Monthly Archives: June 2014

It’s A Dog’s Life… Part III

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Poppy is a chewer.

I spend my days constantly watching her. I have learned that if she is unattended, for even a minute, she will find something to chew on.

Therefore… I watch.

She has a particular penchant for drinks coasters.

Whilst busy painting upstairs last week, I was enjoying some unusual peace and quiet. As I had left the two dogs contentedly sleeping next to each other, I felt sure the silence was nothing to be concerned about.

Wrong!

After about an hour, I checked on them and found that poppy had been hard at work on yet another coaster.

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Moving the coasters onto the sideboard is no deterrent. She seems to take it as a challenge to scale the back of the sofa in order to reach the contra banned treasure. I must remove all coasters from any surface and move them on to the, as yet unreachable, kitchen counters, or else we are condemned to ring marks on our surfaces.

Tissues. Tissues are cocaine for Poppy.

I must always, always ensure that the kitchen chairs are tucked underneath the table whenever I leave the room, or else I am certain to return to find Poppy happily sitting in the middle of the table, surrounded by shredded tissues.

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Worse still, she has no issue sticking her head into the wastebasket to fish out disposed-of tissues to make into gross confetti.

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I admit I am bit of a neat freak.

I hate clutter and mess and, as a result, I own several storage boxes.

One of these boxes doubles as an occasional table beside my favourite chair in the TV room. It is a very pleasant, chocolate brown, faux leather box, to match the REAL leather sofa that Poppy has already kindly destroyed for us.

Immediately upon arrival at the house, she began to chew on the box. I decided it was not a massive issue as I could always turn the box around to hide the hole she had created. Realising she was not at the end of her chewing phase, we opted to duct tape the hole up and leave it in situ, just in case she chewed another corner off.

Just as well we did… I present the duct taped box.

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Do not be mistaken. Poppy does not limit her destruction to the confines of the house.

Lately, we have been enjoying some very rare and very welcome sunshine here in Ireland.

The OH and I have been relishing sitting outside in the garden at any given opportunity. Due to Poppy’s relentless campaign of terror on my much loved and cared for flower beds, we have purchased a long line and a stake, which limits her running around to just shy of the flower beds. The line does not, however, deny her access to our deck.

It turns out the half-rotting deck is ambrosia to Poppy. We frequently hear a ripping noise and then see this flash of white, as she makes off with a piece of decaying wood.

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Our vague and distant plans to replace the deck with a stone patio seem to be becoming more pressing. We like to joke that Poppy is helping us with the removal of the old deck…

Her baby teeth appear to have all been lost and replaced by her forever teeth, so I am at a loss as to why she continues to chew everything in sight. She has more chew toys than any dog has a right to own, and yet she prefers to gnaw on my furniture, shoes, anything she can get her furry little jaws on.

So I continue to watch over her, my throat sore from repeatedly yelling, “Poppy! No!”, doomed to never again sit for any period of time without having to leap out of my seat to take some stolen item out of her mouth.

Will this phase ever end I ask myself…

Will it???

Ciao

💋

It’s A Dog’s Life… Part II

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My beautiful little Bichon Frise, Lily, AKA the Love Of My Life, has many, many delightful qualities.

Her reaction to being groomed is not one of them.

As soon as the slicker brush appears, my adorable little bundle of white fluff morphs into the hound from hell. Regardless of how gently I use the brush, she growls like a demon at me.

For some reason she allows me to brush the hair on her head and face without too much of a struggle, but as soon as the bristles touch her back she bares her comically tiny little teeth at me. I have all but given up on any attempts to brush her legs as the snarling and biting is simply not worth the hassle.

But she saves her most mournful howls of despair for when I try to brush her glorious tail. The OH and I have resorted to what would appear to be a torturous ritual, whereby he holds her little head in his hands while I try to get the job done as quickly and painlessly as possible. The cries of dismay and distress that emanate from my little darling are heartbreaking.

Our solution, albeit a costly one, is to frequently bring her to the groomer. Not that this has been any easier to be honest. After a few trips, the groomer hinted that she might not take Lily again, as the biting and snarling was quite bad.

I despaired! If a professional found it hard to cope how on earth would I ever manage?

And then an angel was sent to us from heaven. A new staff member at the groomer, the wonderful Zowie, took Lily under her wing.

I could tell they would get along as Lily jumped into her arms the first time we met her. This was after being carried up the driveway, once Lily realized where she was!

Zowie adores Lily and has often told me she doesn’t find her difficult to groom at all. She did notice the issue with her tail however, and suggested that perhaps she has an underlying muscle strain around the tail area from her past life with her former, less loving, parents.

As I have shared with you all before, Lily came to us at 18 months with a badly matted coat and a tail that needed to be completely shaved to remove all knots and matts. I can only wonder what torture she had to endure in her last home, where she was either not groomed at all, or forcibly groomed at some point early on in her life. Because of this suspicion I find it particularly heart wrenching to feel that I am causing her any pain when I attempt to brush her.

