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tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16205436632615375592018-05-29T04:21:57.234+01:00Nutterly ButterlySpontaneous outbursts from a moany old cow.Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-44477067958325570682013-10-02T19:52:00.001+01:002013-10-02T19:52:35.852+01:00Life Changing Email...

Insert funny pic here...

Do you sometimes think about how this next thing you are going to google might change your life? And if you don't google it right then you have missed your chance. Sometimes I am about to type it in (the life changing google) but I'll suddenly forget what it was. And I spend the next half hour racking my brain; trying to remember what the hell it was I needed to google. Often I won't remember, it'll be gone, and I'll lament over that amazing lost opportunity.

Leaflets through the door might have the answer. Or the post. When I get home I can't wait to check it out. Especially parcels. "What could it be?" It's probably the pair of gloves I ordered three days ago. But. It could be something else, right? Something - incredible! Like what? Just something... FABULOUS!

And emails. My inbox. Every day I check it I think "this is it, this is the day when something amazing will be there." The email that changes everything.

It wasn't there today.

Maybe tomorrow?Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-11473208409091315082013-08-12T18:30:00.000+01:002013-08-12T19:02:22.295+01:00No Way Sis! Or "How Me and My Best Friend Nearly Got Kidnapped."When Oasis announced a date in The Point back in 1997, me and my friend knew we would have to be there. We were fourteen years old and while my walls were plastered with Liam's ugly mug, my clearly more intelligent friend, had it hard for Noel. Back in those days there were two options for music fans looking for tickets; call the ticketline or queue outside HMV Grafton Street. Now, calling the ticketline sounds like the better option, right? But the problem there is, every gobshite in Ireland thought the same. It was never a safe bet. And we needed those tickets. So, for us, there WAS no other option. We sat down and planned our queueing strategy.

This wasn't any old gig. Oasis had just released "Be Here Now" their fasted selling album to date. Everyone wanted a piece of them. Queueing would have to be an overnight job. And we knew we had to start early, maybe seven or eight o clock in the evening. We were really excited about our expedition. It was going to be fun. In town, late at night, among like minded Britpoppers. Sure we'd all buzz off each other, have a sing-song. Great craic altogether.

Can't decide if it was his hair or his moves that did it for me...

We left my friend's house on the big night. Got the 11A in to Trinity College and practically sprinted up Grafton street. A few metres away we could see a line had already formed; Those at the front, veteran queuers, grinned smugly as we passed them by. They sat on fold out stools and drank steaming, hot tea from thermo-flasks. They had sleeping bags, torches, backpacks stuffed with food, heavy winter jackets and woolly hats. We had a packet of Mikado, an itchy blanket and a drool stained pillow.

We turned right at HMV and followed the line of dedicated fans down the side of the building, looking for the end of the queue. We got to the end of the street and turned right again. The queue continued on. I looked at my friend despairingly. We walked past the crowds of devoted fans until we had to turn right again. I could feel those tickets being snatched from us before we even got a whiff of them. Finally we reached the end. But HMV was miles away. "There's no way we're getting a ticket back here," I remarked to my friend. She nodded in agreement,"we're fucked alright." We plonked down on the ground for a sulk. "Alright Hazel?" A voice I recognised greeted me. I looked up. There in front of me was a lad I knew from the youth club I frequented. I said hello and before you know it he's asking us to come queue with him and his mate just a few feet from the front of HMV. We leapt up off our holes and followed him around, smirking at all the losers we had only just passed. My friend and I couldn't believe our luck, we exchanged stupid grins as we followed the lad.

We ended up right around the corner from the front door of HMV, like RIGHT around the corner. We couldn't believe our luck. The lad had a friend with him and we all sat down and started the chat. It was only then I began to realise that I actually hated this lad. He was a total creep, a bit of a mentalist and had tried it on with me before on a youth club trip. When he moved closer to me I started to panic. My friend was getting on well with his really cute and totally sane friend and completely oblivious to my dilemma. I jumped up from where I was sitting and legged it off on my own, not sure where I was heading but just glad I was getting away from the lad.

Sexy, sexy, Noel Gallagher.

The HMV queue had attracted quite a lot of attention at this stage. There were crowds of people all over Grafton Street. I wandered round the place feeling so sorry for myself. This was supposed to be fun but I was having a shit time. I plonked my arse down on the side of the path and was about to start crying when these two men came over and started talking to me. They were in their thirties or forties, I reckon. It's a long time ago now so difficult to remember exactly what they looked like. They asked me what I was up to and I told them about queueing for tickets. They looked at each and smiled and one of them proceeded to tell me that he worked with Oasis and could sort me out with tickets. That I needn't bother queueing with all these eejits and sure he might even be able to get me some back stage passes. I couldn't believe my luck. Out of the whole mob of people on Grafton Street, they had chosen little old me to bestow these tickets upon. They asked me to join them down in Burger King for a chat and I jumped off the ground, grinning and nodding like a dumb animal. But wait! I couldn't go without my friend, I told them. The men glanced at one another with the same look of uncertainty. You've a friend with you, they asked, what age is she, why isn't she with you? I told them she was fourteen the same as me and they seemed to relax. They told me to go get her and meet them back at the same spot.

I ran off to get my friend, I couldn't believe our luck! Imagine, BACK STAGE PASSES to OASIS! We'd get to meet Liam and Noel and Bonehead and the other guy. When I got back to our spot I found her wearing the face off the cute lad. I pulled her away from him and explained about the men. (Un)Luckily she was as thick as me and we ran off together to find the men, like two excited little puppies. I spotted the two men and rushed over, introducing my friend. They reiterated what they had said about the tickets and asked us to walk to Burger King with them. We followed them down the road, grinning at each other like two Chesire Cats on Crack.

