Snobby Little Me reads the Fault in Our Stars (Finally)

Artwork courtesy of le boif, check out his Instagram
@mrgeraghty to see more of his mad skillz

After a brand new copy of The Fault in Our Stars lay undisturbed on my bookshelf for the guts of, say, 2 years, I finally admitted to myself that I would never, voluntarily, pick it up merely to satisfy my curiosity as to what all the fuss was about. After all, YA (young adult) fiction is far from my comfort zone, and I'm ashamed to admit I always thought it below me - less stimulating, less challenging, compared to my beloved classics. Even apart from that, it's popular literature after all, about a teenager with Cancer who falls in love for goodness sake - seemingly so cliché. The usual PS: I Love you/The Notebook style 'tear-jerker'. Bleh.

Our paths were fated to cross eventually however, The other day, whilst going through the lengthy process of cleaning my room, the thought of listening to an audiobook occurred to me (as I haven't gotten quite so good at reading that I can do it without looking yet). However, I would never settle for just listening to a book I'm actually excited to read (because it feels impersonal and, frankly, like cheating), I decided to stick on a YouTube video of a lassie reading the first chapter of The Fault in Our Stars - just for curiosity's sake, and to make the time drag by a little faster.

I spent the first little while marvelling at what a fantastic idea it was, and how much of the story I was absorbing, unconsciously, without any effort whatsoever, while the boredom was stowed safely away. A few minutes in, I actually found myself smiling at a few of the witty remarks made by Hazel (the protagonist, and narrator). I slowly developed a slight interest in the characters, but mostly, a new-found, wholly unexpected respect for the author, John Green. It impressed me that he could write on behalf of the teenagers of today, without being condescending, tiptoeing around taboos, or being too annoyingly teenager cringe-y. But as my tidying task was nearing its end for the evening, and chapter 3 was brought to a close, I was quite happy to put an end to the whole thing, and dismiss it as quite an entertaining teenage book. As in, entertaining for, y'know, YA.

A Fault in Our Stars-esque pic of  what appears to be
 a cloud producing factory. 

That night I snobbily returned to my usual sort of book, but found my mood to clash drastically with it. I entered into diagnosis mode and prescribed myself a comfort book. On the journal to grab one of my Fifty Shades books (blatantly unashamed), I caught a glimpse of The Fault in Our Stars... I grabbed both and settled back into bed. Faced with my heavy decision, I decided that I had over-indulged my beloved Fifty a tad too much, what with the new Grey book, the movie, etc. So I gave The Fault in Our Stars a test-drive. And then I kept reading. And kept reading... Before I knew it I was reading late into the night (a thing my brain rarely lets me do with classics after midnight). It was entertaining, I won't deny. Entertaining enough to make the hours whir by and for a lie in to be needed to recover.

With a plot twist I saw miles ahead, a rather cute life goal, and some complex ideologies about death and the universe, I softened to the genre. They even stuck in a ceci n'est pas une pipe reference - major brownie points. Hazel is intelligent, if a little self-sacrificing for my liking; meanwhile Augustus is charming, open and very boyfriend-material-y. Hell, I even started rooting for the young lovers.

Did I shed any tears? Well, no. But I did well up at one point if that counts. Green called to mind the closeness you can have with one particular person (whether it's le boif, le girlf or le bff). A connection you share only with them. You tell them everything, they become an integral part of your life, and then - they're gone. And in their place - well, nothing. Your own private interactive diary, missing. The one person you share all your hopes, fears, and secrets with isn't around when you face your biggest plunge - to paraphrase Green - the scar they've left behind for you to bear.  The only person you want to talk to about how you feel can't indulge you. The thought of that raw loneliness in an encouragement to all the rest of us to cling to those we care about and relish what time we have with them.

So while I may not have broken down in tears whilst reading Green's best-seller, I did get something from it. Namely, I got that same childish glee, the reading frenzy feeling that I haven't felt in years. More importantly it was a little reminder to me to appreciate those closest to us. Because an infinity of time with the one you love is never enough, and one day that infinity will come to an end, and the two are forced to part.

I also learned a valuable lesson: don't judge a book by its genre.

One word review: surprising
Star rating: 3/5

Sláinte, Sickness and Student Affairs

Remember when I said I wasn't missing home? Well scrap that. And about that sore throat I referenced in my last post, well, it turns out that it's most probably tonsillitis. What wonderful news to hear three days before lectures start, right? So now I'm just one week into living in the big bad world of independence, and am faced with sorting out doctor's appointments and medication, frantically, on the last day before the weekend, in order to try to survive next week's lectures, which I've been looking forward to for months. Right now, I want to run home to mummy, let her work it all out, and mammy me by bringing me soup, and tea, and stroking my probably feverish head (what college student actually has a thermometer?).

But alas I sit in my empty apartment with no salt, no honey and no cuddles. My housemates are all either gone home for the weekend or out partying arís (mar is ghnáth), which means I'm admittedly a little on the lonely side (bad health does that to you), but at least I'm enjoying the most peace and quiet I've had in over a week. Main concern though: I really didn't buy enough ice-pops to quell my darn tonsils' tantrum.

In less self-pity wallowing news, I've now attended both of my course meetings, and I'm more than psyched to get down to it. The lecturers have explained explicitly that while yes, us art students may have a ridiculously low amount of lectures per week (nine, not even kidding), we are expected to put in a 40 hour week, what with reading, studying, writing etc. I've already gone on the search of English books - and I care not if you think it's a waste of money, the library only has a limited amount of copies, and do not want to feel under pressure to hand them back in, nor do I want to settle for retaining less information just to save a few bucks by getting a digital copy. Third year students are a fantastic resource, with many unwanted second-hand textbooks that they are willing to part with for a very reasonable price, but some books you just have to go all out and spend that large wad of money to attain them, sadly.

Agus mo chúrsa Ghaeilge? Buel, bhí an course meeting ar fad as Ghaeilge (just as I feared), ach thuig mé gach rud a dhúirt an léachtóir (pleasant surprise). But yes, tá sé fíor - tá gach duine (almost) atá ag déanamh an cúrsa sin after coming out of an Irish secondary school, has many Gaeltacht experiences under their belt, or at the very least has gone to a Gaelscoil primary school. But I could keep up thankfully, bhíomar ag caint as Ghaeilge ar feadh cúpla nóiméad tar éis the course meeting, and it was such a refreshing, but strange experience, to have that opportunity, and to feel safe enough to break in and out of Irish as I please gan bhreithiúnas (without judgement), with people who crave that opportunity too. I've been very concerned that I'd be completely out of my league, or that it would be just like the Irish oral practice we did in school, but now I've realised that mo chuid Ghaeilge isn't too rusty after all, and that the Irish Leaving Cert oral preparation was so restrictive and confined, not to mention leadránach and intimidating.

Until next time (probably not too far away if I keep this frequency up), I wish you (and me) dea-sláinte.

Can We Skip Freshers' Week Yet?

College is strange. But what's stranger is this modulating point between holidays and actual lectures. As a Trinity student (yes I got in - no I won't develop a D4 accent, don't worry), I'm obviously a bit of a nerd. I mean it's practically a prerequisite. So I'm in an awful state over here dying for lectures, essays, tutorials, studying - you name it, to take over my life. My waiting continues to complicate things further, whilst I spend my time living in Trinity Hall, the home of nearly all the non-Dublinese Trinity freshers, who are throwing their heart, soul (and livers) into clubbing, and 'prinking' (predrinking). To sum it up: it's loud, and nobody sleeps. Not even this little nerd - who tried to club, I swear, but after two nights, realised it had made her physically ill, and pretty miserable - can curl up in bed and read her latest Hardy book without having to reread each sentence at the very least ten times to combat nearby chattering/screaming.

