Papabear Meets the Poltergeist

It’s been so long!!!  I have felt the need to tiddle the keyboards but unfortunately in my 21st century hectic lifestyle, I do not have access to a computer!  Several reasons:

My phone (embarrassingly, it must be said) is from about 1998 and the most amazing thing it does is take (blurred) pictures.  It does not have the fancy internet thing (also known as the ”scrolly uppy downy” features, as described by Papabear).

I have just moved back into my humble house, where I cannot afford the mortgage.  This means that although I have a computer, I cannot afford broadband, so the computer remains in the attic, whilst I take blurred pictures of my new sofa cushions with my embarrasingly old fashioned phone.

I would NEVER log into anything wonderful on my work computer.  For several reasons: the bastards are watching, the computers at work are older than my phone (my hard drive has an actual HOLE in the back of it – I called the IT guy – he came four days later (he works two floors up!!!!!) and he told me to stop tapping my foot on it (I told him I was tapping it but in reality I was kicking it with my boot, to get it started most mornings) and then he ACTUALLY PUT THE COMPUTER IN A SLING AND HUNG IT UNDER MY DESK.  No, really, he did.), and did I mention the internet takes about an hour to upload even the basic google screen?  And when it does IT CRASHES ALL THE OTHER PROGRAMMES YOU HAVE OPEN.  Joke!

Another major issue is that I used to visit Mammy’s house and use her computer but this had to stop.  Several weeks ago now, Mammy was safely tucked up in bed asleep, whilst Papabear was hitting the streets of Dublin in an effort to drink himself sober.  Eventually he trudged home and walked into the kitchen, where he felt a strange, cold feeling, and noted that the press at the back of the kitchen, the giant one which the stereo sits on, which has about forty little drawers (for prettiness sakes) and about five big ones, and two huge ones, was standing, which was fine, but with EVERY DRAWER OPEN a la Sixth Sense.

This is the part where I must also remind you that where we live in Dublin is known for its hauntedness, due to the fact that most of the housing estates were built on aincent and not so ainent graveyards, bodies unmoved.  I also happen to have a mammy and lilsister who are finely tuned to the spirit world, and have felt a presence several times in mammy’s house, for some strange reason particularly in the bathroom, which is cold and unwelcoming in my opinion, and could do with re-grouting.  The spirit, who happens to be female, has a thick Dublin accent (naturally?) and always talks in the bathroom and keeps opening the door to the boxroom, which used to be Lilsister’s bedroom until she finally grew up and got the hell out.

Faced with the ghost’s workings on the kitchen press, Papabear, fourteen pints at least in his system, was immediately peturbed by the latest ghostly turn of events, and attempted to run up the stairs to Mammy, but probably took half an hour to get there because he was twatted out of his brain.  He woke Mammy with the words ”I don’t want you to worry, or scream, but come downstairs immediately.”  For once, Mammy did as she was bid and followed Papabear back down the stairs (she walking, he stumbling and hitting every second or so step) to the kitchen where Papabear, sweeping his hand across the room theatrically, queried with Mammy ”what had happened here, had the ghost she had been on about all these years finally turned poltergeist?”

Mammy took one look at the press and screamed ”Eh, we’ve been ROBBED!!!” sweeping her own hand towards the gaping hole in the living room where the tv used to sit. 

They also took the laptop, and robbed me of my right to blog.  Damn junkies!!!!!!


Mammy Takes the Weekend and the Ghost Takes Everything Else

Strange days in the familial household.  Mammy’s moods seemed to have calmed down somewhat, just as Papabear’s strike up again.  It all kicked off on Sunday when Mammy announced to a very hungover Papabear that she was ”taking her weekends back”.  In English, this means that she will not cook Sunday roasts anymore, as allegedly they have taken her weekend from her.  Somehow.  Instead, she will visit her sister, for many hours on a Sunday and not cook.  I think.  I mean the basic upshot is that there will not be roast dinner, via Mammy, anymore.

Cue rolling of eyes, not in a ”whatever” way from Papabear, but in a hungover, what the hell are you on about type look, as he banged around the kitchen looking for headache tablets.  In what he thought was a cutting reply, but was in fact a help to Mammy’s stance, Papabear has declared that if there is no roast dinner in the house on Sundays then there will be no Papabear in the house on Sundays either.  This is supposed to be a bad thing.  Why husbands think that threatening absenteeism to their wives will help them win fights/public stances of taking weekends back, will always be beyond me.  Wives will think ”party!!!” and get on with aforementioned weekends.

