Till we meet again

I will be away in Holland on business until Thursday night. I'll be sure to post pics when I get back (especially of new adorable haircut - that's right people, I took the plunge and got bangs!)

Kisses!

Roundtable: Tom Christ

This week's roundtable (sorry I'm a day late) is hosted by Joe Wack over at Hairshirt. He gives a hardcore rant against not just the evil being that is Tom Cruise, but against our fascination with all things celebrity. They're like car crashes aren't they.

So go on over and jump on the TomKat hating band wagon, which probably includes Katie Holmes if she has a tiny sliver of humanity buried under all the Xanu propoganda.

But remember, when you point your finger at someone else, you have four pointing back at you. Well three really. Your thumb is not really pointing at you is it, nor is it technically a finger. it's a thumb.

Bunny fun with the Roundtable

Trishy D takes us down a peep lined memory lane of Easters gone by with the Good, the Bad and the Touchingly Beautiful. Read, enjoy, and share your Easter memories (or painfull lack their of).

My mother sent me this for Easter:




Which I think gives a really good look into my upbringing. Happy Easter!

You'll soon see me in spurs

Last night we went to see The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada after gorging ourselves with Tapas at Bar De Nada. We were originally going to have Tex-Mex at the cinema's cafe, but the place was full so we went for the next best thing.

The movie, Tommy Lee Jone's directorial debut, was fabulous. That man can do deadpan like it's his job. Which I guess is why it is his job. The movie made me want to roll around in the dust, drink tequila straight from the bottle and shoot from the hip. I dreamt in broken Spanish last night. Que bueno.

Welcome to my fruit bowl

Another little snippet of my home. Our cosy kitchen where we listen to dynamo radio and drink too much wine.

Roundtable with a teaspoon of sugar and a shot of Irish Whiskey

An old tale from my call centre days (no –not that kind of call centre)

Sometimes in the midst of call centre drudgery, amongst the head sets, the clicking of keyboards, the How May I Help You’s, the rude hang-ups. Sometimes in the middle of all this there is a voice, a single human voice with the need to tell a story that makes it all worthwhile. Today was the day I was told the tragically beautiful story of Aunt Nelly Sullivan. And in the dying tradition of true story telling, I pass her tale onto you:

The year is 1912, in a small village set in the hills of Northern Ireland, a young girl of 16 left her family, her life, her heritage to board a boat to America. She left alone, no kin to join her and on the long voyage over, amid soon to be immigrants all hoping for a second chance, she met the man that would become her husband. They settled in Dover, New Hampshire and the young girl found work at the Mill. She had 18 children. In a time of no television she brought back to life her home of Ireland to the ears and eyes of her 18 kids. The dusty, damp histories of the world and relatives she left behind was lovingly handed down like an heirloom. She told her stories so her children could remember and so she would not forget.

After the woman passed on, only one of her 18 children would make it back to see the homeland her mother had painted for them so many years ago. Her name was Nelly. Every year Nelly would send small gifts and Christmas cards to her relatives in Ireland. Her Irish family was impressed she knew even more about the tiny village than even it’s inhabitants thanks to her mother’s storytelling. The last trip Aunt Nelly took to Ireland she was 87. Within a year Nelly was fatally hit by a drunk driver in the middle of winter in her hometown of Dover as she was crossing the street. When they found her dead in the road her hands were full with Christmas cards all posted to a tiny village in the middle of Ireland.

No rant today. No snarkiness. I’ve wanted to share this story for a while now, and thought I best do it while I have a captive audience.

Poor me

My little sister has been living in Boston for all of about two seconds and yet my mom is already planning to visit her. I've been living in Robin Hood country for almost an entire year and the only conversation we've had about a possibly visit was " we can always meet in Paris instead".

Two messages on my father's phone and three on my mother's and still haven't heard from either.

I'll be facing unemployment again in a month (so -if anyone has any interesting jobs leads let me know. Sassy girl. Will travel.)

But to cheer us all up, here is my pop art corner. I never thought I'd fall in love with these orange chairs, but I have.



And I also had a fab weekend. Friday I went down to London on business. Felt like a proper business woman talking on my cell phone in the back of the pre-paid cab to the tain station jotting down last minute addresses all while wearing my over-sized movie star sunglasses. After the work part of the day was over, I met with a girlfriend I hadn't seen since studying in Paris together, and shared a well-deserved bottle of wine.

Saturday, more girly-ness. From sushi and shopping in the afternoon (two fab dresses and a killer red necklace are now in my possesion) to way too much vodka and wine with Cosmo quizzes and a much needed game of "Never have I Ever".

Ok. So life ain't so bad after all. But come on Mom. Call me already.