acarbery

I’m known for being one of the last to leave a party. I call it staying power; others might refer to it as outstaying my welcome. It’s embarrassing really, but it’s my thing. I hang on for too long, and leave long after I’ve peaked.

A lot like with this blog, then.

I’ve made some great friends, some who I’ve actually met, and still hound every chance I get. Some who I haven’t met, but maybe will some day. All done through this crazy haze of blogging, and that was awesome. Never thought that would happen!

But I think the time has come to bring it to an end. Things, and life just seem to get in the way, and I’m never able to do with it what I set out to do. So I’m hanging up my hat, and letting the blog float away.

I’ll never say never again. But just not now. Or here. We’ve got lots of things planned; JJ (my certain someone) and I. We’re going to move ourselves out of this stop-over city at some point whenever crazy recessionata ends, and maybe I’ll yearn to over-share again.

Until then, adieu, and see you on your side!

In our family, we’ve been staring at cancer for the last few months, confident that we’re going to win the staring match, because, hello! - we’ve got an army of Carberys staring at one itty bitty piece of cancer sitting on my Dad’s lung. An army of Carberys, and an arsenal of surgery and, now, chemotherapy. Any time now over the next few weeks we shall claim victory, and all will be well again.

Yes, I’ve just used a staring match analogy to describe my Dad’s cancer, but it beats the long, self-pitying, smaltzy and numerous previous drafts that were floating about on the very same subject. In case you missed it; I don’t do personal blog posts so well.

So the irony that even though I {pretend to} have a personal blog, it doesn’t escape me that I spend more time writing personal stories about, say, my certain someone than I do about myself. It’s one of the many, many reasons I keep him around. Yeah, that’s right, blog fodder. Normal service (read: not at all difficult and personal posts like this) shall resume as soon as my beloved certain someone does something silly enough to make me laugh and smile, and be glad that he’s around to keep the days ticking over. But keep the blog ticking over too.

We’re not long back from a thoroughly enjoyable relaxing week in Spain.

One of those holidays booked through your typical commercial tour operators, but don’t scoff; I can endure a half an hour of a tour operator sales pitch, in exchange for inexpensive and utterly relaxing week lying on an inflatable lilo in the middle of the sea, sipping Cava at all hours of the day, because it’s so damn cheap. I can get plenty of culture every other 51 weeks of the year; sometimes too much culture, I say. R and R, all the way, for one week only. It was needed.

One evening, after feeling slightly guilty for spending too much time lazing about, we decided to find the nearest boy bar, and dance our little shoes off until it was time to get up and hit the beach, all over again. Having chosen my tour operator very well, thank you very much, they left us with a little card telling us to get in contact 24/7 and ask any question we wanted; great or small; they’d find the answer.

Well, you can imagine the sorts of questions I had floating around my head for a bored tour operator sitting somewhere in London or wherever, on a rainy Saturday night. So this is why certain someone took charge and rang the number to enquire as to the whereabouts of the nearest and greatest boy bars.

After a not very speedy response (little disappointing, I gotta tell you, tour operator) they eventually rang back the hotel room, to tell Certain Someone that there were no local gay bars, but they could recommend a swingers club instead, and would we be interested in the details?

Certain Someone is STILL threatening to write an angry letter to the tour operator!

In our house, lives two fabulous boys.

One of us is a fabulous librarian, who believes there’s nothing sexier, than growing old gracefully.

The other of us disagrees, and went off and got botox. Actual bull’s jizz, or whatever botox is, into the side of each of his eyes, to smooth out wrinkles that only appeared when he laughed.

One of us wouldn’t touch botox if it was going for free.

While the other of us who got the botox now looks older, and more haggard after getting botox, because while indeed the wrinkles on the side of his eyes are smooth as anything, unfortunately his untreated face cheeks are now meeting his treated eyes, and creating permanent bags because of the botox.

One of us thinks this is hilarious, and the best thing to happen, like EVER.

The other of us has vowed never to get botox again.

Can you guess which is which?

Ok, so I’ve had a few inexplicable absences of late. And I’m probably about to have another one. It’s this thing where I’ve had some stuff at home that needs my undivided attention.