Yes, I do have a roommate. I'll admit I liked the idea. Y'know, you see it all the time in American college movies, people rooming with one another, bonding, having not-so-secret signals to indicate that the other is 'getting lucky' (that tie though, sooo discrete lads). I wanted a roommate, so I got a roommate. What confounds me is what exactly I must have said in my application that inspired Halls to throw me and Roommate into each others lives. Roommate is lovely, I don't deny that. She's bubbly, kind, not too messy (so I don't have a nervous breakdown), not too tidy (so I don't feel like a slob) and we don't clash at all. But as far as people go, we couldn't be more unlike one another. Even on first glance you can tell we'd been put together by an outside source. She's tall, blonde, and beautiful in the celeb-hot style way - while I would probably fit better in the short, brunette, cute in the looks-like-she-is-still-in-primary-school category. Even our heritage stands on different sides of a fence. I've been raised in such a patriotic, Irish family, that I cannot possible allow myself to study English in uni without studying Irish as well - while Roommate is as Bheal Feirste. Not to mention  hobbies: clubbing vs reading, socialising vs writing, I think Trinity's computer got lazy. But Roommate and I are good, we get on, it's just really not what I had expected.

Everyone else in my apartment could also be placed on one of two poles. The three of us English lit scholars take up the quieter pole, while Roommate and the two others operate on a much more demonstrative level, which frankly exhausts me just to watch them - no idea how they do it. People talk a lot about Hall not feeling like home. Some think we have to adjust, others think it'll never be home. I'm of two-minds. While I have no routine as of yet (meal-wise, arising-wise, exercise-wise, or even reading-wise) here, which doesn't exactly provide a feelings of being adjusted and settled-in, I don't miss 'home'. I'm drained, from the extreme amount of socialising that goes hand in hand with freshers, and hand in hand with sharing an apartment, not to mention my throat is sore, from two nights of clubbing. So I'm not exactly comfortable. But I went back to Cavan today, for a couple of hours, had lunch with my mom, and chatted, and I felt even more out of place there than here. It's like I'm taking up residence in a town called Purgatory. Not fully immersed in college life, but so done with life at home.

Coming back to Dublin afterwards led me straight to my first ever Dublin city sunset. I have a terrible habit of missing the sunset by a few minutes, or getting too impatient to wait for it to start, so I needed this. It reminded me that home is much larger than we seem to classify it as generally. Sometimes all it takes is a peek out at a blushing horizon to bring you back to earth.

Book Review 3: The Time Machine

The Time Machine, by HG Wells, is worlds apart from my usual read (I'm not a sci-fi kinda gal) but it was a nice little breather from the heavy reads I so love. Why, Silly Little Lady, what on earth made you choose such a book? I hear you ask. Well, my lovely inquisitive audience, I'll tell you why. One Christmas many moons ago, an even littler Silly Little Lady strayed away from her crowd of festive relatives in order to fetch something or other. She happened to glance at the TV, and found herself lost in the most enchanting tale of Eloi and Morlocks and the ever lovely Weena. She could hardly tear her eyes away from the Time Traveller's antics, and lost most of the afternoon engrossed, while her family was nearly about to file a missing persons ad. I do believe that a story that can tear a child away from her brand-spanking-new Santy presents on Christmas morning is one worth taking a little time to get to know. That, and I had a 'book set in the future' box just begging to be ticked off on my 2015 Book Challenge.

The Time Machine is simply about a unnamed time traveller (unless Time Traveller was a popular English name in the late 1800s) who begins to tell his sceptical acquaintances (can you blame them?) all about his awe-inspiring experiences in the year 802,701.

As a piece of literature, this is pretty basic. The writing style is simplistic, the characters undeveloped, but it's the plot that saves this classic. It's this novel that is alleged to have made the idea of time travel popular, and Wells even considers some interesting philosophies about future civilisations, and muses the purpose of intellect in nature: "It is a law of nature we overlook, that intellectual versatility is the compensation for change, danger, and trouble. An animal perfectly in harmony with its environment is a perfect mechanism. Nature never appeals to intelligence until habit and instinct are useless. There is no intelligence where there is no change and no need of change." It's thought-provoking ideas like this that many futuristic novels and movies today lack, and instead stick to the tried and tested. Y'see, time travel, I can take it or leave it, but when you turn time travel into a hypothesis of the future of humanity, count me in.

Overall, I did enjoy this novel, as silly and little as it is. As far as recommendations go, if you're looking for a nice little 2 hour read that'll give you a short break from tragedies and tearjerkers, and don't mind a kids book type read, go ahead and give The Time Machine a go.

Book Review 2: Tess of the d'Urbervilles

Book 2 of 50 ladies and gentlemen, and one I've been dying to read for quite some time now. Tess of the d'Urbervilles is by an English writer, Thomas Hardy, who was around in the 1800s. He's one of the greats, and he ticks off the 'book by an author you've never read before' box for me on my book challenge. Tess of the d'Urbervilles was quite unlike anything I've ever read before and has immediately become one of my favourite books of all time, if not my favourite book of all time (The Picture of Dorian Gray is pretty hard to top). The book is about a young lady by the name of Tess Durbeyfield, who lives in rural England, with her poor family who dabbles in agriculture. Mr Durbeyfield discovers that he is a direct descendant in a line of wealthy noblemen, the d'Urbervilles, and from this discovery, Tess's life and future is completely altered.

One of the first things I noticed about Thomas Hardy's writing style, was his ability to romanticise any seemingly mundane sight into such beauty and delicacy. An example of one such description was that of the deceptively simple shadows of cattle, "Thus it threw shadows of these obscure and homely figures every evening with as much care over each contour as if it had been the profile of a court beauty on a palace wall; copied them as diligently as it had copied Olympian shapes on marble façades long ago, or the outline of Alexander, Caesar, and the Pharaohs." To make such an observation, hinting at nature's neutrality, and suggest that in essence something so powerful as the sun should treat a cow with as much respect as it would a Pharaoh, is so inspiring and enlightening, and I praise Hardy highly for it.

Hardy's descriptions of nature and the sun, also seem to create a gap between his description and reality, the former seeing somehow embellished. It opened my eyes to the beauty around me. I was inspired to wake before dawn and witness what Hardy describes so vividly, yet somehow the muse doesn't compare to the artist's interpretation, "In the twilight of the morning, light seems active, darkness passive; in the twilight of evening it is the darkness which is active and crescent, and the light which is the drowsy reverse."

It is not only his descriptions of nature which appear to embellish reality, however. Hardy managed to add more beauty, wonder and character to that which is thought to be perfect and unparalleled: love and passion. On seeing "the desire of his eyes"  Clare cannot control himself and simply has to give passion its way and hold her in his arms, "Resolutions, reticences, prudences, fears, fell back like a defeated battalion." Looking at Tess through Clare's eyes: the women who has stolen his heart, was such a thrilling experience, and one so rare. It made me wonder about the extent of today's men's love and desire, which appear to dull in comparison to how Hardy envisions them, and begs the question: are their hearts lacking or merely their tongues? Do men feel this same level of passion, desire and love that Hardy did? Down through the ages women have maintained their interest in love, it's easy to see how much we hunger for it by merely taking a look around a bookshop or a DVD shop and seeing all the romances, but when did men stop writing about love? Did they stop feeling it the way we do?

Hardy does address the idea that time will bring a loss of feeling and emotion, echoing my musing that men in today's society may not feel love in the same extremity, or perhaps it has adapted. In the line "It was probable that, in the lapse of ages, improved systems of moral and intellectual training would appreciably, perhaps considerably, elevate the involuntary and even the unconscious instincts of human nature."  I am reminded of HG Wells' futuristic society in The Time Machine, which I shall be reviewing next.

On the final note of Hardy's philosophising, I particularly enjoyed his touching on the idea of a contained universe and personal reality: "The universe itself only came into being for Tess on the particular day in the particular year in which she was born."  This emphasises Tess's tendency not to over-analyse or muse about the abstract, and reinforces her character as a homely, stubbornly simple country girl, who desires to be nothing more.