When I return to the groomer to collect her, my little Lily is always so happy to see me and leaps into my arms, smelling better that I think I ever do!

The last time I collected her I had to do a double take. Zowie had so much fun with her that she had plaited her long ears and finished them off with a bow!

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I laughed all the way home, watching her little plaits bounce as she walked ahead of me.

Although Lily was not a happy girl… I think her face says it all don’t you?

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I, perhaps meanly, left the braids in place until the OH came home from work, as I simply could not deprive him of the sight in the flesh.

It was great joy that Lily shook her beautiful little head as I unraveled the plaits later that evening to reveal amazing corkscrew curls.

Between professional grooms we still struggle to keep her coat matt free.

I wish, more than anything, that I could undo what ever trauma that she carries from her past, so the grooming could be the lovely bonding experience I read about in all the training books.

My only solace is that she has a very forgiving nature and recovers extremely quickly once the brushing is over. She never holds a grudge and loves me, despite the torture I inflict on her.

That really is love, that is!

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Ciao,

💋

A Piercing Debate…

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So, little North West has had her tiny one-year old earlobes pierced.

This has prompted much debate on social media and TV. I watched this morning as a vox pop was carried out on Irish breakfast TV about the issue.

Overwhelmingly, the public were not in favour of piercing a child’s ears until, wait for it, communion age. Almost everyone said they would wait until the child was old enough to “choose for herself”, i.e.; age 7.

The paradox that they would wait for their daughter to decide about her own ear piercing, but would not allow the child to choose her own religion, or whether she even wanted a religion, was lost on them.

I put it to you, which is worse… puncturing tiny holes in a child’s ears, a relatively painless and completely reversible procedure, or years of indoctrination into a religion that has fostered bigotry, misogyny and sexual abuse for decades?

The Catholic Church opposes both contraception and abortion, both of which are, in mine and thousands of feminist’s opinion, fundamental foundations to women’s social and economic freedom.

The Church is blatantly sexist in so far as it will only ordain men, instantly depriving half of the population of equal rights.  In 2010, the Vatican declared that the attempted ordination of women would be a “grave sin” and placed it on par with paedophilia. (The irony of this statement is almost unbearable.)

Any bishop who carried out the ordination ceremony would be excommunicated, along with the woman who dared to dream of being a priest.

During the 1920s the Catholic Church actively campaigned against women getting the right to vote. Pope Pius XI declared that women’s liberation would distract them from their true vocation of “motherhood and home-making”.

When tampons were invented during the 1940s, the Irish Catholic Church suspected that they, “could harmfully stimulate young girls at an impressionable age”, and subsequently got them banned from our shelves.

Until as recently as 1967, following Vatican II, women were expected to remain at home for up to six weeks after childbirth, before going to be “Churched” in a “cleansing” ritual blessing by the priest. Many women over the years have spoken of their sense of ostracism they felt prior to receiving this “blessing”.

The unspeakably shameful recent discovery of 800 infant bodies in a sewage tank in West Ireland, can be directly related to 1940’s Ireland and the public shaming of women who had premarital sex, which resulted in a baby.  These women were carted away to “mother and baby” homes, which, in reality, were little more than prisons.  The children that survived were brandished illegitimate and either adopted out of the country, or sent to the notorious “industrial schools” for a life of misery and abuse.

In this country, my country, under the watch of the Catholic Church, women were subjugated for decades.

Children, little boys and little girls, were beaten and raped by paedophiles, who were routinely discovered, only to be moved on to pastures new and fresh young meat.

Let us not even venture into the dark and murky history of the Catholic Church and it’s sympathy with the Nazi regime during World War II.

Given this shameful history, and the Church’s continued stance on (un)equal rights for women, I cannot understand how anyone could think whether or not to pierce a baby’s ears was a more important decision than whether or not to impose an entire religious ideology on to a developing human being.

Having been raised in the Catholic faith myself, educated by nuns my entire childhood, and still bearing the scars of shame and guilt this left me with to this day, I personally would consider the piercing of little North West’s ears a triviality, in relative terms.

The people in the TV vox pop are certainly entitled to their opinions, but I wonder have they really given the idea that they presume a child will make her communion, but would not presume to pierce her ears without consultation, much deep thought.

Sadly, I suspect not.

Ciao

💋

Note: I firmly believe that people have the right to choose and practice any religion that they want to, and this post was never intended to disrespect any individual person’s choice.  

Caught In The Act

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The OH and myself were staying at a particularly posh hotel.

It was the morning of our checkout and, stuffed to the gills with a massive breakfast, we returned to our room to shower and pack up.

As he showered, I dressed and watched some TV.

After a while, it occurred to me that he had been in the bathroom for an extraordinary amount of time.

The door to the bathroom was ajar, so I peeped in to see what was delaying him.

And I saw him…

Head bowed, shoulders hunched, the hotel complimentary robe agape, face fixed in complete focus, there he was, pumping away.

His entire body shuddered with effort as his bicep rapidly flexed. Sweat dripping down his forehead in the still-steamy room, his breathing laboured as he resolutely kept ramming his hand up and down, up and down.