This was all done in the kitchen, which has reminded me, as I’m sitting here and reaching for the biscuits, and noting that the packet that appeared quite full the other day (when it was bought) is in fact practically empty.  Could it be that there seems to be a demon eater in our little house of fun and games?  Over Christmas, Mammy had amassed a small fortune in biscuits, chocolates, cakes, puddings etc etc for the festive period.  Yet she declares she hasn’t eaten any of it.  And I haven’t either – that’s not to say I NEVER eat it but for the simple reason that I get crippling headaches if I eat rubbish several days in a row, I actually CANNOT eat it – and we’ve established that Papabear is too lazy to get his own food, preferring instead to take weekends from people in order that they can get it for him…well if I’m not, and Papabear isn’t, and Mammy insists that even though she bought it all it’s not for her – who then?  Nobody visits us because I usually visit them, and let’s be fair, Papabear and Mammy cannot be introduced into society yet, so I believe the secret stuffer of junk food must be within the four walls of our house, and being as I’ve just watched all three Paranormal Activity films since I moved back to Ireland I conclude, as an expert, that it must be a ghost.  It makes perfect sense.  Besides, every time I query Mammy on the subject she hits me and calls me a bitch, so it CAN’T be her.

I digress, but not for long.

Papabear, having shouted as loudly as his head would let him that he would not remain in the house on any Sunday that did not see Mammy producing a roast, also declared that he would not eat ANY food that Mammy prepares, ever in his life again.  This meant that on Monday (after we all got a roast on the Sunday) he would not eat the leftover meat, veg and mash that Mammy made, and which I gratefully inhaled.  He instead made a sandwich of cheese and crisps, which didn’t look great, in all fairness.

By Tuesday I was lecturing him on the non-benefits of eating crisp sandwiches which he ate at lunch aswell, for which I got a rant about roasts and missing weekends.  I left him to it and was delighted to see him joining us for Tuesday dinner – having made his point about never eating Mammy’s cooking again, he appears to have lasted a good 24 hours in his conviction, and this is to be admired, not laughed at, and how dare you think otherwise.

I am on dinner duty tonight, preparing my potato cakes, in an effort to convince my parents to eat less meat.  Mammy called me earlier to take the sausages out of the freezer so that they are defrosted in time for dinner.

I also showed Papabear my leek and potato soup earlier, lovingly prepared from scratch, with fabulous garlic bread, at which he sniffed, and reached for the crisps.

Who needs tv, with this great stage of fools.  Sigh.

Family Misfortunes

Christmas Eve spent popping headache tablets after neck and shoulders got VERY tense watching Paranormal Activity 2 with Lilsister in Mammy’s bed.  We had one of those fancy blanket things that hangs off the ends of beds in only the best houses, which was convenient as we needed something to block out the tv screen, in case we actually saw any of the scary stuff on the telly.  Didn’t hold hands as much as last time; Lilsister’s were too sweaty, but we did curl around each other to protect against anything that might jump off the screen, which meant I was in a giant human knot shape by the end (which was horrific, from what I can gather).

Slept fitfully afterwards but must have fallen asleep at one stage as was frightened awake by Lilsister having fullblown nightmare beside me which consisted of very faint but wailing sound of ”noooo, noooo” and legs and arms kicking and lashing at me.  In my dozed state, all I could manage was to grab her by the head and try and shake her awake by saying ”it’s cool Braille, it’s cool,” and having her awaken, wide eyed and shocked to be in a midnight head lock.

The Day itself passed as it usually does, in a haze of mood swings, beers and catching up with the brothers and respective partners.  Dinner was grand except the ham tasted funny.  Well I thought it did – the pregnant girlfriend of Firstbrother inhaled her entire plate in about six seconds, beating even Lilsister, which is no mean feat.  I don’t know her well, but the girl will fit in grand with the women in our family if that’s how she does her food.

Ended the evening in a STORM of killings after playing skins, or post-its in our case, where you put the name of someone on your drunken brow and attempt to guess their details through a series of questions, before realising you have no idea and you need to lie down.  I think I got the name of every bloody soul diva from the 70’s and 80’s EXCEPT the required Chaka Khan which was very disappointing to Babybro who had placed the name there, as I usually hold myself up to be such a culture vulture of music to him.  Firstbrother finally broke the confused spell by telling me that the name on my head had a record called after her, and the record was called ”Chaka Khan” – that wasn’t the name of the record, but I eventually picked up on his subtle signals.

