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The ramblings of Mrs. Hoolihan

My rants on life and everything in between. Desperately trying to remind myself that it's just not worth the jail time.

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Me

Fuck it. Fuck you. Fuck off.


“Fuck it. Fuck you. Fuck off”

Let’s be honest, we all think this. You? Maybe a couple of times a day. Me? At least 74 times a day. I’m unsure if I’m perfectly honest, but I know that I do mutter this, often under my breath, a lot.

I’m no hater; I’m not hating on anyone before you let your imagination run away with itself. Good god, no. I’m just a HUMAN BEING. A human being who is unable first and foremost and secondly, who quite frankly, is unwilling to be tolerant to other people’s BS, fuckery or general shittiness (in what ever form it may occur).

Whether it’s people generally fucking up in everyday life, on public transport (thank the good, sweet lord, I no longer have to use this, quitting my old job secured this), having to navigate around general fucktards in the supermarket, or even watching tv, I find myself muttering “Fuck it, fuck you” or “fuck off”.

Today has started off to be a shitter of a day. “Fuck it, fuck you, fuck off” springs to mind at it’s not even 9am, I woke up to an alarm this am, pitch black outside and my immediate thought was, “Why the fuck did I set my alarm for a Saturday am?” Well it’s not bastarding Saturday is it? No. It’s bloody Wednesday. “Fuck it” was my second thought of the day.

When you’ve already kicked the day off with a “fuck it” you just know it’s going to be one of those bloody days. Making the mistake of looking at Facebook a couple of minutes ago and all I could think was “fuck off”; dirty laundry once again being aired in public (so uncouth and frankly, unneeded but that’s neediness I guess for you) and so the hamster wheel cycle of everyday life continues I guess.

Before my day gets any shittier, I’m going to sit and breathe for a moment; gather my thoughts and think positively for the rest of the day – actually who am I kidding? Fuck it actually, I’m off for a chocolate bar – chocolate helps in times like these and well if you don’t like it, me or my blog or you’ve been offended in any way, you know what you can do don’t you? ( I make zero apologies for my language or directness this morning either) Fuck right off!

I love my husband because…


I’m really not into public declarations of love, mainly because I think it’s a bit sickly to be honest but also because sometimes you don’t want to ram how good you’ve got something, down other people’s throats as I totally appreciate that not everyone’s lives are roses and all that shit.

On this occasion, however, I’m going to make an exception.

I fucking love my husband because today, after a late night all round, when our little boy started yelling his head off when he woke, my husband almost jumped up out of bed and the first words I heard him utter were “let’s let Mummy sleep as she’s really tired.”

A day of Harry emitting Satan like behaviour as he’s tired from a late one last night and having every cartoon shoved at us known to man and Wayne’s nipped out to collect us dinner. This, despite the fact he’s torn cartilage in his knee and finds walking unbearable, never mind driving and he’s not grumbled once today.

I love my husband because simply, he’s the dog’s bollocks.

I hate to disappoint ladies, but “Mr Perfect” doesn’t exist in your world – only mine as I’m lucky enough to have bagged this mofo.

If Carlbserg made husbands; mine would be the very handsome and witty fucking blueprint.

Thank you God, I bagged him!

Thank god it’s over.


Thank God it’s over. The wedding.

The dust is now settling and I have, what everyone else has had for the last year and that’s my life back.

This time last year we changed our wedding venue and decided to enjoy a quintessential British wedding complete in the British countryside with a marquee, afternoon tea and Pimms ahoy. When we decided to embark upon this exciting adventure, I’m not sure we quite understood what we had taken on, especially as I was studying quite intensely at the time too.

Exams sat weeks before Christmas, Christmas came and went and then that was it. Full on wedding mode. And that’s how it was right up until I set foot in Church.

Months of planning and all my worries evaporated the moment I stepped into Church and saw my husband to be’s beaming smile!

The honeymoon may be over, but we’re definitely enjoying the start of married life. Something feels ‘different’ – a sense or feeling I’m not sure which, of more togetherness.

I think I must be the only Bride who doesn’t mourn the fact that the wedding is over and is just simply happy, to be finally married. It was never about the ‘big wedding’ – it was about the ‘traditional’ wedding and the fact Wayne and I were marrying or uniting if you like; formally making him and his Dad a part of my family – Wayne and his Dad are adored by my family so formalising it was only a matter of course really.