He was not going to stop until he had drained every, single, precious, last drop…                                 from the bathroom shampoo, conditioner and body cream dispensers and into our travel bottles.

Struggling to catch my breath, I doubled over laughing at the sight of the half-naked OH filling bottles with the incredibly expensive luxury brand goodies, the retail price of which I had lamented upon the previous night.

Turning towards me, red-faced, from embarrassment or exertion, I cannot be sure, my big, bearded, manly OH simply shrugged at me and muttered, “but my hair has never felt so soft”…

😈

Have you ever ‘stolen’ from a hotel room?

Do you consider complimentary toiletries fair game, or is it technically still theft?

What is the biggest or worst thing you have ever taken from a hotel room?

Go on… spill!

Ciao

💋

Facing the truth… Part II

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To rehash an old line, today is the first day of the rest of my life! (well, technically, yesterday was…)

Recent grumblings about my weight and lack of fitness has spurned me into action. The OH has agreed to join me in my mission to get healthy again.

To maximize our chances of success, the OH and I resolutely polished off all the alcohol in the house on Sunday night and have vowed to not purchase any more. (Tough work but it had to be done…)

I have been to the health shop and stocked up on Milk Thistle, Artichoke capsules and various other potions designed to detox the body.

My fridge is stocked with nectarines, melon and veggies, and four large grapefruit sit in my fruit bowl.

Since the weekend I have single-handedly downed gallons of water. I might consider simply setting up house in the downstairs loo during the day, due to the increased bladder activity related to my water consumption.

The dogs have been walked more frequently and for longer than ever before, which results in a peaceful house for me, as they lie snoozing most of the day now.

I have been religiously massaging body oil into my skin post shower and already my thighs are feeling smoother and tighter.

I am waiting for my damned foot injury to completely heal and then I plan a seriously sweaty date with the clothes horse/cross trainer that is gathering dust in my spare room.

It is with sincere hopefulness that I write and record these changes today. My goal is that by sharing my mission with you guys and gals, I have committed to clean living and will feel the need to account for myself if I trip up.

My plan is to not deny myself any food I want, in order to compensate for my abstinence and my increased exercise.

Life has to have some rewards! I savoured a delicious mint choc chip ice cream in a buttery waffle cone at the weekend, basking in the sunshine and it was bliss. Foregoing my evening glass of vino will not be as arduous if I can look forward to little treats like that from time to time.

I apologise in advance for any angry/sad/demented ranting that may occur over the next week or so as I adjust to my new regime.

I will try to keep any outbursts under control.

So, wish me luck friends!

Ciao

💋

Facing the truth…

Posted in life by

Ageing sucks.

I have noticed recently that I am starting to truly feel the ageing process kick in.

The mirror is not my friend.

I see more lines than before, more grey hairs, more flesh around my middle.

I have the hands of a sixty year old, because I have never bothered to use hand cream.

I feel aches and pains more often. My joints are stiff and sore.

I struggle to remember the last time I did not feel tension and burning in my shoulders and lower back.

More and more often I find myself in a room with no idea why I went into it.

I struggle to remember things or recall words I need.

 😰

To be fair, a lot of my woes could be a result of letting my once uber healthy lifestyle slip.

Once upon a time, I was a die-hard exerciser, healthy eater, moderate drinker and non-smoker.

I have at least stayed off the cigarettes, but that is about all I have in common with my former self.

Last summer I weighed a stone less than I do now.

I proudly sported an enviable set of abs and defined biceps.

My legs were slim and I had the much sought-after thigh gap.

I had cheekbones and clavicles on show for god’s sake!

Today I sit at my kitchen table feeling my jeans dig in around my thighs and stomach.  My bra feels restrictive and the cups are overflowing.

My face, reflected on the Mac Book screen, no longer flaunts bone structure, but instead taunts me with a slack jawline and sagging skin.

When I weighed less I had more energy.

I did not suffer in the heat due to any extra insulation. I felt lighter and springier and, I’ll admit it, happier in myself.

I need to make changes.

My diet needs to return to my once healthy regime of salads, fruit and lots of water.

I need to cut back on how much I drink. The truth is, the sadness brought about by my physical changes and increasing aches and pains has resulted in me often seeking solace in a glass, or several, of wine. This must stop.

I also need to reacquaint myself with daily exercise. The funny thing is that I know that exercise actually increases energy over time, but I find myself stuck in a lazy and apathetic frame of mind when it comes to actually getting that sports bra on and getting active.

Using ageing as an excuse is simply not acceptable to me anymore.

I have a body that works and I should put it to use.

I should fuel it properly with wholesome foods and push it to become stronger by moving it more often.

I am sure that not only will my physical appearance improve, but also my mood will be lifted and my thoughts will be clearer.

Stretching and using my body will most likely help relieve some my aches and pains, rather than add to them.

So what is stopping me?

That is the question…

Ciao

💋

It’s a dogs life…

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My life revolves around two tiny, fluffy little dogs.

I exaggerate not.