Tess of the d'Urbervilles touches on the hypocrisy of men in society, and their demeaning, belittling attitude towards women, and women's pitiful devotion to their male counterparts. Tess takes on the role of a self-sacrificing, self-loathing woman, stereotypical of her era. Hardy portrays Tess as both an embarrassment to the female sex, and yet one so lovable. He paints a picture of a woman severely lacking self respect and perspective as the main character in his novel, yet I do not feel offended, as I often do when a man tries to use a female protagonist (often without success). This to me is a unique talent of Hardy's, and one that I do not myself pretend to fathom, but can appreciate its brilliance.

In relation to his characters, Hardy makes them alive with faults. Tess lacks pride and self respect, while Clare lacks compassion and has a narrow-minded, hypocritical mindset, typical of the time. Faults in general make a character human, but these faults are so drastic, that it makes the characters seem dramatically more human than we are today. Perhaps this is why this novel is so successfully tragic. It is so bittersweet and heart-wrenching, yet somehow I am left with a sense of peace, amongst all the warped justice.

What more can I say but: read it. Just read it, and reread it if you have some more time on your hands. I can praise Hardy no more; instead I sit, and bask in his brilliance.

Dear Extroverts... A message from us ever illusive Introverts

Dear Extroverts, 

 

As an Introvert, with close friends, family members and even a boif who are Extroverts, there are some things I feel you should know about us. 

1. We need time to refuel.

The nature of an Introvert is one who gets their energy from their alone time, and that baby is vital for us to function in everyday life. Don't get us wrong, we love spending time with you guys, but we just can't function on socialising alone. For example, last summer I spent 2 weeks in London with le boif. During the lead up the the holiday, I was super excited. 2 weeks of boif-time? Bring it on. However, I did have to warn my charming Extrovert of a boif beforehand that as excited as I was about spending time with him, I was going to need some alone time. A weekend without refuelling, we can do, but 2 whole weeks... could you go without sleep, food or water for 2 weeks? Umm... no way José. Anyway, I loved my holiday, but le boif had to understand that I needed space sometimes, and I read 2 whole books during those 2 weeks to keep me sane. Conclusion: we love you, but don't be offended or hurt when we tell you to give us time to ourselves. 

2. We think, a lot. Seriously. 

We're perpetual ponderers. If we go quiet, we're not upset, we are thinking. We don't feel the need to talk constantly, or fill all of those 'awkward' silences. In fact, we often don't notice them at all. So next time you see one of us staring into space, or closing our eyes for a moment, take a breather, we're fine, I promise!

3. We like to party, just not with strangers...

I love dancing, and I love parties, but I cannot even consider attending a party without asking the famous question: "who else is going?" It's not that you, Mr/Ms Extrovert aren't entertaining enough for us, we just know that you like to mix, and socialise, and we don't share the same passion for strangers. We have our friends, and we love them dearly, and we aren't constantly on the lookout for potential new ones. We're happy with our lot, and we don't particularly enjoy the whole meeting new people thing. 

4. We feel super bad about holding you back.

When we actually do go to that party with you, we want you all to ourselves, and we feel über guilty for stopping you from doing your thing and making new friends. But we only came here to be with you, and our other besties. We're sorry!

5. We like to listen.

Y'know that thing you were going to tell us but stopped because you thought you'd bore us, or that we wouldn't understand? Please tell us. We're avid listeners, and we care. Not to mention, one of the perks of being an Intro, is that our empathy skills are pretty brag-tastic. We don't have many close friends, but the ones we do have we take care of, and we have time for. So feel free to lighten your load and share. 

6. We can get pretty intense. 

We have so many feels. Honestly, we have feels all over the place. We Introverts are sensitive, and I, personally, can hardly go through a week without crying at least once over a piece of music, a book, a thought, that thing you texted us, anything. We remember most of the things you tell us, and can be easily hurt. We also love having deep, intimate conversations with you, and always want to get closer to you. But we're always that little bit scared of scaring our friends away with our feelings for you guys, or not being light-hearted enough for your taste, so we try not to let ourselves open up too much. 

7. We're secretly affectionate.

Most introverts are shy, and often guarded. But often what we can't say, we'll find some way to show it. We love you guys, you are our closest friends, and super dear to us, but instead of sounding over the top, like we feel, we'll share this by being physically close to you, smiling at you, reading that book you recommended or remembering to wish you luck the day of your exam. We don't want to frighten you guys away, but we just wanna give you all giant bear hugs.

8. We love one on one.

As much as we love hanging out with all our friends, in one bundle, we kinda like some alone time with you all. There are certain things we wouldn't share with everyone at the same time, or with all of our friends in general, and also, we like it when you open up to us, which usually happens in one on one time. We especially hate society's view on male-female friendships, and how one on one is nearly synonymous with a date, and we disagree with it strongly. We like our mates, and we want you all to ourselves every now and again.

9. We need to be handled with care.

Please don't push us into socialising because it's 'good for us'. Yes, we do appreciate your help in reaching out to someone new, and we are glad that you can bridge that gap for us. But at the same time, we don't need to socialise as much as you do, and we don't want that. Don't make us feel bad if we turn down that invite, or don't go overboard trying to befriend that person you introduced us to. 

10. We happy being who we are.

While we do envy you Extroverts from time to time in your ease of making friends, your way of breezing through social situations and your confidence in the matter, we actually don't want to be you. We're happy being the ever illusive Introverts, for the most part. We don't need pity, or help to become more like you. We enjoy your bubbly, outgoing nature, and we wouldn't change it for the world, but we love that we are what we are. 

So Extroverts, you've heard it, straight from the horse's mouth. I can only speak from personal experience of course, and we Introverts are by no means identical, but this has been my interaction with Extroverts over the years, and these are the things I feel you should know about us, in order to fully understand and accept us. 

Love, 

A Silly Little Introvert.

P.S: Disagree with me? Have anything to add? Feel free to leave me a comment.

Book Review 1, A Classic Romance: Pride and Prejudice

Cliché, I'll admit, but having neglected my duty as an avid reader of frequenting the classics, I thought I best begin my reading challenge by catching up on my fellow bookworms.

To start with, Pride and Prejudice by the ever lovely Jane Austen may follow a quite predictable pattern, but one must remember that this isn't just another rom com following the herd. Austen paved the way for all those terrible rom coms we love today, and therefore any claims of the plot being old hat and unoriginal are, in my humble opinion, mistaken. Also, personally, I was still kept at the edge of my seat in certain parts of the novel, even though I called the ending after reading the first chapter (and as usual, I called it correctly).

The plot centres around Elizabeth Bennet, a sensible young lady from a unique family, to say the least. Elizabeth's sisters are a bit off the wall, all apart from Jane. Her mother is a character and a half, who strives to get each and every one of her daughters married off to eligible, wealthy young men as fast as possible, while Mr Bennet is content watching all their schemes unfold. Elizabeth hates Mr Darcy from the first time she encounters him, and finds him arrogant, proud and prejudiced. Darcy's feelings towards Elizabeth are slightly more complex... The real question of the novel is: who is proud and who is prejudiced?

Characters, to me, make or break a book, and I can't fault Austen one bit in her personalities. Elizabeth, as a protagonist is sensible, responsible and warm, and life through her eyes is easy to accept and grow to love. At times I grew frustrated with little Lizzie, but that's the nature of romance, and I suppose it wouldn't all seem so obvious if we weren't passively observing the events unfold. Mr Darcy, was however my favourite character in this novel. Even through Lizzie's hatred I found a fondness for him, and his uniqueness was apparent from the outset. Ever composed, ever superior, Mr Darcy brought a touch of class to a world so full of desperation and coveting.