Yes, the wedding may be over but I’m glad. We enjoyed the most magical day ever (barring the very notable absence of a number of people sadly) and the important thing wasn’t the party or dress, but that we committed to one another. We begin a new chapter in our lives together that so many wonderful family and friends were happy to be a part of, but that’s past now and we have a wonderful future to look forward to!

This Christmas will be wonderful; a united family, with the usual games and laughter – but this time, I’ll be Team Hoolihan – straying to the dark side to assist my husband and Father in Law in smashing my brothers and sisters!

My husband will come home to me cooking tea in my veil and yes, the wedding cards still adorn every free space of our home, but it’s time to look forward to the rest of our lives as married couple with our precious son and family. Happy times to continue!

 

 

Day 3 of married life.


Well it’s day 3 of married and quite simply, it couldn’t be more perfect.

Saturday was the best day ever! The rain held off until tea time and then we enjoyed England’s finest rain it had to offer. Did it spoil it? Hell no! It added to the atmosphere; friends and family pulling together to ensure no one was soaked running from the marquee to the bar and back, buggies were under cover and that everyone had fun. 

Both my Dad and my Father in Law were on top form and so much laughter exuded both – an absolute pleasure to witness! We asked my FIL to read a reading from the bible (1 Corinthians 13) and when he welled up, half the church held thier breath a amazing! 

Harry was a a dream (as always) and in waiting for me to arrive at church (30 mins late – Wayne was anxious I heard!) he fell asleep. Little love!

Dancing, rain, afternoon tea – a day to remember for certain! 

My new husband is more than anyone could wish for; just too cute seeing how emotional he was throughout the day. Incredibly privileged to call Wayne my husband – I couldn’t be prouder of him! 

We’re presently on honeymoon and being the dutiful wife, we’re enjoying the delights of the Euros at present – small things make him happy! 

Signing out to enjoy a drink with my husband – could life be anymore perfect? 

Day 1 of wanting to kill myself.


I’m no skinny minny, but I’m not a fatty either. I don’t look in the mirror and cringe – as a rule I’m rather happy with myself day to day. The only time I’m not happy is when I have to put a dress on (working in Construction means that this rarely occurs during the week) and then I start lamenting how I really shouldn’t have smashed the last bag of crisps.

It’ 8 weeks and 3 days till we say ‘I do’ and I need to drop a stone. 1 WHOLE STONE.Drastic action has been taken. With the support of my cousins, we’ve joined ‘Slimming World’; if it kills us, we’re losing in time for this wedding.

So here it is, day 1. I’ve read my literature and I’m determined to do this. With the diet of a pre-pubescent teenage boy, I’ve to also look past the aesthetics and re-educate myself when it comes to food.

This is going to be one, long and painful journey so forgive me now in advance of the amount of whining I’ll commit. It’s not a diet I keep telling myself as I stride past the plate of Oreos on display, but rather a change of lifestyle…

God; give me strength.

My Mummy. My Angel.


It’s been 5 years since Mummy was beckoned to become an Angel. 5 long years without her.

Sometimes  I hear her voice, capture a passing whiff of her perfume or hear an old Motown record and she’s right back in the room with us again.

Mummy didn’t want to die. On hearing the dreadful diagnosis of Cancer her words were simple according to my Dad, “I can’t have Cancer; I’ve 6 children”.

October 2006 is when those words were uttered and Mummy would quietly, with no fuss, battle the bastarding Cancer that would eventually kill her. Watching your parent, who you’ve always looked up to, battle a disease, is horrific. Luckily Mummy’s hair didn’t fall out, but she’d be confined to the family home for days on end; tired, withdrawn and sometimes ebbing at an all time low – the despair I think would torment her of her of what would happen to Dad and my brothers and sisters should she succumb to the fucker.

Not once did she ever ask why. Mummy wasn’t frightened of death; she never spoke of dying, I don’t think she could look it in the eye, but she wasn’t afraid – she was afraid for those she was leaving behind.

Mummy is always with us, I know that. She’d never leave us. Eternally 51, I know she’s looking out for each of us and she’d be proud of the people we’ve all become.

Dad although he misses her terribly and visits her grave without fail, every single day, is both Mum & Dad to us. He has his moments, but slowly, he’s realizing that you wouldn’t want him to mope each and every single day.

Dave is an incredible Daddy to little Davy who you missed on meeting by 2 months and Richard has become a Teacher. Joanne is your carbon copy Mum and thinks of everyone else but herself and Matthew has graduated uni with a 2:1 ! Jayne is now Mummy to Thomas who is 7 months old and a little treasure and all bar Dave who is yet to meet the woman of his dreams, we’ve such amazing partners, you’d love the lovely bones of each of them!