I got my Bichon Frise, Lily, (aka Love Of My Life), for my 40th birthday, last October.

It was truly love at first sight.

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She sleeps with me, watches me shower, follows me from room to room, even the bathroom. She is my constant companion.

We bought her, but from a home where she was unwanted and neglected, so we consider her a rescue dog. She came to us at the age of 18 months, with matted fur, very little training and poor social skills.

We showed her complete love and affection, worked on her toilet training and got her matts shaved out of her coat.

After several months we saw a change in her as she relaxed and began to trust that this was her forever home.

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We celebrated her second birthday with great joy.

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One issue that was a major cause for concern was her distress at being left alone for any length of time. We feared that in her first home she had been neglected and possibly left alone all day.

Lily awaiting my return

Her panic and distress at being left alone has resulted in no holidays and a grand total of TWO nights out to the cinema for the OH and I since she arrived. Whenever I left the house on errands, I always rushed back, feeling massive guilt for leaving her at home.

She got so upset at any absence of me in the room that the OH and I decided to get her a little sister.

Poppy, the Cavachon, joined our household in April of this year.

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We had no idea the disruption and heartache she would bring.

Lily hated her on sight.

My little girls nose was put seriously out of joint by the interloper.

The OH fell head over heels in love with Poppy immediately, much as I had done with Lily. Many arguments as to whether or not Poppy could remain with us, given Lily’s level of distress at her presence, followed. Tears were shed on both sides and the house turned frosty.

My heart broke to see my once happy little dog cower in the corner as Poppy stole her food, her toys and her bed. My Lily just was not the same anymore and I couldn’t bear it.

After a few days, we took Poppy to our wonderful vet for her first health check, only to be told she had a congenital heart defect that was completely fatal. Our options were to allow her to progressively decline and eventually die at around a year old, or to opt for surgery that would completely cure the defect.

There was no question about it. We were not people who could be responsible for any animal suffering.  Given that the OH was flatly refusing the idea of returning her, or trying to rehome her, we decided we could not bear to bond with her and then wait for her to die.

We had no pet insurance and the surgery was due to cost up to €2,000.

The unscrupulous man we had bought her from was not returning our calls at all. We felt he needed to know the situation and stop breeding form the bad genetic line.

I hope karma has something special in store for him.

Our vet pleaded our case to the vet hospital and managed to get us a discounted charity fee of €1,000, which was a blessing.

I have to admit that the three days that Poppy was away for her surgery were a wonderful respite from the fighting and despair that had become the norm between the two dogs.

I savoured life with just Lily, as it had been in ‘the good old days’. We enjoyed three days of blissful togetherness.

However Poppy returned after the three days, full of energy, sporting a massive scar and funny little shaved belly. As if nothing had happened at all, she tore around the house at warp speed.

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This dog was unbreakable!

She proceeded to chew everything in sight.

Despite buying her a large collection of chew toys, she continued to favour my leather sofa, leather storage box, slippers, and chair legs, anything but the toys.

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Her little puppy nails scratched the sofa to shreds. So much so in fact that it is now covered by a throw to hide the ruins.

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She learned to jump up onto the kitchen chairs very early on and I have frequently retuned to the kitchen to find her perched on top of the dining table as if it were her own personal throne.

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She is single-pawedly destroying my much loved and well-tended garden. Fast as a cheetah, she is nigh on impossible to catch once she starts the garden rampage.

On the bright side, she took to house training very fast and has very few accidents now. She also walks very well on the leash, which is still a struggle with Lily.

Lily is adapting to the new arrangement, slowly but surely.

Lily prefers to lie in bed after I get up and wander downstairs at her own pace. She is not what you could call a “morning girl”.

Unfortunately, Poppy is.

As soon as Lily appears at the kitchen door Poppy dives on her for a morning cuddle and play. Lily growls, bares her tiny little teeth and a scuffle breaks out every morning. I have grown accustomed to this and tend to ignore it until it dies down after a few minutes.

My day ahead will be filled with keeping a close eye on Poppy to intercept any illegal chewing activities and countless trips to the garden for toilet breaks. I seem to spend an inordinate portion of my day circling the garden waiting for either dog to do their business.

But one day…

A breakthrough!

The other day I noticed the two dogs sharing a seat in the lounge, curled up together snoozing. They also now instigate play with each other, which still involves some snarling, but appears to be mostly harmless.

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They chase each other around the garden, trampling all over my flower beds. Lily has adopted some of Poppy’s bad habits and is now rooting around in my plantings as she never did before.

Poppy watches Lily’s every move, and we can see her learning so much from Lily. It’s lovely to observe her looking up to her big sister with total adoration in her brown, (slightly crossed), eyes.

I am feeling more hopeful each day that they will continue to bond, it is still very early days after all.

My Lily still knows she is my number one, my Love Of My Life. She maintains the privilege of being allowed to sleep on my bed, snuggled between me and the OH. Poppy is confined to her crate in the utility room at night, which suits her fine as long as she has her blanket and toys for company.

Each morning I am woken early by Poppy’s barking, demanding release and a toilet break.