The Coveted Ticket.

We reached Burger King at the end of Grafton Street and the two men found us a table downstairs. They bought us some food and we sat there eating in silence. And this is when things started to turn weird. They were talking to one another, whispering and stuff. My friend looked less excited than she had before. In fact I noticed that she looked a bit scared. And that made me scared. The men finally stared at us and blurted out what we were beginning to realise. "Eh girls, we were only messing about the tickets." We said nothing. "Yeah," the other guy started, "the whole Oasis thing it was just a story, having a laugh ye know." I looked at my friend,
she was giving me a "let's get the fuck out of here" look. But we didn't want to be rude. I mean, we didn't want to insult these could-be paedophiles/kidnappers - the Irish in us just wouldn't allow it. So we sat there. And they sat there. They asked us about ourselves. I felt ill. My friend was pinching my leg. Finally my friend spoke,"I'm going to the toilet, I mean, I need to go.. to the toilet." She got up and digged me in the arm. I jumped up and followed her.

Once we were in the jacks we breathed a sigh of relief. We agreed not to go out again until they'd left. We peeked out every few minutes. They stayed for about half an hour. Then they were gone. We snuck out and scanned the restaurant. No sign of them. We went upstairs. We saw the door. We ran. We ran all the way back to the creep and the cutie. We sat down. We stayed there. And we never spoke about it again, did we?Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-23541378077060178772013-08-06T09:59:00.001+01:002013-08-07T21:35:47.903+01:00The Irritable Gene.

This post was inspired by my cousin's Facebook status update. She commented on how she was always got stuck next to the annoying people on the train. This time in particular was a woman making noises while she enjoyed a snack. The direct quote: "the lady beside me is sucking on a Calippo (long cylindrical ice-lolly) like she has no teeth". The image and sounds that conjured in my head, ugh! Soundtrack of Hell, track no 1. Woman sucking Calippo with no teeth.

I understood what she was going through, not just at that moment but every day. For I too am that person; the one who gets stuck next to the kid who has his music so loud I can hear every beat of the headache inducing, hardcore dance tunes that escape through his earphones, or the old lady who sniffs every two seconds instead of taking out a tissue and blowing her poxy nose. I am the girl who has to sit next to the man who hasn't showered in a year and keeps digging black wax from his ear canal.

But it's not just on the bus or train - this happens everywhere. Everything annoys me. In the canteen my ears twitch as I hear people preparing soup. I build myself up for the inevitable sipping and slurping that will follow. That or I leave the room and have lunch at my desk. At my brother's house I clench my teeth as my niece kicks a ball against the wall outside; bang, bang, bang. Christ - can you not just tell her to stop! In my own home I am tormented by the hissing sound from the radio. "Can you hear that? I can hear it, it's so annoying." My husband's answer: "just ignore it." Oh, but if it was that easy...

I was at the cinema with my friends a while ago. It was not a good experience. Getting me riled up at the cinema is like shooting fish in a barrel. There are so many irritants just waiting to be discovered. The guy with the barking cough, the woman who seems to use her bag of Minstrels as a maracas, the kids who whisper "Why did he do that" to their parents every five seconds, teenagers who kick the back of your chair... The list is endless.

Anyway, this time was particularly bad. Some guy behind us wouldn't shut up with a running commentary through the whole film. Another person was checking his Twitter feed on his phone, lighting up the place whenever he got an update. But the most annoying was this guy who got up out of his chair five times during the film. FIVE TIMES! He was sitting right in front of me and I was ready to kill him by the end.

As we left I said it to my friends and they looked at me like I was mentally deranged. "What are you talking about?" "I didn't notice anything." "Why didn't you just watch the film?"

But... how could I watch the film with all those distractions? Couldn't they understand that? Apparently not. Their question: "Why be looking around you if you know it's going to piss you off?"

Why indeed?Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-2889570565111325942013-08-03T11:06:00.001+01:002013-08-03T16:22:03.440+01:00Disneyland Paris - Big Swinging Mickey*.

The Sleeping Beauty Castle in the rain.

First things first, I have a confession to make. I hate Mickey Mouse. And so does my husband. We are definitely more "Looney Tunes" type people. I didn't even like Mickey Mouse as a kid. Instead I grew up watching Elmer Fudd chase Bugs Bunny with a shotgun singing "Kill the Wabbit!" Daffy Duck was a personal favourite - a selfish, mean spirited duck who you rooted for all the same. There was something 'real' about Warner Bros. cartoon characters that Mickey Mouse et al just didn't seem to emulate. Disney characters were too white washed, too wholesome. Too boring.

So you might ask - "Why the hell did you go to DISNEYland?" And to be honest, it's a questions I ask myself now. Why did we go to Disneyland? The best I can come up with is because of the funfair rides. The year before we spent a day at Alton Towers and just loved it. Rollercoaster after rollercaoster, it never got old so we thought maybe Disneyland would be the same. And in some ways it was. Disney has some great fairground rides. But it's just... Well, the amount of cute, colourful and shiny ribbon clad crap you have to wade through to get to the rides. That is what made Disneyland Paris one of the great disappointments of my life.

And in the sun, fabulous!