And then there’s me. You’d be surprised wouldn’t you at me becoming a Mummy! Always so focused on everything but children and not even liking them! Harry’s nearly 2 and an absolute dream – I know you visit him – whether it’s in his dreams or if you talk quietly to him, but I know you’re with him after what he said the other morning to Wayne.

My Mummy is my angel guardian and I know she looks to keep my family from harm. I know that when our time eventually comes, you’ll be there at those Pearly Gates, chewing St Peter’s ear off and once again, one, by one, our family will join  together again.

 

 

Losing weight. Or not and not giving a fuck.


The impending Hen Do is almost upon me. My last night of ‘freedom’ is literally around the corner and I’m still to lose any real weight.

At 5ft10, I’m hardly petite. I’m not fat but by no means am I certainly no anorexic skinny finny fuckety to do dah latte drinking thing either. You see the problem lies within; I just love food. And it, more importantly loves me.

I’m no gym goer either. I’m a full time Mummy, who happens to work full time too (I hate that because I work FT I’m not a ‘Full-time’ Mummy. Yes I bloody am; Harry my darling son is exactly why I work full-time – to ensure he enjoys the trappings of a loving home, holidays and breaks away plus whatever he wants – he’s no brat before you go down that route either.) So, in between being full time Mummy and a full time worker, it leaves me with little time (or energy) to work out. Here I am, all 11 stone of me.

For years before I had Harry, I was always 10 and half stone; no more no less (unless you’re counting my ‘fat’ period for 2/3 years that my family won’t let me forget, but I’ve no idea what i weighed as I never used to weigh myself really). Anyway my hen do is next month and my sisters and all my friends are these uber attractive, skinny minnie things (I’m even fatter than my pregnant sister!) and I’ve come to a conclusion.

The conclusion is this (and it goes for my wedding dress too). I can’t have fat arms. Ah ah no, not happening. I’m happy enough at the size I am, because let’s be frank, I simply don’t have the time or will power to ‘slim’ down. As long as I don’t have fat arms or a fat upper back bulging from my wedding dress, then I’m happy.

Bollocks to bowing to peer pressure; I’m happy enough as I am. I’m not perfect and there are body parts I hate (fat hips I’m talking about you here), but I’m nearly 35, my body has carried a baby, I’m not exactly massive so why fix what isn’t broke?

To all the fat haters out there, I’ve two words for you – FUCK OFF. You may be skinnier than me, but are you happy? Like truly happy? Perhaps you are, perhaps you’re not. But don’t go throwing stones when you live in a glasshouse is the advice I’m giving as none of us are perfect.

On that note, I’m off to stuff my fat face and be happy. And then I’ll hit the weights tonight!

I can’t concentrate.


I can’t concentrate.

I’m tired, I’m ratty (I feel this, no one’s actually confirmed this) and can’t think straight. I’ve a lot on at the moment and I feel like I could actually sleep for 10,000 years. OK so a slight exaggeration, but you get me don’t you?

Today is my middle sister’s birthday and I have to confess, I almost missed it. Last year I missed a few people’s birthdays (one being my Dad – my Dad! How the hell I forgot that, I’ll never know) and a few people got arsey about it, yeah I get it, but my life doesn’t revolve around you, it revolves around our soon to be 2 year old, Harry and my husband to be is nearly 37 but stuck in the mindset of a 14 year old boy. Oh and paying the not so little mortgage we have.

So this year I thought I’d be organised and write all birthdays in my diary – and I’ve still forgotten. I’ve forgotten to check my diary and if it wasn’t for Facebook reminding me, I’d have forgotten once again.

I’m putting my lack of concentration, tiredness and all round mardiness down to trying to juggle Mummyhood, Fianceehood, our forthcoming wedding (not long now!), a demanding full-time job (which I love so I’m not at all complaining) and being a domestic goddess (unsuccessfully as our house permanently looks like a bombsite since we let go of our last cleaner).

I’ve never felt so tired trying to juggle all this (thank god the studying finished in December to give me a break). If I’m not collecting Harry from Nursery or his beloved Grandparents, I’m trying to amuse and play with him whilst cooking dinner and playing with the dog. If not this, then I’m trying to find bunting for the wedding, or decide upon which toilets to hire in for the day, trying to juggle maid of honour and bridemsaids dresses or I’m failing miserably at trying to maintain a decent looking house in case anyone pops by.