I get up, do the honours and make a coffee. My days of sleeping in with Lily are long gone.

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I sit and enjoy the peace and quiet, as Poppy licks my toes under the table, and await the morning scuffle that will inevitably occur when Lily rocks up to the party.

Once the carnage is over, I get down on the floor and allow two gorgeous little dogs to climb and nibble all over me and I think perhaps Poppy has her place here after all.

Perhaps the ruined sofa, boxes, cushions and chairs are worth it for double the doggie love.

It has not been an easy couple of months but I am starting to see light at the end of the tunnel.

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Ciao

💋

* I feel it is only right that I should reference, highly recommend and thank rachelmankowitz.wordpress.com for inspiring me to write about my fluffy daughters.  🌻 🐶

Dumb Ways To Die…

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I have always been a bit obsessed with death.

As a child I pondered about it a lot.

As a teenager I read about vampires, serial killers and psychopaths.

As part of my psychology degree I studied Death and Dying.

I have planned and imagined my own funeral many, many times.

I am not fearful of death. In my opinion my consciousness simply ceases to exist, therefore why worry about it? Its not as if I will even know I am dead.

I just stop being.

The end.

Not having any religious beliefs, I have no fear of an afterlife in hell, or of a final judgement day.

I live my life according to my own ethos based on kindness and leaving this world better than I found it, simply because it is what I believe to be the best way to live.

I often wonder how long I have left on this mortal coil?

I wonder what form my death will take?

Will it be sudden, unexpected and quick?

Or slow, painful and drawn out?

Will it be violent or peaceful?

I suspect, however, that my end will come about in the most mundane, prosaic and fairly pathetic fashion.

Here are some of my possible dumb ways to die…

 

Death by Dyson cord

I used to have a Dyson Vacuum cleaner.

It was heavy and awkward to use but it had amazing suction so I stuck with it.

As time went on I began to suspect this machine was truly out to kill me. Its electrical cord was constantly finding ways to wrap itself around my ankles. It was as if it was a malevolently sentient entity.

I suffered many close shaves with it and narrowly avoided being tripped up by it on frequent occasion.

The final straw came one day whilst vacuuming at the top of the stairs, the wicked appliance made its final attempt to murder me, and only my fast reactions and the stair bannister prevented me hurtling down the stairs.

Heart racing, blood pulsing, I sat down and envisioned my OH returning home that evening to find my broken breathless body at the bottom of the stairs.

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I decided I would not allow my death to be caused by a bloody cleaning product.

The Dyson was recycled in favour of another, cordless Dyson.

I lived to vacuum another day!

*(I should point out that my stairs are not as grand as those in the photo, and neither do I wear such glamorous attire as that while I vacuum.)

 

Death by Steamer cord

My attempt to escape death by electrical cord turned out to be futile after all.

Having traded in the corded vacuum, I purchased a rather fancy floor steamer. My first few goes with it made me very happy, resulting in sparkling, hygienic floors, super fast with no sloppy mops or buckets.

Then it happened.

I was working away, pushing the steamer across the floor when I was suddenly snapped across the ankle by the evil electrical cord.

Desperate to avoid slipping on the wet floor, my legs splayed out from under me.

I managed to strain my inner thigh muscle.

Days of pain later, I vow to keep my eyes on that pesky cord at all times.

Electrical cords hate me.

 

Death by wine

I am an oenophile.

A wine lover.

I love the flavours.

I love the aromas.

I love the sound of a cork being opened.

I love the sound of wine being poured into a glass.

I love the calming sensation that ripples through my body after a glass.

The other night, as my OH walked our dogs, I was sipping a cold glass of Chilean Sauvignon Blanc as I prepared dinner, when I swallowed it the wrong way.

Spluttering and coughing I tried to clear my throat.

It wasn’t working. I couldn’t catch my breath.

Holding onto the back of a chair for support, feeling my face turn redder and redder as I struggled to inhale, I began to panic.

Could my love of wine really be the end of me?

Not by liver failure, heart disease or cancer, but by simply choking to death on a mouthful of the fermented grape?

Clearly I survived to tell the tale. But the episode does truly does give fresh blood to the saying…

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Death by giant vitamin tablet.

I am starting to see a pattern to my near death experiences.

First of all electrical cords were out to kill me.

Now another chocking incident springs to mind.

As I am a bit of a health junkie I take several vitamin pills daily.

One morning after eating my breakfast I popped my usual cocktail of tablets. I tend to have a fairly gung-ho approach to this and often swallow several at once with a swig of water.

This particular morning I felt one lodge in my throat.

You know the one, that giant, horse-sized multivitamin in a gelatin capsule.

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I took another glug of water, hoping to dislodge the offending object.

Nothing.

It remained wedged in its new home, my throat.

It felt enormous, like a bulging tumour at the back of my throat.

I tried to stick my fingers back there to see if I could manually move it.

Resisting the gag reflex I dug away, my fingertips scraping the gelatin sheath but not quite able to grasp it. Starting to feel sick and panicky, I keep trying to gain purchase on the pill.