So heaven forbid anyone is left in suspense wondering where I am, I’m probably going to be zip quiet until maybe September. Maybe I promise that when I come back I’ll finally start blogging properly again (which I haven’t done, well, ever) and I’ll update the links on the side, and I’ll get rid of the god awful blog design, get a new look, and all will be well.

In the meantime, I would like stories, jokes, anecdotes, cash and offers of sexual favours in the comments section, pleases and thanks yous.

Kidding!. Sort of.

… when you’re refused a bottle of wine in the supermarket because it was too early to buy alcohol.

Wouldn’t at all be embarrassing, except I held the ever-growing queue up behind me walking back to put the bottle back on the shelf.

Morto-fee-cation.

Three years ago, this very weekend, the weekend of Spraoi, I arrived in Waterford and moved into an apartment.
Time flies… am I having fun?

Two pretty girls have moved into the house behind us recently. From our kitchen window, if you look up, you can see the bedroom window of one of the bedrooms of the house behind us.

I think one of the girls has had a sex toy sitting in the window for the past few days. I’m sure it’s long, and ribbed.

She’ll fit right in to this neighbourhood.

Brenda Power’s suggestion on TodayFM yesterday evening, that if gay couples were up for consideration to be adoptive parents, this would lead to someone reconsidering putting their child up for adoption (one can only assume she means have an abortion) made my blood boil to the point of rage, and I wrote her an email telling her this. (Not that I expect a reply, or anything).

Deep Breath! Her original article which lead to the radio debate is to be found here.

EDIT: The audio clip of her debate is to be found here.

While I may not find Lady GaGa too appealing, and I believe it’s madness to go pay €100 to see Britney Spears mime in the O2 when I can go to my local gay bar and see a drag queen do the same, and more lucidly too, he does, however, make me laugh, that certain someone does.

For example: when a song from Evita came on over the weekend, he proudly tells me that he went to the premiere of Evita.

“Really!?!” says I.

“Yeah. The Waterford premiere. There were no stars at it though; just Joan from down the road. I don’t mind though. I still loved it.”

Let me get this, erm, straight.

The new Civil Partnership Bill published last week, while indeed does make some progress for this country, doesn’t give same sex couples the right to marry? Just get tax break stuff, and the chance to have their same sex civil partnership registered? Oh, romantic!

So, a lesbian couple, one with a son or daughter, perhaps, can’t have the other partner adopt her partner’s child, even if she’s been raising the child for years with her partner? Or a gay male couple can never even be considered to become adoption parents, even if they are willing and more than capable of providing a stable and loving home?

And if a gay couple have a civil partnership, given the fact that the state doesn’t recognise that they’re married, when it comes time to filling in their marital martial status on any form, do they write in “Single”?

Just to clarify, like!

As if last Thursday wasn’t enough, I got a letter yesterday from Bord Gais, our lovely gas supplier, and now, supplier of our electricity. Yes, they seduced me with their Big Switch.

I was duly informed that one of the laptops stolen last weekfrom their offices contained my personal and bank details.

Of course it did. Here; here’s my money; you might as well just take it. Lucy Kennedy never warned me about that!

Sheesh. Kick me while I’m down why don’t ya!

I’m trying to find a witty, interesting or otherwise worthy way of writing a post this morning, about the latter half of my last week. But I can’t seem to find it. I’m also not trying particularly hard, in all fairness.

Instead I offer:

Last week I arrived home to a burgled home. No one was in the house at the time. The house wasn’t ransacked through and through, and a significant amount of electronic goods were taken. We’re all fine. Formalities are underway. All should hopefully be well soon again.
I should never have declared last Monday that is was going to be a good week. I jinxed myself.

So. What did I miss? Anyone with any news? Go on. Give me a bit of light relief. Anyone got any jokes?

I hate, hate, HATE cutting goopy, fleshy chicken fillets for the stir fry, and he, for some strange reason, would rather cut the goopy fleshy chicken fillets than empty the dishwasher of yesterday’s dishes!

It makes for a ship shop regiment of an evening.

The same over-chlorinated pool that had me blind for day now allows me to rock my spikey bedhead hairdo without the need for a single dab of gel, wax or any other product.

At what point should I consider finding a new pool?