The queue at the hotel was the first slice of reality served to us in this "land of imagination".We had to wait an hour to check in. This was after getting up at four in the morning and travelling by plane and coach for the past ten hours. We were exhausted by the time we finally collapsed onto our itchy polyester lined Lightning McQueen style beds. We had a quick sleep before leaving for the big D.

Before you reach the parks you have to walk through Disney Village. This is just shops and restaurants. Although each store has a different name, they are essentially the exact same. They sell Disney stuff. You immediately notice the prices. Disneyland is bloody expensive. We checked menus outside the restaurants/fast food places/sandwich bars; all of them are hugely overpriced. You pay €3.50 for a can of coke, a large coffee will set you back €5.75. The next thing you notice is how many people don't seem to care about the prices. Children wave their new Tinkerbell Fairy Wands, while their parents prance around in velour Mickey Mouse Ears. Little girls pose in sparkly Cinderellla dresses and boys twirl bright Star Wars Keychains on their fingers. You can hear the chorus of "I want, I want" at each shop door you pass. Mammies and Daddies trudge past, pushing buggies that creak with the weight of countless shopping bags; stuffed to the brim with every piece of conceivable Disney merchandise you can imagine.

What are you smiling about? That cost €5.75!

By the time we reached the actual park we were losing faith. But the sight of Sleeping Beauty's Castle restored our excitement and we began to run towards the entrance. Once in we looked around, taking it all in and wondering what we should do first. It looked great. Disneyland Park is set like a village in the "Old West". Lots of old style buildings but with a cartoonish feel that makes it kind of surreal. But as we inspected further we realised this was just like any ordinary street. Yeah, you guessed it - loads of shops. We couldn't believe it - having just escaped from Disney Village with our wallets intact, we were now affronted by this; shop after shop after shop. Each one filled with the same candy coated, sweet as pie, rhinestone decorated crap as the next.

You have to pass two streets before finally reaching something that isn't a shop. The first ride we wanted to go on was "Big Thunder Mountain." We found it only to realise it was closed down for repairs - or as Disney like to put it "refurbished for our future enjoyment." It wasn't that big of a deal - we found other rides and they were surprisingly good. "Space

Mountain" was seriously fast and scary. The Tower of Terror (In Disneyland Studios) had us screeching with fright, leaving out hearts in our mouths as we stepped off the haunted elevator. The Aerosmith Rollercoaster was also very fast with loads of twist and turns, making it unpredictable and great fun. There were a couple of other rides marked as "thrilling" and all of them were good but overall there just wasn't enough to keep us entertained for more than a few hours. The majority of rides at Disneyland are for little kids. We did have fun just walking around but Disneyland is very small and it's not long before you've covered everything. The highlight of the three day trip was The Light Show. It took place near midnight in the park. Laser images were projected onto the Sleeping Beauty castle and we were treated to a show piece of Disney's "best bits" - lots of singing, music, popular characters and amazing effects. It took us by surprise how much we enjoyed it. I would highly recommend anyone who is going to stay for this dazzling spectacle, thoroughly enjoyable! That's enough niceties now, back to the giving out. This is supposed to be a moany blog after all.

Now, that's one big Mickey!

It wasn't just the lack of rides that left us feeling hard done by. Everything about Disney was annoying. The staff were surly and abrupt, the food was disgusting slop, (the breakfast buffet was a particular stomach churner) the queues were long (and this was during school term time!) and the weather was terrible (not Disney's fault but the leaflet told us Disneyland was 80% covered so we needn't worry about the rain, a load of bollox).

People are probably reading this thinking: What a moany old cow. And I get that, I really do. Why couldn't we just get into the Disney buzz and enjoy the place for what it was? The reason being what I found Disney to be was a commercial, money obsessed, materialised, over priced, carnival. That might sound naive of me. I mean, surely I know that all Theme Parks are commercial, money obsessed etc. Of course I do. It's just that Disneyland Paris was so unashamed about it's greed . It didn't hide the fact that it was just out to line its pockets. In fact, Disneyland's mantra was plastered on posters everywhere for all to see: "Nothing brings a smile to child's face more than a new toy." It fed on the desires of children and the guilt of their parents. It encouraged the tears and tantrums that led to the wallet being emptied. We watched parents crumble as they passed shop after shop. You can only say no so many times...

Kieran gets his Disney on, boo ya!

I found that we couldn't just have fun. If we wanted an ice-cream we had to justify handing over €5.00 for what would cost €2.00 in Ireland. If we wanted to much on popcorn it was again €5.00 - for the tiniest cup. You're thirsty, a bottle of water is €3.50. It just ruined everything for us. It was the first holiday I had been on where I was checking the prices of everything and making sure we'd have enough to pay for our overpriced and undercooked, burger and chips in the (in)appropriatly named Café Mickey that evening.

After three days, during which we visited Paris as well as Disneyland, we left for home. I can't say I was sad to go. In fact, after an incident whereby the latch in our room took it upon itself to lock us out, we were just sick of the place and couldn't wait to leave.

I dreamt of plain white cotton sheets on the flight home.

*In Ireland Mickey is a colloquial term for a penis.

Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-571533525953026782013-05-19T11:37:00.002+01:002013-05-19T11:52:35.883+01:00Who needs a Kong when you've a perfectly good skirting board to chew?Introducing...

Gaia - our wonderdog!

Things Gaia doesn't like to play with:

1. Her Kong toy, unless it is filled with peanut butter. Then she will play with it for five minutes until the peanut butter is gone.