Retching and gagging into the bathroom sink I spit blood and realize I have scratched my throat in my desperate groping.

I took another gulp of water and finally the tablet is gone. The gelatin must have finally dissolved enough for the pill to pass down my throat.

I am left with a sore and bloody torn throat for the day but am glad to not be lying, suffocated on the bathroom floor.

I make a note to myself to exercise more restraint in my pill swallowing.

 

Death by dog toy or pee

As I have shared in previous posts, I am mother to two adorable little dogs, Lily and Poppy.

Lily is long past the stage of having wee accidents indoors but Poppy, being only four months old, still has the occasional lapse in bladder control.

The problem is my hardwood floor does not reveal these little puddles very well, being basically pee coloured itself to begin with.

As I tend to walk around in socks it is all too feasible to imagine treading and slipping in a little pool of the amber fluid and hitting my head on the way down against the sharp corner of my oak worktop.

Furthermore, as Poppy is in full throws of teething, in order to attempt to stop her destroying my entire house, (mostly futile attempts it has to said), I have bought her countless chew toys to keep her occupied.

I have lost count of the number of times I have tripped over a toy she has abandoned in the middle of the floor, narrowly avoiding falling.

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This little dog could be the death of me yet!

 

Death by dog blanket

Lily sleeps up on my bed but she has her own little bed next to mine, wherein resides her very favourite blanket.

Before Poppy arrived and forever altered our routine, we used to get up in the morning and Lily loved to bring me blanket and we played tug of war for a while. After this playtime I would usually have gone downstairs to make a coffee to bring back up to bed.

Without fail, Lily would have left blanket precariously perched on the top step of the stairs, directly in my path.

Negotiating my way around it with a scalding cup of coffee in my hand, first thing in the morning is one thing I do not miss about our old morning routine!

Death by spider

A previous post recounted my severe arachnaphobia.

There was a point at which the house seemed to be invaded daily by giant ugly eight legged freaks. It was a truly distressing time for me and I lived in constant fear and dread of the next unwelcome guest.

The OH researchd online and found me the most amazing, powerful spider killing spray available and bought me several cans.

The first time I used it I was amazed at the fast results and rejoiced. Any time I saw one, out came my trusty spray and, hey presto, problem solved. I could simply place a large bowl over the corpse and get on with my day.

The only downside to my new defence mechanism was the noxious, toxic fumes given off by the spray. Given that some days I had several encounters, coupled with my tendency to go overboard with things, I was never light handed with the spray and as a result there were several days I was forced to leave the house in order to avoid poisoning myself. Even upon returning after a couple of hours I found that the vapour lingered and I often needed to retreat upstairs.

How pathetic would it have been to end my life because in my attempt to kill my nemesis I inadvertently killed myself?

Since the arrival to the dogs, however, I have retired the magic spray and have resorted to my old panic attacks if I receive any uninvited visitors.

Thankfully, they seem to pop by less and less.

I suspect my two furry friends are finding them and possibly eating them for me. Thanks Lily and Poppy!

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Once again, thanks for stopping by and reading my daft little blog guys and gals. I really hope you enjoy it and stop by again.

Ciao!

💋

Things That Piss Me Off…

Posted in funny, Uncategorized by

In typical Irish melancholy style, and to provide some counterbalance to my last upbeat post about things that make me happy, I present a list of some of the things that piss me off…

Enjoy…

Or not…

Up to you!

 

Door blockers

Situation: I am trying to get into a shop.

Two women go through the door just ahead of me and abruptly stop dead.

They are now in the shop. Their mission appears to be accomplished.

I have no idea if they ever intend to actually leave the doorway and truly enter the shop.

I am left frustratedly hovering behind them as they chat, rummage through their bags, or allow their gaze to drift, slack-jawed, across the shop floor.

“Excuse me”, I say, my polite tone incongruous with the annoyance I feel inside. They shuffle an inch, maybe two, just enough for me to squeeze by.

Seriously, what is the deal with people who stop dead as soon as they pass the doorway?  This is something I simply do not understand.

 

Slow packers in a queue

Situation: The woman ahead of me has paid for her groceries. In her own infinite wisdom she has opted to delay packing her purchases until the entire transaction is completed.

An impatient checkout operator begins to scan my items through.

I now am faced with the dilemma.

Do I act nonchalant and stay cool, calm, chilled?

Or do I give in to my fear of having my groceries stolen before my very eyes and rush ahead and try to salvage my purchases from being packed away by the woman next to me?

Panic wins, always.

I will add to this category people who, once they have finished their shopping transaction, remain chatting to the checkout operator as if this were a social gathering rather than a supermarket.

Is there not enough time to chat as the groceries are being scanned?

What morsel of extremely important information must you dawdle to share? Seriously, get your stuff and leave!

 

People who hit their kids in public

I cannot condone ever slapping, hitting or using any form of violence against any person or any animal. I do not understand why some people think it is ok to slap a child but agrees it is unacceptable to hit another adult.