Along the journey that is this novel, I encountered many more an intriguing character, and although Austen did not succeed in making me "LOL", I did have some silent giggles to myself at Lizzie's cheeky wit, and found myself seriously fangirling over and crushing on highly eligible bachelors at several points in the novel. While the concept of personal gain, greed, envy and ambition taint this tale ever so slightly, there is so much sincere love and warmth at its heart that one can't help but look upon it with tender fond feelings. It's definitely one of the few read-ten-times-over books you encounter in your book-ish travels, and if you haven't read it yet, get with the programme.

Embrace the rom com classic, and find out for yourself where Bridget Jones' Diary stole its plot...

2015 Book Challenge with the Aid of a Shiny New Kindle

Absences the romantics say, make the heart grow fonder, or as the pessimists say, absences make the heart wander. So romantics, did you miss me? Unfortunately the Leaving Certificate grows ever closer with each passing moment of 'spare time', but in a few months I'll be all yours.

More to the point: book challenges. What better a way to force ourselves to eat chunks out of that 'to read' list, and force ourselves to make time in our ever busy lives for that pastime we miss so dearly, than to succumb to one of those new years resolution style lists, in which you pretty much read everything in sight, and end up with a book in your hand constantly?

Allow me to share my chosen Book Challenge:

Let me tell you, it's not easy to find an author with the initials C.B. though (thank goodness for My Left Foot). Anyway, as an extra challenge, and to motivate me a little more, I'm going to review each of the books I read, starting with Pride and Prejudice which I just finished.

Also as a motivating factor, I very recently purchases a brand-spanking-new Kindle, which I adore with all my being. Now for all you ebook sceptics out there keep your pants on; I accept your arguments, and I have lived amongst you for years, as my stubborn book-smelling, paper-feeling, sentimental self. BUT. Wait for it. After weeks of 'To Kindle or Not to Kindle' musing, my mind has recently been opened to the idea of le Kindle for numerous reasons:

1. My main reason is, books that are out of copyright, (if the author has been dead for 70+ years) are free to download from Amazon. That's soooo many books, and oh the classics *contended sigh*

2, If you haven't tried a Kindle you have to. I have the new Kindle Touch, which has no background light, meaning, just like your hard-copy, you need light to read it. Kindles are anti-glare, they have a paper like display, and are practically so clear they may as well be printed. Not to mention the added bonus of the search function, the percentage of how far you are through the book, the amount of time it'll take you to finish the book (although I don't find that entirely accurate so far) and the ability to highlight passages.

And finally:

3. Going Kindle doesn't mean snubbing paper. As soon as the novelty of your shiny new toy becomes, well, less of a novelty and less shiny it's just a cheap, handy means of doing what you love to do: read. You can still read your prints, I promise they won't evaporate or anything. And you're not betraying them either. I still love my ridiculous amount of books for an 18-year-old to have with all of my heart.

So lassies and fellows, join me in book-ing it up this year, and embrace the shiny new pieces of technology that live to serve. Even Mr iRobot got over his aversion to technology, you can do it too.

Also feel free to share your thoughts with me on Kindles (don't hurt me) and book challenges, or share your lists!

You stay classy bookworms.

Hello Again! Books, books, books, Garp!

Me, greeting you all:

Well everyone, I'm back! I've been back ages now but I've been on blogging holiday as well as actual holliers.

Now, where did I leave off...

No idea. Anybody? Oh well.

Books! I've not been writing, but I can't say the same about reading. I've been devouring lumps of books at home and away, and struggling to make myself stop staring at paperbacks all day. In England I read The World According To Garp by John Irving, which definitely goes on my top fave books of all time. Not to mention inspiration for wanting to write! It's about Garp, who has always wanted to be a writer, his life and such, so a lot of the text talks about churning out novels, short stories, and a writer's life in general. I have never really read a novel about writing novels, but what better book for silly little me? The little lassie who buries her head in books all day and wants to write for living (yes I know I need a steady job mom, yes, yes, I will, I promise... *sigh*). Anyway, after reading Garp and never wanting to put it down, but having to reluctantly because it's time to go see Big Ben or something, I want a typewriter so bad. No kidding, I really want one. I used to have one when I was little but I foolishly gave it away. Now I wanna write novels on a typewriter all the time.

There was one line in Garp that had an impact on me. He was talking about a character who is one of those people who just don't finish things. Y'know, they start loads of new projects, but never ever persevere until the end. We all know someone like that (some silly little ladies are like that too...). So Garp comes out with this: "You only grow by coming to the end of something and by beginning something else." His point is, if you wanna be a novelist, you have to strive for an ending, as much as you enjoy the process, the middle, the start, you have to live for the end, and let that drive you. Novelists want to finish, so they can finish their next. For someone who has a nasty little habit of being interested in everything, therefore starting everything, not having enough time, and finishing nothing, it made me think. If you restart and restart, each time coming up with a better beginning, what happens after that? Say you have the ultimate start, after so much practise, and then what? You never practised the middle, maintaining the plot, developing the characters, tying up the plot, and the most important bit, the end. Isn't it better to churn out a non-masterpiece novel so you can grow and learn from it, rather than never coming to an end?

Aaaaaanyway, in conclusion, The World According To Garp has definitely been my favourite book this summer. As much as I loved Wild Swans, and as much as I enjoyed English Passengers. Not that I'm finished reading for the summer, or anything. I'm nearing the end of the Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell trilogy by Susanna Clarke, and I have enjoyed it but I really think they are dragging their feet nearer the end. I mean I just want the plot to wrap up already, it's getting stale. Clarke could have easily, and should have ended the book at least 100 pages earlier than she did.

In other news:

I'm still trying to find the balance between reading, portfolio (to get into an animation course), bass, chores, teaching my little sis piano, and y'know, seeing people. There really aren't enough hours. Please. Please increase the hours. I beg.

And I'm gone vegan, so there's quick and easy meals out the window. It's not half as hard as I expected though, I only am very apologetic to, and sorry for, anybody who has me over on a regular basis... Pizza without cheese here I come, even if it is an abominable idea, it'd probably still be tasty. I'll never touch raisins though, that'd be criminal. I had to touch one the other day to remove it from the top of the toaster (cinnamon and raisin bagels, yuck) and I nearly died. It was horrif.

Over and out.

P.S. Back to my normal every other day blogging routine, until school starts... ugh... school...

Packing Dilemmas, Holiday Excitement and English Boys

Packing is hard. It's not natural. How is a silly little lady like myself supposed to know what she'll feel like wearing every day for the next more than two weeks? C'est impossible! Nílim ábalta! I know some humans out there get their clothes ready days in advance, or at least the night before, and some of those inhuman humans can somehow pack confident in the knowledge that they aren't forgetting anything and have everything they need, but I'm not of these people. Yes, occasionally I know what I'll wear in advance, for an occasion! Not a whole fortnight... But usually I spend at least 20 minutes staring blankly into my wardrobe, completely dazed and incapable of choosing. There's never anything to wear. As a female, the words "I have nothing to wear!" being screamed every time I look for an outfit, are acceptable, and it is my right, as a lady, to have a mini tantrum or breakdown every time alongside this exclamation. Saying all this, le boif seems to think he's a lady in the clothes choosing department too... But no matter how many "should I bring a shirt and tie"s or "I don't know what shoes to bring"s he gives me, I have enough of my own packing dilemmas, I cannot play mummy and pack for him too! I don't mind his little clothes interjections every few minutes though, he is le boif after all, and a lovable one at that.

So, how about I help all you packing people out there with a few tips I came up with all on my own?

1. If you're going on a plane, pack at least 3 big bottles of nail polish remover, shampoo and conditioner, along with your machine gun, hand grenade and blades, just in case customs start giving you any trouble.
2. Also if you're going on a plane, don't bring your passport, nobody cares about them anymore, I mean technology has taken over, your iPhone will suffice.
3. Bring as many suitcases as you want, it's not like they charge you extra to bring another.

That's how aeroplane packing works, right?