2. Her rubber bone toy from Zooplus.

3. Her tennis ball with cute doggie prints on it; made especially for fetch with your pet pooch.

4. The "Dog Frisbee" we got when we realised tennis balls weren't her thing.

5. Her cute elephant rope toy for "tugging and throwing fun" from the pet shop in Swords.

Things Gaia does like to play with:

1. My socks - preferably the low cut ankle ones. She loves ripping them to pieces.

2. The skirting boards. The one in the kitchen is her favourite.

3. Kieran's expensive gloves that he bought for working on site. They are now fingerless.

4. My pink ballet style slip on shoe. I only have the left one now.

5. The plants in the kitchen. Nothing like a good old dig in a pot plant.

6. Bills, postcards, leaflets, parcels and/or packages that are posted through our letter box.

7. The leftovers in the small brown bin. She likes nothing better than tossing the contents of it around the kitchen.

All the better to chew the shit out of everything you own with, my dear.

So what have I learned? Never buy toys for your dog as they will find plenty to play with in your house that costs nothing. (Unless you count the time spent cleaning up after your little angel)

Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-35637652876391782502013-05-11T13:13:00.001+01:002013-05-11T22:03:09.035+01:00Let them eat cake... at THE AvocaI visited Avoca recently. In Malahide Castle. It really is a fabulous place. The kind of place where I keep expecting to be tapped on the shoulder and asked to leave. Politely, of course. It consists of a grocery, deli, home ware and clothing shop and at the back there is the famous Avoca Café. It is yummy mummy heaven. I hate that word but if ever there was a need to use it it's in reference to THE Avoca. Parked at the café entrance are rows of Bug-a-Boo strollers, Silver Cross prams and Maxi Cosi travel systems. Inside the pampered parents share gargantuan portions of Raspberry Roulade with their gal pals (Do you know how many points are in a whole one of them?!) while little Senan chews on stalks of broccoli with side dips: "Oh he just LOVES hummus!"

Let them eat Giant Almond Roulade (with berry garnish!)

Again, I am going off on a tangent... Back to the story in hand. I finished my (pretty crappy) cappucino and accompanying (absolutely devine) monster chocolate roulade (that I ate all by myself) and headed to the shop. I wanted to bring home a treat for my husband and maybe even a little something more for me. I was checking out the baked cheesecakes, banana loaves and chunky rocky road squares when I noticed something written on the boxes. I picked it up for closer inspection. Yes, I was right. It said "Let them eat cake." With a picture of Marie Antoinette for good measure. For those of you who were asleep during Junior Cert History - "Let them eat cake" is the rumoured line offered by Antoinette when told starving peasants had no bread.

Now, I know many historians will say Marie Antoinette was unfairly targeted by the French revolutionists. She was, essentially, completely ignorant of the world around her. She wasn't to blame for the poverty of the peasants in a country ruled by her husband. But at the same time, it was that ignorance that led to the French Revolution. That's how closed off the upper classes were to the working classes. They lived in their ostentatious land of brioche, Camembert and champagne, oblivious to the suffering of the masses. Not unlike the pretentious patronage of THE Avoca., eh? (Joke!)

And that's why I hate them using that tag line. That quote represents everything that is wrong with the world, then and now. And Avoca 's use of it shows a total disregard for the suffering of not only those French peasants but the suffering of others that still goes on today and tomorrow and probably forever.

Surely I am not blaming The Avoca for world poverty? Have I gone too far? Wait until you see my post on Abercrombie and Fitch.
Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-75906095265901481232013-03-15T15:04:00.000+00:002013-05-11T22:01:36.029+01:00Cinema Etiquette.As a regular cinema goer, I feel I have to speak out about certain changes I have noticed in my cinematic experiences of late. Maybe it's just a case of generation denial - you know the "In my day..." bladderings of old aged pensioners who seem to have forgotten that teenagers were, and always will be, obnoxious, loud and ugly. But maybe, especially with the popularity of mobile devices, social networking and our growing need to know exactly what we're all doing at all times, I am right to express my concern.

Cinema is no longer a hallowed ground. It doesn't share the respect that other buildings like the local library or the church still seem to demand. There was a time when you just didn't talk in the cinema. When the whisper of an abhorrent adolescent was quickly followed by the angry "shhhush!" of someone who actually wanted to watch the film. And that was it. No more noise.

In the past three to five years I have noticed the rise in background noise at the cinema. And it's not just from teenagers who don't know any better. I have heard full on conversations between adults. Sometimes discussing the events of the film, " What just happened there?" "Why'd he give that to her?" "What did she do that for?" "I haven't a clue what's going on, have you? Gimme some of those M&Ms." Sometimes just inane chit chat; "Were you watching The Late Late last week, what did ye think of yer man with one arm and no body hair?" Or sometimes repeating the lines of the film as they are spoken. Yes, this actually happened to me and my friends when we went to see "Django" recently.

Anyway, I digress. The reason for this blog post is to teach those not in the know how to behave in the cinema. A "How To..." for cinema goers; old and young, regular and sporadic.

Why did you come here - whyyyyyy?

The Grumpy Nut's Guide to Cinema Etiquette.

DO...

1. Bring your own grub. The food and drink at the cinema is extortionate. BUT if you do this you must remember to take out all snacks before the film starts. Have them on your lap, on the floor or on the chair beside you if it's free. Open them if you can. Any actions that avoid rustling mid film are always good.

2. Take your coat off and make yourself comfortable before the film starts.

3. Arrive on time. There's nothing worse than some tardy git squeezing past you as you try and take in the opening scene.