It all went so well that we decided to do it again on Stephen’s night, so excepting Middlebro, we piled up to Babybro’s and Sisterinlaw’s house and attempted to play the awful Family Fortunes, which I had not seen since the eighties, but which, worryingly, Babybro and Sisterinlaw are big fans of, and therefore experts in.  Anyway, if you have a life you may not know that the game consists of being asking inane questions, answering as best you can, and hoping that your answer is on the ”list”.  If it is, happy days, if not, something else happens but I don’t know what because it was all too much for me.  I paired with Lilsister and Middlebro’s aforementioned pregnant girlfriend, versus Sisterinlaw, Babybro and Firstbrother.  Lilsister’s new man, Scarydancer, wisely decided to compere and was treated to five hours of tears, laughter, arguments and disownings for his troubles.  He also nearly split up with Lilsister during their HALF HOUR argument over the ”what do you pay once a year” topic

Lilsister answers: ”tax”  .

Scarydancer replies ”can you be more specific”.

Lilsister says ”no”.

Scarydancer (firmly) ”well you can’t just say ‘tax’ as there are different types of tax so you need to be clearer on what type of tax you mean”.

Lilsister (squinting eyes in evil way) ”WELL THEN IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE A PRICK ABOUT IT I can say car bleedin tax can’t I!”

Scarydancer has the ‘eeh enn’ buzzer thing that you hear on the show, and slowly, and quite deliberately, presses it.  The buzzer sounds and he states that car tax is NOT on the list, and therefore, our group, which I think we called ”Bump” after the impending baby, or ”Mannilow” –  I can’t remember, has lost this round.  It is a crushing blow, and the words that come out of my sister’s mouth would not be heard in the Dublin docks after a night on the rum.  This causes Scarydancer to throw down his answers and declare that if Lilsister is so unhappy with the way the game is going he can assist her by walking out and going home.  I begin singing ”It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” and this diffuses the situation somewhat, and we plunder on.

The night wears on and Sisterinlaw ends up hitting the tea due to fatigue, she’s clearly not in our family long and doesn’t have the stamina for fighting and capacity for hate that we all do.  She’ll learn.  Silly answers abound and Preggers interrupts Babybro whilst he is on a role naming things that he only has one of (nose, head, mouth etc) by asking him why he hasn’t mentioned his dick, and Lilsister wonders aloud why ”arse” hasn’t been mentioned either.  Answer of the night goes to Firstbrother for stating that of things that would make an alarm in an airport go off  ”like, old, historical shit” would be his guess.  After confusing the lot of us, he began to explain that this could mean ”like, chalices” at which I queried why one would carry a chalice at the airport, would it be because one was too good to drink one’s tea from a mere mug?  Cue further infighting and declarations of war.

By two am we were exhausted, and Firstbrother was weary of defending himself, after also answering to the question of ”things you buy that you use in the morning” as ”toilet”.  It was a night of intellectual thrills.

And now it is the 27th, and Colin Farrell is on the telly using his Dublin accent which is always refreshing.  He appears to be discussing horse tranquilisers so that’s nice.

Actually December 2nd

December 2nd, 2011 (from handwritten – note, there is NO writing paper in my mother’s house, and I went to the shops today and forgot to buy some.  I have written this on the back of my own e-plane ticket thing.)

It’s the second; I should have started this on the first.  Then I could have said – it’s the first day of the month, and the first day of the rest of my life blah and bah.

But I couldn’t, because I felt tired on the first.  The night before, I joined Smashers and P Diddy for a celebratory meal at Eden in the T Bar.  Food and price grand – unisex toilets, while increasing in availability, not so grand.  If men will not put the seat up at home, why would they bother in a loo that does not come with shouting women?  Add several glasses of vino and possibly a curiosity-inspired purchase of a cocktail and you have manwee all over the floor, seat and toilet.  Which is exactly what I stumbled upon when I went to do a ladywee.

Sister has told me not to watch Paranormal Activity so I’m watching it now.  I called her to let her know and she had an actual panic attack so I let her get back to work.  I must admit, ten minutes in and it’s all nice and friendly, but I made sure I took my shower first (it’s early morning) just in case I watched it, then brought the ghosts into the shower with me.  I’m firmly convinced that the reason dogs bark at me is because they see the spirits with me.  Probably my Granny.

Speaking of films, I watched Julia Roberts complain of a muffin top belly in a girlie travel film.  Felt depressed and ate a snowball (by Caffreys – the best).  Later in the same film, JR visits a healer who says her knee joints are in bad shape due to lack of sex.  Starting to worry about my knee joints.