Anyway, as you might have guessed, I'm not going on an aeroplane - oh, and the destination is England by the way - because ferries all the way. My favourite bit will be the 5 hour car journey in the Nissan Micra with us three kids in the back. It'll be so roomy. I can't complain though, le boif's family are pretty much treating me to a holiday, and even surprised me by extending the holiday so we can go to a Japanese festival (wannabe Japanese nut over here). Aren't they so cute?

Even if it's only across the water, to England, we're all still very excited. I have never been, believe it or not, and my fears of going are trying to remember which side of the escalator you're supposed to stand on, and which side to walk on (Ireland doesn't have any of these silly little rules that make sense, we don't like social unspoken rules, we like Guinness), that I'll get extremely lost and accidentally die, and that I'll fall in love with every single person there with an English accent. I'm a sucker for a cute English boy, ask le boif, and even he is worried about silly little me cooing, giggling and fangirling every time I meet a young fellow with a cute accent, especially his silly little friends! I'll try to restrain myself but I am a girl after all, you can't blame me. I will end up with an English accent after being there for a while though. Camouflage and all that jazz. Gotta be careful so I won't get the "no dogs or Irish" response my granddad did... I kid, it's not the 60s anymore. But I do tend to develop an English accent when chatting undilutedly to English people (and by undilutedly I mean only). My Japanese friend has ordered me to Skype her when my accent reaches its peak. Even Japanese girls love an English accent... I'd say le boif will get a top up on his little London-Irish accent (the Irish part obviously, I jest, I jest) and that'll keep me entertained for at least the rest of the summer. He'll just be stuck saying the words dance, France, girl and bad-ass for my giggles, but he's aware of these terms and conditions.

Just as I'm aware of the terms and conditions relating to le boif's clothes shopping, and over-excitement. I will be playing in suit shops all day, and I will be given at least one headache from rapid loud nonsense speak. But such is love, eh? I put up with his silliness, while he puts up with mine. Happy out.

G.B.F. Jump Street

It is 01:20 and technically it is not today but tomorrow, but y'know, same difference. Yesterday was very nondescript apart from much movie viewing of the 21/22 Jump Street variety, both in cinema and home environments. Enjoyable I must say, but honestly, doesn't everyone, or at least every girl have a huge soft squishy marshmallow-y spot in their hearts for Jonah Hill. However, there is one problem with watching both movies in a row: confusion in the memory department. But then again, one forgets that when they see Channing Tatum (my Step Up fellow) with his shirt off, doing some parkour or something else impressive and muscle-y fit of that variety.

Today, not only have I been slightly creeped out and made jumpy by The Purge, but I was also miraculously cured by the gayest, jolliest, most quote-worthy movie that's ever been directed. This movie was indeed G.B.F. which of course stands for Gentile Bumbling Fish (I joke, Gay Best Friend of course), which I wouldn't be surprised if the four of us watching the amazing flick are the only ones to have ever seen it. It is beautiful, and the most intelligent, least predictable movie ever. While I may hate, I can't help but adore, I mean it's pure genius.

As short as this blog post is, I think I should return this iPad (which is totes awky to type on), and stop speaking to the internet before I blurt out something insane in my sleepy stupor (I love how that's a word). So Internet peeps, I'll play it like a Casanova and love you and leave you. Goodnight and such.

A Splash of Poetry

It's a terrible moment when you can't taste your coffee. I can smell it, and it smells as divine as always, but it sits there teasing me. I can feel it there lounging about in my mouth when I take a sip, but nope, no taste follows.

Anyway, today is quite an uninspired day, with a quiet me, so I've decided I'll share my writings from two more inspired days, when I had so very much to say. In other very hipster words, you can read my poetry.

The quintessence of beauty, tranquility and peace, to the foreign eye,

Is to me, a given, a burden and frankly, a bore. 

I long to be occupied, to be amongst a different species of breath,

A more active, more involved habitat, where swiftness is daily. 

But another variety calls, a more seductive, serene surrounding.

Salt, pine, sand or blossom; I suppose I could rest my head there with the same ease.

Until then, green will keep me captive in its manufactured wilderness.

And one more, in a sonnet type style.

A droplet patiently awaits its cue,

Suspended within a cotton-like fluff.

Its call is sudden and it falls when due,

Its force is gravity, its journey, rough.

As it falls, along with its brethren - quick,

What exhilaration they must enjoy!

They race one another, boasting their shtick,

With blatant disregard, like bombs deploy.

Sights the human eye can't hope to behold,

Stretch on for what seems to them a lifetime.

Each generation of droplet grows old,

And the view of the next is smoke and grime.

But each ending won't alter, just remain,

The death of a droplet, lost in the rain.

I have no titles, nor headings, forgive but don't forget me. 

I apologise for my silly little lady self today. 

My Boyfriend Loves to Shop for Clothes... Help me.

Growling laptops are quite off-putting, I must say. My chance to use the lovely Mac keyboard was destroyed due to unpredictable circumstances, and instead I must try not to provoke this growling, grumbling Acer, which I do fear may blow me to pieces if I anger it in any way.

Aaaaanyway... Today, has been... interesting. I went to Swords in Dublin with le boif, and his mummy and sissy, for some holiday shopping. Now, the usual circumstance for couples clothes shopping is quite simple, and the stereotype is rarely false: the girl drags the boy around Next, TK Maxx and Penneys, and his duty is to answer the "does my bum look big in this?" question correctly, and carry the bags. I say this stereotype is rarely wrong, but in our case (le boif and silly little me), this is severely reversed. I have long accepted the terms and conditions of le boif's admittedly camp obsession with clothes, and knew I'd have a thrilling shopping experience. 

Le boif is also aware of his oddness, and in preparation, or foresighted compensation, I was first brought to Tiger (a shop of knick-knacks), and received treats of sunglasses and a sketchbook  to keep me quiet for the next few hours. We also went to one of those fun photo booths, to be all retro and hipster, with our couple silliness. Thus ended the compensation. And so it began. After many complaints of "it's the wrong material", "they're too low cut", etc, and the trying on and modelling of the various items to be bought, I will admit, I was quite exhausted, and slightly losing the will to live. Coffee and chats did the trick though and I recovered gradually, but it was touch and go for a while, and I very nearly perished due to the overload of shopping coupled with uncomfortably warm sleepy weather.

The rest of the day was one of sunshine, sand and sea. Not bad for an Irish summer. With ice cream cones in hand, we all headed onto a Skerries beach, to soak up and relish the vitamin D we can usually only find in Super Milk in this country. Now, I'm not one for sandy beaches; yucky, dusty, microscopic annoyances getting all over your clothes and hair isn't my cup of tea. I'd much prefer a nice stony beach, on a not too hot day (so I can exist peacefully). But saying all that, I did enjoy my beach time today. 

I will admit it was quite cute couple-ish, the whole scene. Le boif lifting me, giving me piggy-back rides, falling on the sand together which sparked fits of giggles, and sharing sandy kisses, all of which are quite rom-com movie-ish. You won't find me complaining about having a movie style relationship, or anyone else out there for that matter. It's hardly a bad thing. It is incredibly cheesy and ridiculous, but so is love when you think about it, and that doesn't stop everyone from participating and enjoying the madness of it all. 

Sadly, we had to leave the beach at some stage, and no matter how long you stay, leaving isn't something you want to do. But we managed, and had a sleepy, bumpy road journey home to le boif's. Since then, we've been even more hipster cute couple-ish, playing guitar and bass together, while singing. The fun accelerated though when we relived our childhoods by playing Rayman Raving Rabbits on the Wii with le boif's lil' sis'. 

While I'm running short of new news, I gotta say, even with the growly laptop (who is behaving relatively well at present), and the lack of Mac keyboard, sitting up here in le boif's room, writing while he reads The Catcher In The Rye (thanks to my influence of course) unintentionally looking so damn cute and handsome, life is pretty damn sweet.  

Nervous Nintendo Types, Mario Stress, A New Wii, and Reliving A Childhood

Good evening, yes, it's that time again. That time where I fill you in on all my antics and musings. Welcome (back, if applicable) to The Life And Times of a Silly Little Lady.