4. Put your feet up on the seat in front of you BUT only if it, and the seats beside it, are not occupied. Nobody wants someone's stinking Converse in or any where near their face while watching a flick.

DO NOT...

1. Hang your coat or bag on the seat in front of you. This is really annoying for the person sitting in front. Keep it on your lap, or on the floor (if it's not too sticky!)

2. Rustle. Just... I mean a small amount of rustling is inevitable. You have to remove the sweaty rain jacket, get comfy in the chair, open the Big Bag o Minstrels and stick the straw in the Giant Cup o Coke. But this relentless, never ending... crumpling, scraping, shifting, fumbling. There is no popcorn left in the bag, just let it go! I can't even describe how annoying - Grrrr! Just. Don't. Do it.

3. Eat smelly food. The cinema is not the place for your egg and onion sandwiches. Or even a tube of Sour Cream and Onion Pringles. There's a reason cinemas only sell popcorn. Yes, I'm talking to you, the clueless moron at Skyfall in the Odeon last month. Half way through the film he opens this bag of Tayto, releasing the stench of cheese & onion for all to retch. And if that wasn't enough; he rustled the bag non-stop for the rest of the film, making sure he got every last crumb. Smelly food and rustling! He should be barred for life.

4. Talk.

5. Use a mobile phone/smart phone/tablet etc. Oh, you're only sending a text are you? Do you know how irritating it is to watch your screen light up every five minutes you get a text? Really? You selfish arsehole. Oh, you want all your FB "friends" to know that you are witnessing the premier of "Star Wars IX, Luke Loses His Virginity", do you? Well we're all trying to watch a film here, shithead! So put the fucking thing away before I stick it up your anus, sideways.

Thank you.

Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-90363777818250174262012-07-01T18:25:00.000+01:002013-05-11T22:00:08.721+01:00Just one Cornetto...

Why the snorkel mask?

I was queuing up in Spar for some milk the other day. The kid in front of me was holding a Bounty Ice-cream and asking the assistant where she'd find a big pouch of Malteasers. She's about eight years old. And I just thought to myself; what the hell are you doing buying a Bounty Ice-cream and a big pouch of Malteasers? You could get a hundred Spearmint Whoppa bars, fifty packs of Frosties, five AND a ten penny bag for the price of those. And then it occurred to me, kids these days don't buy cheapo sweets like Dip Dabs or Pickled Onion Postman Pats. Hell, they don't even call them sweets any more! Apparently it's "candy" now. Thanks for that, Cartoon Network. Looking at that girl buying her Mammy ice pop (that's what my Mam would have called it) reminded me of another HB related incident I'm gonna share with you...<o:p></o:p>

I used to be a childminder, it was a few years ago. One day I was out with the kids, it was a hot and we'd just gone for a really long walk. So, we were passing the shop on the way home and I thought as a little treat I'd get them all an ice pop. We walk into the shop and I tell them to pick one. They leg it over to the fridge and start pulling the thing apart. I'm standing there humming to myself when they all come back holding Magnums. Magnums! Are they fecking mad? So I says to them, "are yis mad? Put them back and get something for kids." They sigh in unison and skulk off back to the fridge. I walk over with them, sensing their idea of a kid's ice pop is very different to mine. The eldest girl picks up a Cornetto. She looks at me. I glare back at her. "Kids!" I shout. One of the lads picks up a Solero and smiles eagerly. "No, no! That's not kids! Do you know what I'm talking about at all?" They clearly don't. I grab four Loop the Loops, walk to the counter and pay for them. "Here you go," I hand out the ice pops. And the face on them, you'd swear I was handing out poison. "If yis don't want them I'll bring them back to the shop and you can have nothing." They mumble their thanks and peel the wrappers off. I never got a Loop the Loop, that was a 20p ice pop. That was considered flashy, a luxury lolly. Not any more, it seems. And so I lament for a time when a Captain Quencher and a bite of yer Mammy's Mint Feast sufficed.<o:p></o:p>

Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-82905407732282446592012-05-10T19:42:00.000+01:002013-05-11T21:59:01.149+01:00Did you ever...

They look so innocent...

So I went to buy a dress. I was in Miss Selfridge and they had these beautiful body con style frocks. They didn't have my size though so I figured I could probably squeeze into the size down. I grabbed it off the rail and went to try it on. So take off clothes, take dress off hanger and pull it over my head. It's feeling pretty tight. I reef it down over my bum. Ugh! I don't even need to look in the mirror, this thing is cutting off my circulation it's so tight.

So I take it off. Or at least I try to take it off. I pull it up and get it as far as my chest. Have to get one arm out now. I try and pull the strap down so I can get arm out. Not working. Try again and yes! One arm is out. But I am now in a funny position and cannot use my right arm to get my left arm out, if you know what I mean. I try to get other arm back in and go some other way about this but I'm stuck. I pull really hard and hit my arm off the wall. These fitting rooms are so way too cramped. I pull again, and again and again. It's going no where. So the dress is kind of half around my head, I'm pretty much blind and my arms are of no use to me. I take deep breaths. Then try really slowly to pull my arm out. But it doesn't move.

