy the Vampire Slayer which, even now, is beginning to look a little bit faded, like it’s missed out on its daily dose of CGI. The list is not exhaustive, but it is exhausting; how will we explain the following to our children, to our children’s children?

• cassette tapes
• David Hasselhoff
• Betamax
• the Spice Girls
• followed closely by Buffalo runners with six-inch platform soles
• MiniDisc players
• computers without internet connections
• the world before Apple
• record players
• tea leaves (not gone yet, but almost. . .)
• Tamagotchis
• cars without power steering
• scooters
• sunbeds (hopefully)
• Fat Frogs (they’re gone, apparently)
• board games like Enchanted Forest
• Chuck Norris
• those tiny individual pizzas that used to get doled out at every children’s party under the sun
• phonebooths

Feel free to add your own; I’ve suddenly got very depressed and need to go upstairs, play with my Tamagotchi and listen to some old 12-inch records.

The oddness of Twitter. . .

I tweet, therefore I am. Although that can’t be right because it’s iPhone, therefore I am. So I tweet, therefore I. . . try to be. Today I found myself randomly tweeting Taylor Swift. She was emptying our her “purse” (American for “handbag”); I advised her to get a larger “purse”. Wise, so wise.

Then I tweeted Little Boots. She was conducting a twinterview; I told her that it was not as gripping as I thought it would be. (Neither Little Boots nor Swifty responded to me.)

And behold the lovely Mary-Kate Olsen, whose tweets I am also following. It is a strange, strange world this, in which I can “follow” these celebrities and send them messages that they will then receive. I wonder, do they read them? I haven’t tweeted MK yet because I can’t think of anything intelligent to say to her.

Today I witnessed a grown man grovel for Stella McCartney’s attention. She, it would appear, is following him, but she will not respond to his tweets. The latest? “I’m having lamb for dinner, just because you won’t write back to me. So there!” Oh but wasn’t that a ROFL moment! (It actually was.)

Future musings

Sometimes I think about the future, and I wish for things not to happen to me or, more specifically, my personality. Which I obviously think is pretty gosh darned perfect as it is. However, I realise (from past experience) that these things don’t often go the way I hope they will. My “please don’t let me end up. . .” list from about five years ago might have read:

• be the type of person who comes home from work, eats toast for dinner and puts on her pyjamas. At 6pm.
• saying things like “well there you have it” in response to sentence that I wasn’t really listening to.
• spending my Sundays in Avoca surrounded by red-headed kids, sipping lattes and gossiping about people I used to kind of know at school.
• reading the Sindo religiously.
• watching hideous medical documentaries with my head hidden behind a cushion while screeching “ugh come in and look at this!“

I guess it’s true that we all turn into our parents eventually. Right now I’m hoping I never end up being the kind of person who calls their other half “baby”, or refers to them in polite (or impolite) conversation as “my baby”. Nauseating stuff.

And just because this was in my head all weekend, The Crystals, He’s a Rebel.

Sui-te dreams are made of these. . .

I signed up to mails from The Outnet when it first arrived on the scene and – apart from a few hairy moments with a very impractical pair of Louboutins – I’ve never been tempted by its wares. Until yesterday, that is, when I got an e-mail with a beautiful consignment of Anna Sui items. Behold the joys: