Paranormal Free Zone

It has been brought to my attention that Paranormal Activity 4 is now out and ready for screaming.

I don’t care how many times I am pressurised – I WILL NOT BE SEEING IT.

Now that I live alone in splendid isolation I simply cannot sit with Lilsister and Preggers, behind giant cushions, screaming and wailing and waiting for the horror to stop, just to come home to my creaky house and believe that the Dark Forces are trying to steal what is left of my soul.

I WILL NOT WAIVER!

It is Sandra Bullock all the way for me – and if you do not believe it I have taped THREE of her films to watch – 28 Days, Hope Floats and something about helping a poor unfortunate black person.  The last one looks particularly bad but I’m prepared to spend two hours watching it as there will be no floating babies, mothers looking weirdly out the windows and NO KILLING OF ALL MANKIND.

NO NO NO.

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!!!!!!

When Mince is a Lie

It might be New Year’s Day and I might be watching the nine o clock news on our ever-pointless national television station (which opened with the newsreader declaring ”happy new year to you” and then proceeded to list all the new charges and bills coming into effect from today – thanks lads, and happy new year’s back, you depressing cretins, cause that’s exactly what we in Ireland need right now, a list of MORE things we can’t afford, after a fake greeting wishing us nothing but more bad news so you PRICKS can have something to report on so we have something to CRY ABOUT and then you can be happy you ARSEHOLES) – BUT there are more pressing issues at hand that don’t include the fact it’s 2012.

By the way, whilst watching the above I sunk into a mini depression and have now flicked over to Ferris Bueller’s Day Off as reality and my hangover hurt too much.

Anyway, I have discovered, after a night spent yapping to Smashers whilst staying in her apartment, that there is NO MINCE IN MINCE PIES.  Never knew this – having always assumed the word ”mince” alluded to, you know, MINCE, or meat of some kind, and it’s an English dessert thing, and they have a thing about meat pies, as do the Australians, who just want to be British anyway (they don’t know it but they do, no matter how American their cities seem).

Smashers was telling me how she was forced at a Christmas family gathering to try a mince pie, after refusing to eat one all her life, because she didn’t like the idea of eating, you, know, MINCE, like, in a PIE.  Anyway she was peer pressured into eating one and discovered that mince means some sort of fruit mash type thing, and it wasn’t as vomit inducing as she had thought.  She asked me did I realise mince pies didn’t have meat and I said no, and we discussed this alongside our usual deep and meaningful stuff, so it’s not like we’re boring or anything.

Should also mention here that after I had gone to bed, I had a VERY sleepless night imagining Smashers was standing at the end of my bed like yer woman from Paranormal Activity, of which myself and Lilsister saw with Firstbrother and Preggers in their apartment (Part 3 this time) and which stressed us out immensly.  But that is a separate issue.

Mentioned the mince pie thing to Lilsister who finds it hilarious that somebody would think mince pies contain meat and despite my perfectly valid arguments that these are an English tradition, and they eat lots of meat pies etc, she is using this as an excuse to slag off and generally belittle me, which is getting quite annoying.  She also can’t believe Smashers thought the same thing, which I think only confirms what I said.

She’s nine years younger, which makes her a total twat anyways, that’s what I think.

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.

Bubbles

You know it’s Chrismtas Eve and the start of the ”festive” season when you wake to the sounds of your parents killing each other in the kitchen downstairs.  Ho ho ho.  To the day I die, and it could be soon by excessive gin inhallation, I will never forgive ExHimself for putting me in the position where I’ve had to move back in with the EEJITS that are my parents.  May my visit be short, and quiet.  Amen.

I put on the radio to drown out the evil vibes and Michael Buble was on groaning about coming home.  This didn’t help.

Envisaged today’s arguement whilst contemplating Mr Buble’s stellar career on smoochy ballads.  Mammy would have gotten up early, even though she doesn’t need to leave the house till 9am.  This ensures maximum time to sit and bull about how difficult Christmas is.  Papabear, who after 39 years of marriage should really know better, would have gotten up, rolled downstairs and asked Mammy to make him breakfast.  Cue usual killings about laziness of Papabear, followed by cooking of his breakfast.  I have told Papabear several times since getting off the plane that daily food arguments could be cancelled if he just poured oil and sausages into a pan and ate the results.  But noooooo he and she have to have their daily dance around the madpole.