So I pull really hard, losing my temper now. I twist myself around and try and grab something but my arms just can't get around to where I need them. Ok, starting to panic now. I'm thinking I might be stuck in this dress forever. I'll have to call the girl in and she'll have to cut me out with a scissors and she'll see my grey pennys knickers and I'll be the story to tell everyone who comes in to the shop. I tug and tug, I'm sweating now. I start to cry. I'm stuck. I'm stuck, I'm never getting out. I bang my head off the mirror. Ouch! Come on, you stupid fucking, bloody, dress! AHHHH! I slide to the ground. I'll have to call the girl. Oh, the shame. No! I can't. I won't. I don't believe in God, but Jesus if you're up there get me out of this poxy dress! Please, I'll go to Mass every week for the rest of my life , I swear, please! This one favour, prove to me you exist, come on! I know there are people way more deserving of your love but they're not me! Please?

Right, I'm going again. I'm doing it this time if it kills me. I get up. I tug and tug, rrrrip, yeah, I heard it but I don't care. I yank the thing. I pull and tug and grab and swish and swirl and do the funky chicken, anything to get this bloody- Oh my god! It's over my head. It's coming off, it's coming off. It's off! Oh my god! Its off! The relief! Oh, sweet mother of divine lord! Jesus, Mary and all the saints! Hurray! I collapse in a heap in the change room.Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-3355352756672462012-04-18T18:27:00.000+01:002012-04-18T18:57:51.146+01:00Crimes against cuisine.

I'll bet you that mustard drizzle makes it even less appealing.

First I just want to apologise. I have neglected this blog for the past few weeks. My husband was sick with swine flu / viral infection / suspected appendicitis / food poisoning. We'll never know for sure thanks to the vagueness of the local doc and the A&E at the hospital. But anyway, he's better now so my stint as Florence Nightingale is over and I finally have some time to myself. So now, onto the real post...

Cheese stuffed crust, yeah, I can understand that. Pizza and cheese, they go hand in hand so it's a fairly obvious marketing gimmick. But when I got home today and found the new Pizza Hut leaflet on the table I couldn't understand it. This was a marketing gimmick gone too far. Hot Dog Stuffed Crust. Yes, Hot Dog. Stuffed. In the crust of a pizza. It is the most horrendous looking food I have ever laid eyes on. Everything about this makes me want to hurl. Are people not satisfied enough with their Super Duper Extra Large Loaded to the Edge Pizza that they now need to cram the crust with an ugly processed sausage that, let's face it resembles a lightly grilled penis poking out from an albeit, odd-looking vagina. What will they come up with next? Pizza stuffed crust, a pizza inside your pizza, perhaps? Jesus wept.Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-87342828745361577232012-03-20T21:41:00.003+00:002012-03-20T21:46:17.822+00:00Small talk.I was feeling a bit lazy so instead of making dinner I decided to get some fish n chips for me self as a little treat. I walked up the road to the chipper and asked for me cod and chips. Yer man behind the counter gets them and throws some salt and vinegar over and then wraps it all up nicely for me. I go to take it and he asks me: "Did you 'ave a nice day t'day love?" I froze. Did I have a nice day? I didn't know if I did or not. I looked at him. "Em yes." "That's nice love, you'll enjoy these, eh?" He hands me the bag; "Yes." I tell him, trying to think of something better to say, something that will show what a wonderful and witty person I am. Something that will cement me in his mind as his customer of the week. But I can't think of anything. " You live close by?" he asks me, all friendly. I nod my head. "Ah, that's good, you'll be home soon, enjoying them so." I nod my head again, still trying to think up the most astounding and wonderful response that will knock the batter off his sausage. "Have a lovely evening," he says before moving onto the next customer. I nod again before leaving the shop. The whole way home I think about what I should have said, what I could have said and my embarrassment at my total lack of social skills.

Greg and I attended the same school of Small Talk

Small talk. I just can't do it. When I see someone coming down the road that I know, I pray they don't stop and talk to me. Just a quick greeting and a little wave will do me grand, thank you. And don't sit beside me on the bus. You'll ruin the whole journey for me. I'll be sat there, squirming in my seat, trying to think of things to say to fill the awkward silences. And there will be many of them. Don't even think of bumping into me at the shopping centre. I'll lose the ability to speak. I won't be the girl who never backs away from a heated discussion down the local of a Sunday afternoon. Instead you'll be greeted by a grunting, nodding, bag of nerves, who shifts from one foot to the other while wringing her hands as her face turns from bright red to puce. I'll wring my hands so much that welts will form between my fingers; yes, that has actually happened. I have often run into shops to avoid people I know. In my local Pennys I have hid behind railings of clothes and on the street I run past friends exclaiming, "I'm running late, so sorry I can't stop", all to save myself from chit chat. Sometimes I get caught of course, and make a complete idiot of myself. I bring up something inappropriate like the smear test I just had, making us both sorry we stopped for this tete a tete. Other times I waffle on, out of control, not sure when to call a halt to the little chat. I want to shout at the acquaintance "I'm sorry, I'm crap at this, just walk by in future!" Letting them know, it's nothing personal, that I am just a freak. But I never do.

At least I'm safe over here in Derby; having no friends can sometimes be a blessing. Except down that chipper, won't be going there again so. Which is a pity cos it were right tasty.Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-87059160031153826792012-03-12T17:30:00.001+00:002013-05-02T13:47:45.313+01:00Nikita on Tallafornia.

Nikita before she roars at Cormac to "Shut the fuck up!"

Will someone please drag me away from the laptop screen. I can't watch any more. And yet, I cannot stop watching. I feel sick seeing this girl make a complete idiot of herself on national television. Yet at the same time I am drawn to Nikita's gradual self destruction like a German to a empty sun lounger. This poor girl. She is just nineteen; totally naive and completely ignorant to the consequences of her actions. Now, I'm no angel. I may or may not have behaved like Nikita when I was her age but I didn't have a camera following me around, recording my every action and then broadcasting it for the whole of Ireland to see on a Friday night. Thank Christ.

For those of you not familiar with the show, here's a quick synopsis. TV3 used a Big Brother template for Tallafornia but with no evictions. There are seven house mates, four blokes, three girls. They are given a house in Tallaght to live in and their actions are filmed for all to enjoy and cringe. The group are allowed come and go as they please from the house. Most nights they are filled with booze and released into Dublin to make complete tools of themselves, and they are only too happy to oblige.

From left to right: Kelly, Natalie and Nikita.

Nikita seems to come across worse than the others, God bless her. She has a mouth like a sewer, every second word out of it is fuck. She has slept with two of the house mates. She performs lap dances at a second's notice, displaying her thong-covered crack to over 250,000 viewers. The girl brings a lad back to the house then while he is down stairs drinking a beer, she is upstairs shagging house mate, Philly. It gets worse, Philly is only shagging her to win a bet with one of the lads. He has discussed this with house mate Cormac, who has also shagged Nikita. The bet being that he can take Nikita away form any bloke when he likes. After she sleeps with him one of the male house mates comes into the score room and laughs at her. "Your dress is inside out!" He jeers. And what does Nikita say back: "It's better than cum all over your shoulder." Yes, there is cum all over her shoulder. How is this possible? "I missed!" exclaims Philly.

God help us all.

For a weekly synopsis & hilarious piss take watch Tallafornia Swipe:
http://www.youtube.com/user/epicnewsdailyHazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-77357791781893979602012-03-02T15:56:00.003+00:002012-03-26T16:34:44.078+01:00The rise and fall of the exclamation mark.It came from no where. I mean, we never used it in school, well rarely. We were told in no uncertain terms they were not to be used willy nilly. This piece of punctuation was to be taken seriously, not carelessly tossed about the place with no regard for the consequences. This was no harmless little comma. No, the exclamation should be used on special occasions, like the gravy boat sat in the "good china" press that only made an appearance at Christmas and Easter. Shrieking, shouting, screaming; all of these allowed for an exclamation. But who shrieks or shouts or screams in a written text? Not many of us, so the exclamation kept it's special position, looking down superciliously at the full stops, apostrophes and ampersands, laughing haughtily.

A picture speaks a thousand exclamation marks.

And then there was texting. Overnight the exclamation went from no use to overuse. Everyone had something so important to say that it required numerous exclamations and CAPS TOO IF IT WAS ABSOLUTELY SHOCKING!!!!!!! The exclamation was not the only victim of generation text, the question mark suffered too. Sometimes people had a question that they really didn't know the answer to: Where should I go on my holiday??? And there were the rhetorical questions that brought both punctuation marks together: Hath not a Jew eyes????!!!!

Suddenly everyone was screaming and shouting and telling the whole world how flippin' offended they were by everything. At first the exclamation enjoyed all the attention, this new found fame. Little did he know what was to become of him. With the launch of social networking sites the trend spread and soon it was totally unacceptable to use a full stop. Surely if what you had to say had any merit it must warrant an exclamation mark, or two or three.. hundred? It wasn't long before the special position of the exclamation was lost.

Social media sites have been around a long time now, with no sign of a reduction in exclamation usage. Whenever I read someone's Facebook status I find myself shouting their comments in my head. I have to ask: Why are people so angry, why do they feel the need to exclaim everything, isn't saying something enough any more? And worst of all, why do I find myself overusing the little bastards too?Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-38543997797790520022012-02-13T19:57:00.003+00:002012-04-18T18:56:16.441+01:00Tales of the 41c.Public transport, I love it. It's the people you meet, the things you see and the overheard conversations that I can't resist. Like the drunken lunatic mumbling away to himself on the 43, smelling like the local bottle bank after St Patrick's Day. Or the junkie on the DART that pukes into a paper bag, then tries to throw it out of the window, misses, and floods the carriage with vomit. He gets off at the next stop. And don't forget the oul' wans on the LUAS chatting about poor Frank who's an alcoholic but allergic to beer, he breaks out in hives every time he has a drink. Quote: "He can handle it, Josie, but his body can't."

So the other week when myself and husband boarded the 41c, I was only dying to eavesdrop on the conversations between the dodgey looking teenagers at the back of the bus. Teenage girl: "Alrigh' Dylan, did you get expelled?" Dylan: "Yeah." Teenage girl: "What d'ye get expelled for?" Dylan: (genuinely confused) "I dunno." So yeah I was leaning back in me chair picking up such gems as; "Don't burn me jacket, just melt the things hanging off it," cue smell of burning plastic and "She was screaming cos she wants to get pregnant so she doesn't have to go to school any more." All the while husband, who does not approve of my earwigging, throwing me filthy looks.

I'm really enjoying myself until something comes flying through the air and nearly hits a passenger across from me. The group of teens explode with laughter and everyone else on the bus shifts uncomfortably in their chairs, staring dead ahead. So it happens again and this time it lands in the aisle. I look on the ground and see it's some plastic keyring thing with an elastic on it. Next thing an empty bottle of Yop whizzes past and hits the girl across from me on the shoulder. She flinches and people shift in the seats again but no one even looks back at these little scumbags. I can't take it any more. I turn around and tell them to give it a rest and stop throwing things. They start screaming at me; "fuck you, ye bleedin' cunt. Mind yer own fucking business." "I'll come there and fucking kill ye." I turn around again and tell her to come right up, I'm not afraid of her. She's this tiny little scrawny thing that given the chance I could snap in two. "I fucking will, I'll put ye back in yer chair, bitch!" I ignore her. They keep screaming. Husband turns round in his chair and stares them out of it. Silence. He stares for about ten seconds and there is total silence the whole time. He turns back and they burst out laughing. "Big, hairy man" one of them shouts.