Not a lot has drastically happened in the past couple days, except my lil' sis' has acquired a Wii. Y'know, those crazy Nintendo things where you have to move to play video games. It did surprisingly well for something forcing you to exercise. Saying that, I only know of a handful of people who haven't trading their Wiis in for some other less daring console. But there are Nintendo people, and not Nintendo people. I, am what I guess I'd call a "Nervous Nintendo" type. Don't worry, I'll elaborate.


While Nintendo are known as the good guys of the gaming industry (by good guys, I mean, for all the nerdy kids out there, no matter what age you are), I am a bit of an oddball when it comes to gaming in general. That's not to say I didn't have my nose constantly stuck in GameBoys and DSs throughout my (admittedly short) growing years (when it wasn't stuck in a book), bec- *was interrupted to do yet more chores, while my tea went cold*. Anyway. What was I saying? Yes, I was a complete Nintendo worshipper, but the games I frequented weren't Mario... I spent 100% of my GameBoy days playing Tetris, 80% of my DS time playing Animal Crossing (I nearly went out and bought a 3DS recently just so I could play the new Animal Crossing which seemed to have taken on board all my silent childhood suggestions and made them reality. I want New Leaf so baaaaaaddddd!!!!), 15% Nintendogs, and 5% 52 All Time Classics. And on the Wii, when I had one (before I traded it in...), I played 50% Rayman Raving Rabbids, and 50% WarioWare Smooth Moves. If you notice one thing about all those games, it's the fact that you don't constantly worry about dying, virtually, and having to redo the whole level all over again. This is why I was never a PlayStation or Xbox lady.

I did own both PlayStation and Xbox, but truthfully, I only played Lego games and Guitar Hero. I've often attempted to branch out into normal games, I tried to play Tomb Raider, and nearly had 7 cardiac arrests within the first level. Stupid wolves... So that didn't succeed, and I stuck with Nintendo. Now, most Nintendoers have completed Super Mario Bros. at least a handful of times, and most children find it easy, Nintendo are after all, all about the kids. Not me though... The amount of times I've fallen down those holes (ahh! fall!) and been killed by spiky fellows, I couldn't count. The amount of times I've completed a level I could. I'd estimate about 5 levels I've completed in total, and even some of those levels overlap due to me dying multiple times on the next level. I swear, it makes my blood pressure sky-rocket, and leaves me exhausted from all the stress. This is why I'd call myself a "Nervous Nintendo" type.


However, challenge me on the Super Mario Bros. mini-games and you've got a challenge, I'm such a mini-game type kid. Because I don't have to worry about death! It's enough to worry about in reality, I don't want reality invading my gaming time, especially not baby Nintendo! It's always fascinated me to watch all those proper gamers (even the not so proper Nintendo nerds I love so much) play their tension filled, thriller type games, and enjoy it, or even to watch children (or make-believe children) get through a Mario level with ease. The amount of "what? Mario? You can't play Mario? It's like the easiest kid game ever! How can that stress you out? Show me!"s I've gotten, and each time, I oblige, and fascinate them with my skills of stress and dying.

Only one person in the world, have I met, who understands this Nervous Nintendo disposition (I'm enjoying this term I've coined). And this person, happens to be my little sister. She, like I used to, watches her father play hours of terrifying games (in my day it was Resident Evil), and yet wouldn't play them herself with a ten foot pole. She actually comes to me if she's stuck on a Lego Batman level. And yes, I do feel like a boss when I succeed with ease (or without for that matter). She's gotten herself a Wii now, and no, she hasn't touched Mario yet, well, Super Smash Bros. is the closest she's come. Instead, she's been playing Just Dance (you've no idea how much I've fallen in love with this game), Wii Fit and *drumroll* Rayman Raving Rabbids. Ah childhood... My sister is just mini me, I'm aware of this.

I have definitely been reliving my childhood these past couple days, what with all the Rayman and the dance games (sadly, the latter were not present in my actual childhood). The cute thing is, my sissy rarely plays Rayman, but instead, watches me, the pro (hah!) play it. I have to say though, those dance mat style levels, step aside and make room for the champion. I used to restart the game if I missed a single Rabbid. I used to get my cousin to do any of the racing, flying or shooting games though... The shooting games were too stressful for me, even though I really wanted to rescue the baby Globoxes so much... And as for Just Dance, well, let's just say when my sister went to school, I played it for literally hours, no joke.


I think that's enough Nintendo talk. Apologies to all those grown ups and non-Nintendoers out there for my nervous nerdom.

A Lot Of Puppy, Butterflies, Poor Donkeys and Irish Mosquitos

Before we get started, hello, and welcome. But mainly, I'm trying this thing I hear tell people do, which involves having music on whilst writing... Weird. Normally I want quiet, because I'm speaking (virtually), and I don't want anyone else interfering with my right to speak, or distracting silly little me, or changing the tone or mood when I don't intend it to be altered. I don't know how long this horrific experiment will last, I can't hear myself think here.

Yeah. experiment over. I'm more of a speech giver than a conversationalist.
Ahhh... Peace...

So ladies and gentlemen, let's fill you in and get you up to date on everything you've missed these past couple days. I'm just warning all you cat-folk out there, my Puppy will be centre stage during this blog post, so relax and enjoy the canine.

Puppy is, in a sentence, a bundle of galloping energy, with the kind of fur you just want to ruffle and give scrunchie-cuddles to. He also happens to run so fast, and have such big paws (and a big self in general), that admittedly, he does sound like a horse when he legs it around the field. And in regards to his puppy-dog strength (he's nearly fully grown, but he'll always be my puppy), he could drag you down the road as if you weren't there at all, if you let him, on a walk. Ask le boif, who despite his cat-lover self, enjoys being hauled down the road by Puppy. Oh yes, and Puppy has a "real" name, but I don't like real names, and I like Puppy better.

While you may imagine this big doggy to be wild and relentless (which is mostly true), you have yet to hear about his adorable puppy-self. Puppy may sound like a horse, but when we went for a walk down to some local real horsies, poor Puppy was frightened out of his fur, but sat there like a good boy, albeit, quite far away from them. But perhaps the cutest thing of all, even beating his sitting beside me when he's finished galloping, while I read my book, is his adoration of flying creatures. If that dog had wings, he'd be dangerous.

Puppy's all time favourite hobbies are chasing and snapping at butterflies, battling and vanquishing bees and wasps, and watching the birdies fly around the sky, and galloping underneath them. I swear, you give him a butterfly in flight, and he'll give you a spectacle. He can never catch them though, he's too big to jump high enough, but that doesn't stop him of course. However, as cute as this pastime of his is, if you have him on the lead, taking him for a walk, and a butterfly crosses his path, Puppy's gonna chase that butterfly, with or without you attached to him. His battles with bumbly bees are very "kawaii" also. At first, he attacks, and snaps at them, jumping back after he delivers each snap, for fear of receiving a sting, and this dance continues until the bee's wings cannot support it anymore, and it falls to the grass, in despair. This is not the end however. Puppy will lie down, watching that bumbly bee, making sure it stays inanimate, and doesn't try to be a hero. If that bumble so much as twitches a microscopic leg, Puppy will pat him with his paw, to make sure it won't happen again, feeling like he is in control of nature itself. When Puppy is certain of his victory, he celebrates. He does this by flopping onto where the bee is lying, and rolling around, on top of him, with the happiest face you've ever seen. I am also certain that Puppy wishes he were a bird, because he stares up into the sky for minutes on end, and runs with all his might underneath the swallow he spies, swerving here and there, replicating the bird's exact flight pattern. All in all, what is he trying to do to me, this Puppy, kill me with cuteness?

One more thing, I'd like to share with you, if Puppy's actions aren't cute enough for you, allow me to introduce to you, Puppy, as an actual puppy. If that's not totes adorbs I don't want to live in this world. It's so strange to think, all those years ago, when we first got Puppy, he was so small, he would curl up on my chest and tummy and fall asleep, with his big baby paws. Nowadays, I could use him as my pillow.