Mammy left at 9 for hairdressers, in a haze of sighs and coughs, which I pretended not to hear by turning the radio up louder.  I let Mr Buble go home and rolled the dial over to Spin instead, not my favourite station in the world but it plays a lot of ”unce unce unce unce” style ”dance” music and is therefore louder than most of the ”classic” hits being provided by our more mainstream stations.  Did the trick anyways, and I dozed off to the tender sounds of some twat shrieking about how his ladeee had it awl and didn’t need none of his dollaz, man.  Sweet, sweet snoozing.

Party last night went grand, I had gin and beer beforehand and gin and tea after I got there, and some fine food – Panties knows how to put on an excellent spread.  Some bad moments when there was an indepth discussion between the mammies of what essentials to pack for hospital trip when one is birthing, which myself and Panties did not enjoy but luckily Rocky Five came on and we concentrated on that until we could tell our story about the time we babysat for a couple on New Year’s Eve and they had sex all night on the stairs when they came home, which was terrifying for us as we were in a bedroom in a single bed with no door, just a curtain, and we were afraid they would come in and eat us, and the woman was screaming her head off and ended up wailing for Satan to put his ”evil in her”.  Terrible, terrible night, but a lovely story to shut up the maternity talk with.

Bad news indeed on Thursday as when Lilsister came to collect me she was in floods of tears – her job of five years waited till she went back to work (ill, I might add, she’d been out the two days before dying with Mammy’s disgusting cough and only went in cause she had so much work to do) to tell her that she was now redundant and could she please go away.  Not sure what’s going on, she is a credit controller for a company that really needs control over it’s credit but anyways it’s happened and there’s not a lot we can do about it.  She said her co-worker had been made redundant about five minutes before (by the way, for the second time with that company – supposedly the co-worker was in the toilet, came out, boss waiting for her, and she said ”please don’t do this to me again” at which point they actually did).  Lilsister had been upset by this news, then was called in herself, to the company owner, his wife, and her boss, who delivered the reasons and the news itself.  She said she has no idea what was said, all she remembers is the owner, who seemed quite upset himself, holding her hand, and her wishing he would not do that, as she was now crying large rivers of snot, and bubbles had started to come out of her nose, and she needed her hand to wipe them away.  The owner’s wife requested that somebody get tissues which just means they all saw the bubbles and were probably horrified.  I told her when I was made redundant they at least had the decency to have a glass of water and a BOX of tissues on the desk in preparation.  I didn’t cry, but I was annoyed as it was done in the boardroom and I knew that the managers hid the kit kats in the press at the back and hadn’t thought that chocolate might be a comfort.

Luckily myself and Papabear were at home at the time, so after the purchase of chips and the making of tea she calmed somewhat, and we discussed our lack of futures and how the hell Ireland is supposed to pull itself up out of all this.

Our immediate answer is to pile me, Lilsister, Papabear and Babybro, all of whom have now been made redundant, into Lilsister’s Toyota Yaris and hit the streets in a sort of unemployment roadshow, begging for work.  We shall start at the industrial estates, knocking on doors, leaving Papabear and Babybro right at the gate, as we believe we should be the interested looking faces of our project.  Papabear has given up ever working again and Babybro has been unemployed for so long we are worried for his health.  Another option is to bring our niece, Babybro’s beautiful daughter, N, along for the sympathy vote ie if we don’t work she doesn’t eat etc or just general cuteness – some manager may see her and go ”ahhhh” whilst we sneak by and steal jobs, or petty cash as we can’t afford the petrol.

Until then we will muddle through Christmas, Lilsister and I shall be tucked up in bed together tonight, watching the very Christmassy Paranormal Activity 2, as we saw the first one together a few weeks ago, on the sofa, holding hands, and behind cushions, and loved it.  I have to say though my hand had nail marks in it from last time, Lilsister must have been tense, so perhaps we’ll sit apart tonight.  Then it’s up at 6 or 7 to open presents – a lot less this year – and begin a day of eating, drinking and avoiding Mammy’s cough.

To Ghosts at Christmas!

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.