With all this whirring around my head, a forthcoming Audit at work, worrying if the cars service or MOT has run overdue seeing as I miss everything else, I barely have time for 2 minutes to myself. These days having a wee on my own, in the privacy of my own en-suite feels like a smug day at the Spa. I just can’t seem to concentrate so I’m perpetually caught up in what I can only describe as a whirlwind of everyday life.

Even when I’m sleeping, my mind is off on one!

It may seem like I’m complaining; far from it (though the haters will no doubt disagree -go jump off a bridge is my advice to whatever sarky shit you’re thinking), i just sometimes wish there were two of me! Life would be so much easier – me 1 could whirl about doing the doing whilst me 2 could simply think. If only life were that easy!

Well off I trot; I already feel somewhat calmer for this somewhat calmly approached rant and well, it stops me ripping the nearest persons head off in any case. I really should write more, maybe when Harry’s a tad older I’ll have the time – maybe I’ll even wrote a novel. My little man is so terribly independent (takes after his Mummy) and soon he’ll realise there’s a whole world out there to explore and he won’t rely on Mummy & Daddy quite so much. Until then,  the whirlwind of my life will continue!

In the words of Christian Grey, Laters Baby!

 

 

 

Loving and embracing one’s self.


Sometimes it’s easy to forget who I am.

‘Mummy’ ‘Fiancee”Daughter’ ‘Sister’ ‘Friend’ ‘Aunty’ ‘Cousin’ ‘Grandaughter’ – at the end of the day I’m Just Jenny and sometimes, caught up in the whirlwind of my every day life, I forget that.

Last night, I looked in the mirror. Like properly looked in the mirror. I can honestly say this was the first time in a long time I’d properly looked at myself. No longer graced with that youthful like glow that you exude in your teens and twenties, I saw a 34 year old woman staring back at me in the glass.

Now don’t get me wrong, compared to some of my peers, I honestly don’t think I’m aging too badly – this is certainly no pity party; I’m not into all of that self-deprecation shite and never have been, nor will I ever be.  I guess my long winded point, is that finally I no longer see a girl that I’ve identified for so long with.

The laughter lines have appeared (proof I enjoy my life at least!), lines on my fore head are sneakily showing themselves, my once thick eyebrows are starting to thin a little and long gone is the lovely heart shaped jawline I once so lovingly possessed as a younger version of myself.

I could rush out and fill my face with all sorts of fillers and Botox but that’s not the answer for me, well not yet anyway; it only creates more problem areas in time, as I’m not truly wrinkly just yet. No thanks, whatever floats your boat, but me for I’m fine as I am at present.

My body, changed forever following the birth of Prince Harry, has lost it’s ability to bounce back.  Again, I’m fairing OK; I was lucky enough not to have any stretch marks, and I’m slim, but for the love of God, I can’t seem to shift the last little bit of baby pouchiness on my tummy as I refer to it as. In my clothes, you’d never notice it, maybe not even swimwear, but I can feel it when I’m sat down and everything is loose!

With the impending nuptials on the way, I’ve made the decision to try and regain some aspects of my youth. Let’s be brutal here, there’s sod all I can do about my face and I could look a lot worse (I know some rough 2o odd year olds, who look haggard as, thanks to a combo of smoking, booze and drugs – shame on them), I don’t look in the mirror and hate myself, so until that day, I’ll live with my face as it is.

The body is another thing. I used to be complimented for a slim figure with cracking legs – I’m never going to flaunt my body the way I did when I was 17 (plus I’m nudging closer to 40 and I’m a Mother now, so I think that ensuring my dignity is in tact is the best thing here; no one one wants to see a saggy woman’s arse hanging from her hot pants as she approaches mid life, I’m no Gisele after all – yuk, yuk , yuk), but I don’t want to be the one who we all judge (yes we all do it, even you, so don’t sit there and exempt yourself from this line of thinking!) – chubby, squashing herself into shorts that are clearly too tight for her, not to mention age in appropriate too.

I will not be that bride, who on my wedding day, everyone under their breath comments how I’ve been packed into that dress – uh, uh no.

So what; I may not be 17 and yes I am closer to 40 than 21, but I’m embracing this. Growing old gracefully is my aim and to ensure that whenever I look in the mirror, an older version may look back each time, and that I’m happy with each version I see.

Life’s too short to get hung up – love yourself – whichever version of yourself you see.

 

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