Given my dislike for corporal punishment I get particularly angry with people who hit or scream at their children in public places. I can surely understand the frustration and embarrassment a parent must feel when their little bundle throws a tantrum, but publicly shaming and demeaning them will not make the situation any better.

A distressed, tired or frustrated child is not going to be calmed or quieted by adding more chaos to the situation in the form of violence or shouting.

I am picturing my readers now shaking their heads saying, “well she doesn’t have kids”.

True, but I can assure you I was once a kid, who was hit and shouted at, and to contradict many pro-slapping parents, it did me a great deal of harm.

 

Paying for parking

Situation: I am going to large shopping centre.

I intend to spend money there. Perhaps a lot of money.

How dare they charge me to park there!

The sheer cheek of this place to expect me to pay for the privilege to spend my hard earned money in their premises!

This particularly annoys me when it comes to the cinema, which already shamelessly fleeces customers with their insanely expensive tickets and don’t even get me started on the refreshments!

Blood boiling.

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Slow walkers

I walk fast.

I have somewhere to be.

I find dawdling frustrating, even when I’m out for a ‘stroll’ with the OH.

People who walk as if following a funeral hearse make me want to purchase a cattle prod and use it.

People who text as they walk, resulting in a slow, stumbling zombie shuffle are at increased risk of my cattle prod.

If you want to text, stop walking, pull over to the side of the pavement and text. Then walk, at a reasonable pace please.

That is all.

 

Inattentive shop assistants

Thankfully, since the recession has embraced Ireland in it’s icy grip, the scourge of this snooty species has been depleted.

There was a time, not so long ago, that upon entering a shop, the assistant would cast you a scornful glance and then studiously avoid eye contact with you.

God forbid you needed help or dared to ask a question. Then you would receive the slow eye roll and sigh as they begrudgingly turned in your direction.

Alternatively there were the assistants who insisted on staying on the phone chatting, rather than serve you. You had to stand there at the counter with your desired purchase and cash in your sweaty little hand and endure being completely ignored, oftentimes as they continued to maintain eye contact with you, just to rub it in.

But as I say, the recession has seen an end to this rude behavior.  Pressure to hold on to a job has resulted in better customer service. These days shop assistants actually talk to you and, wait for it, say, “have a good day”, at the end of the encounter.

About time!

 

Sky box fails

I love Sky +.

I love that I can record entire series at the touch of a button.

Pausing live TV? Brilliant idea!

I love to stockpile some of  my favourite shows to binge watch. I am at a loss to express my dismay when I access my menu only to be greeted by the dreaded words, “incomplete recording”.

WTF?

Why?

Why Sky box would you let me down so badly!

All I want is to watch my programme!

The frustration is unbearable.

Damn you Sky box!

Damn you!

Bad dog parents

I adore my dog Lily.

She is treated as a vital part of the family.

Due to her sensitive stomach, I regularly cook up an enormous stinky concoction of ,(vet approved), fresh food for her, which I portion out and freeze.

She is groomed daily, and visits her professional groomer for a trim as often as I go to my hairdressers.

On the whole, she has a pretty amazing life here.

I take her for her daily walk and observe other dog parents. It breaks my heart to see lovely little dogs with matted dirty fur and clogged up sticky eyes. It leaves me wondering why these people have a dog if they are not willing to care for it correctly?

However it is the irresponsible dog parents that madden me most. They walk their dog, allowing it to relieve itself on public paths and pavements and merrily continue on their way leaving behind a large, stinking pile of dog mess. Have they never heard of poop bags? Do they consider themselves above picking up after their pooches? Perhaps they think my neighbourhood is their own personal latrine?

The reason for their laziness/disregard for others is irrelevant.

The fact remains that it is unhygienic, dangerous and simply selfish to not clean up after your dog on a walk.

How would they like it if I turned up to their house, dropped my pants and took a massive shit on their carpet I wonder?

Dog parents… bring along your poop bags and use them! 💩

😡

I invite you all to consider this a safe place to vent your fury at the little niggles in life that make your blood boil.

Let loose!

Ciao

💋

 

 

Things That Make Me Happy…

Posted in funny, life by

Inspired by a fellow blogger, the very lovely Suzie81 Speaks, I have decided to compile a list of things that always cheer me up.

My life of late has been hectic, stressful and all over pretty miserable, so this exercise could not come at a better time. I hope by taking some time to remember things that make me happy, I will be cheered up. I also hope this piece will remind you of the small things in life that bring a smile to your face, and in turn inspire you to cherish them more often.

We all let the crappy bits of life take over sometimes, so lets celebrate the good stuff!

1. My Dog

Lily is the Love Of My Life. Her beautiful little face is the last thing I see before I fall asleep and the very first thing I see every morning. At night she curls her tiny little fluffy body into mine. I often wake in the middle of the night to find her watching protectively over me. Guarding me from harm. She follows me around the house at all times, there are no secrets between us. When I return home from an errand she greets me with unbridled joy. I can honestly say I would throw myself under a train for her.

She is my saviour, my best friend and my little girl.

I love her.