Enough about my puppy (I'm done now cat-folk), on our walk today (I swear, not about Puppy), we came across a sad little donkey a few fields down from our home, all overgrown hoofed and little and neglected. It's enough to break a heart. We've called the ISPCA, and they put a notice on the gate, telling the owner to sort it all out, and the owner obviously just took the notice off his gate so nobody else would see it. We're going to call the ISPCA again soon. The poor little guy. Flat out braying he is.

I was being so attacked by flies and all those other flying insects that buzz directly around your head, that I couldn't stay with the donkey for long, sadly. These flies though. Holy Mary. Phew. Much buzz. Very bite. What is it with me and mosquitoes? Why do you fellows love my blood so? This is Ireland, not Spain. I did not sign up for this mosquito deal. So much itch.

I have to say though, the weather really has begun to behave itself. It's sticking exactly around my 17-19 degrees Celsius requirement.  

Oh and here's a picture of my cat as a kitten, for all you cat lovers out there. 

Scalding Liquid, Evil Cherry, A New Allergy and Le Boif's Bass

As we (I) speak (type), I'm struggling to drink my lovely mug of Nestle Matcha Latte, from a mug that looks very pretty and all that, but I must say, it cannot be called practical. It conducts heat like crazy! Especially the handle and the rim! Much burn, ah scald! If only I had a nice desk (well, I do have one of those) and a lovely computer with one of those lovely Mac keyboards, and le boif being somehow quiet in the room with me. Ahhhhh... My idea of heaven...

Anyway, back to business. I think I should re-title my blog "A Series of Unfortunate Little Lady Events", as within the past week, I've been scorched out of my being, my wrist went all bat-siúcra, and yesterday my first ever consumption of a single cherry didn't go so well...

As per usual, allow me to set the scene: it's a lovely, not too hot morning, and I'm over with le boif. As I glance at the table, I see a bowl of handsome-looking cherries, nearly as handsome as le boif himself, practically inviting me to try one, before leaving the room. Also on my mind was that 'tying-a-cherry-stalk-in-a knot-with-your-tongue' thing, so I decide it must be done. I munch the yummy cherry and slip the stalk in my pocket for later antics. Not long after, I began to notice my top lip grow all weird and tingly, and half of it was suddenly swollen. Immediately I thought: allergy, having witnessed my silly little younger sister's unfortunate peanut allergy not even a year previous, that resulted in a pyjama clad trip to the emergency room. So I scanned my brain for everything I'd eaten that morning. Nothing out of the ordinary. But I forgot that one casual cherry, and I mean, who's ever heard of a cherry allergy anyway? So I tried to forget about my puffy lip and hives I'd developed, and my nauseated tummy, and enjoy snuggly cuddle time with le boif. It took me the entire day, and some of the evening to cop on. It wasn't until silly little me was lying on her bed, fiddling with the cherry stalk in her mouth, that she saw the light.

So now I'm allergic to cherries. Darn. I thought I'd gotten away Scot free from all the bad genes of asthma and allergies. And the crazy thing is, I'm not allergic to anything most people are allergic to. Oh no. I could each tonnes of peanut flavoured shellfish and I'd be fine, but one little cherry. Who'dda thought, eh?

*unintentional real life gasp* I just remembered I've been neglecting my Matcha. Ahhhh, ver' taste.

In regards to today, I've been a lazy little lady, besides socialising with our guests over from England, I did naught but bass, and my weeny baby tapered fingies hate me for it. Blisters galore. And by galore, I mean I may possibly have a tiny one. I don't have a bassy of my own, but I have a boif of my own, with two bassies of his own, so, by extension, and have a temporary bassy. It's quite handy having le boif around. He's a keeper alright.

Traumatic Injuries, Wrist Wraps, Paper Doll Mise, and Summer Sleep

Hello all, your favourite silly little lady is injured.

I remember the day well, like it was yesterday (which it was). I'll paint the scene for you. Picture silly little me being an amazing granddaughter to her grandpops, lifting crates and tyres from here to there for him. So there I am, lugging these monstrously heavy car-shoes, with my delicate lady-like wrists. Now these wrists may be dainty, but they've had their warlike hours.
*Flashback* Last year (ish) I attended Wing Chun Kung Fu lessons, and even invested in a punching bag, for home-time beating sessions, and a few weeks in, my sifu told me that all the little ladies had to wear wrist wraps nowadays, and that I ought to buy a pair. I did, like a good girl, but some of the pride that can be labelled 'foolish feminism' never let me wear them, or my boxing gloves. *Flashback ends*
      Long story short, now I have a dodgy wrist and a now-healed cyst on my knuckle. So back to my epic tale: whilst hauling these tremendous tyres around my garden, my dodgy wrist did something it likes to do every time it lifts heavy items, a form of protest, so to speak; it clicked. I didn't notice the pain for a while, but by the evening it was extremely painful to move, and achy in general. I also couldn't stop fidgeting and moving my left hand, since it's so accustomed to being an equal with my right hand, (note: I'm not ambidextrous, but I do use my left hand practically just as much as my right, except in writing, and my sifu thought I was left handed when I started training). So my left hand got jealous and wouldn't sit still, and in the end I turned to my old friend, Wrist Wrap (I have no picture to commemorate the experience, nor the times we shared, so my outline-y silly lady sketch will have to suffice, please ignore my skills, the sentiment remains). Wrist Wrap (I've lost his brother) had been neglected, and shoved under my wardrobe, and when I turned to him for help, despite his taunting, mocking and sneering (he's still sore that I boycotted him), he provided a very snug and supportive home for my little wristy.

Conclusion: It's not so bad anymore, but I'll take more care of Left Wrist in future.

I also had a go at recreating younger me's drawing style yesterday  (ignore my tapered finger, it's merely holding the wardrobe closed, and hiding the envelope containing mini me's clothes), and accidentally made paper dress up doll me, while attempting to make a cute little lady.
Therefore, the equation stands:

A Cute Little Lady = Me

Maths is on my side, le boif must be right. He has chosen wisely. 

I must say, if all that wasn't riveting enough for you, I've had the most eventful day. In fact, I even spent most of it being unconscious. Yes ladies and gentlemen, you know summer is here when all us lazy cat-like teenagers sleep in until 2pm. At about 3:30pm I decided it was time for breakfast, so I traipsed all the way next door, to le grandparents, to have a couple of lovely eggies. Ahhh, life is sweet. 

Irish Heatwave, Bass Guitars, AUB-1, and a Little Mandolin

I may have mentioned before that it's summer, but allow me to repeat myself: it really is summer.

Not only have all us lucky students gotten our holidays (yay!), which marks the usual Irish summer, (as we don't normally have the weather to match) but we're also being scorched off the face of the earth. I don't mind a nice warm day, with a light breeze, around 17 degrees Celsius, in fact I'd welcome it. But there is warm, and then there is 'ouch my lungs can't breath from the excessive sun'.  Why? Why is there such a need for 27 degrees? In Ireland of all places! The entire nation will be sunburnt and riddled with freckles before the week is out! I know we Irish love to chat about the weather, and moan about the lack of sun, but honestly, we never expected the sun to come down from the heavens and nest in our backyards. What are we, dating?

I'm aware that at least 70% of the country are cursing people like me (non-sunworshippers) for our putting a downer on our Spain style weather, and are enjoying the scald for the time they get to keep it, but what about all of us delicate flowers? The difference of a couple of degrees for us is traumatic and downright scandalous. I don't even own a fan, I was under the impression that this was a non-scald country. I need to breath, over here. I wouldn't mind if I had a swimming pool (well, I would a little), or at least lived near the sea where a breeze could exist, but an inland area, I don't know how long I'll last. Even my Puppy/giant dog mutt, has no desire to go get the ball, that's a basic doggy right. Not that I could go out and throw it, I fear I'll get frazzled like a little egg on a pan. Suggesting sun cream isn't an option, I would go mad if I had to wear that slime, I'm only human.