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2. Singing loudly in the car

I love to sing.

Sadly, I cannot claim to be any good at it, but I believe life is too short to let things like lack of talent stop you from doing what you love. My paper-thin walls sometimes inhibit me from unleashing the full force of my lungs at home, (probably not often enough though, ask the neighbours!). It is in the car that I feel free enough to really go for it. I have spoken before about how much my warbling amuses my OH on drives, and to my joy, he has finally succumbed to my pleas for him to join in on occasion. We find Foo Fighters, Green Day and Fall Out Boy mutually satisfying to belt out.

If you haven’t done this, try it! It feels amazing!

3. Dancing

Around my kitchen. Whilst washing up at the sink. In a towel after a shower. In the aisle at Tesco if the right song comes on. (Yes, I am that loon you see strutting down the freezer aisle like a self-deluded Beyoncé wannabe).

Unlike my singing, I do in fact think I’m a pretty good dancer. I got the moves baby! Canned heat in my heels and all that.

Dancing release all those feel good chemicals into the bloodstream. It’s very difficult to dance with abandon and not smile at some point. Next time you feel low put on your favourite song, close the curtains and dance it out. You will feel better. I guarantee it.

4. Smiling at babies

I have never been the maternal type. I swore off having children from an early age, found a man who felt the same and married him. (I should point out that I married him for more reasons than his aversion to fatherhood, there was some silly falling in love business involved).

However, as the years have passed and my life has been blessed by the arrival of nephews, nieces and godchildren, I have discovered that I love babies. I love their little faces, tiny hands, teeny toes. And the smell! Oh dear god the smell!

I have also been delighted to discover that babies love me! They seem to love my face for some unfathomable reason. My OH says it’s down to my big eyes, which I usually outline in dark kohl.

I prefer to think it’s because babies sense when a person likes them and feels comfortable with them. When I am out and see a baby I simply cannot resist a smile and a little wave. If they are close enough a gentle “hi” has been known to escape my lips. The OH has gotten used to this. After noticing several looks of frozen terror on his face, I reassured him I did not need a baby of my own, I just like other peoples babies.

Fact – smiling at a baby and in return getting a gummy little grin back is one of the best things in life.

5. Making other people happy

I am not claiming to be Mother Theresa here, but I genuinely get a kick out of doing things that make other peoples lives better. Complimenting someone and making them smile is a wonderful experience. Donating time or goods to a charity, knowing it will help someone else, always makes me feel better. Sending someone a card for no reason other than that you are thinking about them, knowing the happiness that will bring them, is something I do often. Letting the person behind you in the queue go first because they look stressed and seeing their eyes widen with surprise at the unexpected gesture is always satisfying.

To be honest I am not sure at all if any true altruism exists because the pleasure humans get from making others happy is payback in itself. Do you not agree?

6. Gardening

Some of my happiest moments in life have begun with me standing in an empty, muddy garden contemplating what way I will design it. Researching plants, positions, designs and learning new skills and facts is the first point of pleasure. Becoming completely lost in the physicality of digging and double digging, planting and weeding is bliss. Gathering seeds from my favourite Aquilegia flowers in autumn, storing them over winter and propagating new plants from them in spring, to be planted in a specially selected spot is beyond gratifying. Sinking into a hot bath to ease hard worked muscles and then sitting out in the finished garden with a cold beer… bliss!

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7. People enjoying my food

I like to cook and bake. I think I’m good at it. I am that person who murmurs ‘mmmm’ as I eat my own dishes.

When I make something and see someone genuinely enjoy it, either by savouring eau mouthful, or gobbling it down and asking for seconds, I get a warm fuzzy feeling inside.

It must be a primal, instinctual, ancient woman-thing deep inside me, or maybe just pride… either way, if you love my food I love you.

8. Good hair days

I am Irish and suffer with typical Irish hair. This means frizz. Coupled with our glorious soft Irish weather, this is not a good thing.

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To add to my misery, my hair refuses to grow below chin length. It reaches that point and simply gives up, says, “that’s it Kat, deal with it”.

I frequently lament that I will never have long luscious waves down my back, as I once had in my teens. I stare with unabashed jealousy at other women with the hair of my dreams.

Because of this, on the rare, and I mean rare, days that I get my blow dry just right and boast a shiny, sleek bob I feel on top of the world. I walk taller, with a bounce in my step, smile more and generally just feel better.

I just wish they happened more often!

9. Making my OH laugh

I love to make people laugh. I like to think I am funny and witty. But making my OH burst out laughing is special. That’s all.

10. Blogging

I am so very happy that I started this blog. It’s where I work things out for myself.

It’s where I express myself.

It’s where I connect with the outside world and share my ideas and opinions.

I love thinking up new things to write about, opening up my Mac Book and tapping away at the keyboard, completely unaware of time passing. If I get a Like or, even better, a comment, it makes my day!

I must once again, from my heart, thank you guys and gals for stopping by to read my meanderings. I love you!

😘

I would love to hear the simple pleasures that make your life happier. Please share with me!

Ciao

💋