Due to my sudden aversion to going outside/inability to leave my cool home, I have taken to playing le boif's bass, and reading le boif's The Bass Book. It does what it says on the tin, and concerns itself with shiny and crumbly old basses that belonged to music-y people, whilst providing pictures and educating helpless and clueless little ladies like myself, in the world of boom. I'm not implying that when I'm finished I'll retain much information, but I enjoy brushing up on my awareness of my ignorance.

From the little amount I've read, I appear to be more of a Jazz Bass lady than a Precision, and I've also fallen in love with the most handsome bass in town/around. I will show you him now, but bear in mind that he's mine, and you can't have him. (As if I could get my hands on one *cries*) Looooooook at him! In'he a beaut? The one on the left is the AEB-1 (Ampeg Electric Bass), and the one on the left is MY AUB-1 (Ampeg Unfretted Bass). I love him. He's so pretty.






 Look at him sitting there, with his lovely scroll cranium (headstock), his f-holes right through, his quirky bridge, lack of frets and his mystery pickup, why is he not mine? We all know he's supposed to be mine, it's a given, so how's about we speed up the painful process? Or else I'll storm up to Mr. Ampeg and tell him to quit all this amp manufacturing malarkey and make me my bassy. He can't say no. What could go wrong? I know I ought to get a bass of my own, of some description first, in the meantime, but NIH.

I also happened upon a sheer piece of joy yesterday in my Google Images searching. To all you people out there he may just look like a normal mandolin but I beg to differ. I've never seen anything so pretty. I was so delighted with the world for making this 'un, that all faith in the human race has been returned, and I forgive you all for all your nonsense. So here's a picture to brighten your day.

Crying Habits, Extreme Situations of Youth and Baby Impression Skills

Hello bloggy. As I type, I am not in the regular comfort of my own home, but sitting at a Mac I cannot use, and had to be literally brought to the Google part of the machine, for fear of accidentally deleting everything, or crying in Apple frustration.

During my stay in le boif's family home, we've been discussing (discussing being hyperbolical, it was closer to being briefly mentioned) the crying habits of us individuals. I, myself, being a particularly easy crier, who will certainly be crying from an overdose of any emotion, be it happiness, sadness, frustration, anger, you name it. This is a terrible inconvenience for a silly little lady to have to bear, as I happen to have a lot to say on most topics, but barely scratch the surface usually, due to the loss of ability to be taken seriously from the gaining of tears, and a wobbly baby voice.  But, I do enjoy a good cry every now and then. You'd think that with my tendency to cry at the drop of a hat, I'd be very skilled at crying, and very suited to this state of salty moisture, however, this is far from the truth. If I allow myself to shed more than three droplets, I start to gag, and can't breathe. Very convenient, I must say. On the other hand, I'm aware that there are people out there (one I'm particularly fond of) who can't cry at all, and have gaps of tears lasting years, as opposed to my usual interval of approximately a week.

A blessing or a curse, I don't know what I'd do without all those annoying drops of sea-like uisce (water).

I have also discovered an extremely beautiful talent hidden deep within my abilty. Along with my skill for taking extraordinarily young baby pictures of my somehow 17 year old self:

I also have the ability to act, and sound completely like a baby, and I mean the squishy, gurgling, speechless, freshly baked, grabbing onto your flesh and pulling your hair with no regard for your threshold of pain, type of baby. Y'know, the ones that giggle and then start crying heart-wrenchingly. Well, yes, I am equipt with these characteristics when pushed, or when it's requested of me. I would attach a sound clip, but none of you would believe a 17 year old is making the noises, and it's late, and well, the world wide web world just isn't ready for such antics.


As I type, on this entertaining but foreign keyboard, I realise that I'm due to leave the lovely presence of my handsome fellow in the morrow, and must return to my usual place of residence. My mother is flitting home tomorrow, and she best have smuggled some expensive gifts home with her.


To sum up my weekend (so far):

     1. Cute doodles for my journal courtesy of le boif
     2. Cuddles and kissies
     3. Was deafened/lost my hearing
     4. Lots of sing songs
     3. Yummy food
     5. Meringues!!!
     6. At least 5 glasses of water, and 3 cups of coffee in about an hour
     7. Nutty Pictionary
     8. Boif-girlf time
     9. Happy happy
    10. Joy joy

A Typical Day, Sleepiness, Chores, and Messy Rooms

Well, after an exhausting but amazing yesterday, today arrived too soon. As my mother flitted off to her computer-y course (only after giving me a mini chore list), and I drifted back to sleep, all too soon I was violently forced to stumble reluctantly out of my bed to answer the home phone I so seldom touch for fear of having to talk to strangers, or anyone I know for that matter. But alas, stumble and groggily answer I did, managing to show off my skill of sounding refreshed and awake even when I hate everything but bed and can't yet fully open my freshly baked eyes. I have developed such a useful skill from years of pretending I'm awake for school, while sneakily catching 3 more Zs. Anyway, I did my moral duty to take a message for my mother, while sounding perky and pleasant, and I ran back to bed for some more dozy moments before having to arise again, one final time.

All too soon that time did come, and my enjoyable but slightly mundane dreaming ended, as I was obligated to vacuum up non-existent dirt, whilst wrestling with irritating cables, and trying to balance the vacuum on each stair, and to dispose of all the fresh, warm clothes to their appropriate places of residence. (I promise I'm finished describing boring things soon.) After all these duties were finished, only a handful remained: 

Packing

Tidy My Room

Blog

Now I have mentioned my mother in this post once before, briefly, and I shall do so again. This morning she was flitting off to her course, and tomorrow she'll be flitting off to Prague, for a weekend away, like the lucky duckling she is. I say "flitting" because that's what she does. My mummy flits. She's always in a busy busy rush, hence the quickness, and she's also a little lady, like myself, hence the littleness. Quick+little=flit, like a little birdy flitting from branch to branch, singing his songlings. As I was saying, she's flitting off to Prague, so I must pack, for I shall be residing at le boif's family home for the weekend, thanks to a kindly invite. 

Usually packing is a tremendous difficulty for a silly little lady who never knows what she'll want to wear a day in advance, always has a messy room and can't find any of the clothes she wants to wear. Today's episode was different. It's summer! And along came the warm weather! And with the warm weather, out comes bright colours, skirts and long socks! I'm so accustomed to cold Irish weather that if it's sunny, I must dress nicely, I feel it's an insult to the day if I wear jeans. 

After packing, I helped my mummy fill out a form, so we can hopefully (cross your damn fingers for us) be a host family for an exchange student. Within the form however, we had to give brief descriptions of each family member... I was summed up in a few words, one of which being the unfitting term 'outgoing', which I'm far from. Chatty and talkative I may be in the company of loved ones, but only when I have something to say, and usually, in that scenario, I'm silent up until I deliver a speech, or participate in a debate, and then resume my quiet state. The task got me to thinking about how difficult it is to sum up a loved one in a few words. The usual positive words such as 'caring', 'kind', 'funny', 'chatty' and 'honest' are thrown around very often in this context, but they never do much justice. They can't possibly paint a picture of the person, the way we know them to be, in all their uniqueness, because no word is unique. We'd need to make up a whole new word for each quality they possess in order to get it right. Words are too universal for changeable, sensitive creatures like humans.

The only obstacle left in my day was my disgracefully messy room. Clothes were strewn all over the floor and I had been avoiding properly tidying my wardrobe for a number of years. I proudly say 'had' in that sentence, as opposed to 'have', as I have finally tackled the outstanding issue. 2 black sacks, a cloakroom full of coats, and much hanging and folding later, I found my bedroom floor and could breathe again. 

After a shower, and after trimming my fringe terribly as usual, here I am, completing my checklist. 

Blog=done.