Lovely, just lovely.

Before we know it, I'm being repeatedly targeted with their arsenal of empty Coke, Lucozade and Club Rock Shandy bottles. They piss themselves laughing all the way through the air raid. All the time my heart is beating faster and I am losing my cool. Should I go down there and rip them out of it? Should I keep ignoring them? Should I get the bus driver involved? A bottle hits me in the back of the head and I jump up out of my chair, march down the stairs and up to the bus driver. I tell him about the teens, he listens intently before pulling the bus in at the next stop and turning off the engine. He gets out of his seat and jogs upstairs. I can hear him tell them to get off. They scream and shout objections: "We didn't do ant'in" "It was all dem, dey did it, we said nutin'" before finally capitulating. But not without one last dig at my big hairy husband: "I'll fuckin kill you, ye bleedin' prick." He laughs back at them: "Enjoy the walk home." They stand at the bus stop, yelling at the windows, giving the fingers to the whole bus. The driver pulls off while radioing the other buses telling them not to pick up the kids at that bus stop. I walk back upstairs to my husband. He smiles at me. Outside it has started to rain, it's really heavy, torrential; the kids will be drenched. We look at one another and howl with the laughter.Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-20287084088663079482012-01-25T23:35:00.000+00:002012-02-22T16:28:01.632+00:00Banjo and the shit.

Banjo and a bag of his own shit. Cute.

My sister got a pet dog there a few weeks ago. She lives just around the corner from me so when she was away for her husband's birthday last weekend she asked me to look after him for the night. I call him Banjo. He's a real cutie pie. Anyways, it's the night of the minding so meself and husband walk round to her house to keep the poor, old thing company. Husband gets distracted by their telly and sits down to watch some crap while I bring the dog for a walk. We're walking around the green area down the end of our estate, it's surrounded by bushes and shrubs and all that malarkey. The dog loves it. He sniffs everything and loves having a good old gander about. So we come to one particular exciting set of brambles. Banjo sniffs at them, he is loving them. He sticks his little snout in and has a root around. There's something in there he wants. Now, it's pitch black so I can't see a thing, only Banjo looking cute rooting around in the bushes. Then he starts to roll around onto his back. He looks up at me; on his back with his little paws like a bunny rabbit. Little cutie! He rolls around a bit more before I get bored and yank him away with his lead. After a while we head back to the house. I let Banjo off the lead as he runs in the door and up to Kieran who is dying to give him an oul hug and a pet. "Aw, Banjo, you're so cute, c'mere Banjo, you cutie little bundle of cuteness." He's hugging and kissing him and giving him a good rub on his little belly. Then Banjo comes back over to me and I'm about to pet him when husband sniffs the air, then sniffs his hand, then sniffs the dog. "What's that smell?" I sniff the air, then sniff my hands, then sniff the dog. "Ugh, Jesus! He's covered in shit!" The dog is covered in shit. It's all over his back, his face, his collar, everywhere. "Ya dirty fecker!" I yell. How'd it happen though? I think back to Banjo rambling around in those brambles, looking so cute. He wasn't being a sweet little dog, he was being a dirty old mongrel, rolling around in some other dog's shite! Needless to say we had to give him a good old scrub. The dirty git.<o:p></o:p>
Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-61337290929111688082012-01-18T17:28:00.000+00:002012-02-22T16:30:20.385+00:00My take on tights.

Nutin' sexier than a burd with tights half way downs 'er legs, wha?

I can't wait for Spring so I can throw all my tights away and go bare legged again. Right now, it's bloody freezing so tights are a staple but I have so many issues with them. The crotch never stays put, it's always slowly slipping down as you walk to wherever so you have to do a quick scan for passersby before reefing them back up. The waist always rolls down on them so if you're wearing anything remotely figure hugging you look like you're carrying a baby sized hula hoop around your waist. They are nearly always too tight so they dig into your stomach causing all sorts of mad stuff to happen to your insides - anyone else get tights related indigestion? Tights are singularly the most unsexy item of clothing ever invented, nothing gets me out of the mood quicker than the word gusset. But the most annoying thing I have found about tights is how they make your arse itch like mad! Seriously, what's that about? My Jesus, it is so irritating. You're sitting there in your class, office, whatever and feel it coming on. You so desperately want to stick your hand down the back of your knickers and rummage around like a pre-school kid with a bad dose of thread worms. Instead you squirm inconspicuously in your chair, shifting from one arse cheek to the other, letting a bit of cool air at your bum in the hope that the urge will leave you. Usually I end up excusing myself and legging it to the toilets for a good oul scratch. I could spend five minutes scratching before I'm satisfied. Ahhhh, the relief! Once I even pulled the feckers off and stuffed them in the bin. I couldn't deal with that itchy sensation any more. Maybe that's what we should all do - shove the offending articles in the bin! Ditch the tights! Free the itchy arses! Anyone else with me?Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-72138728498797025372012-01-09T22:18:00.000+00:002012-03-02T16:21:58.289+00:00The Gym.New Years, ugh! Lucky it's nearly over. I reckon those resolutions have lost their novelty by now for most of you. The daily hours jog you promised yourself you'd do has turned into a quick stroll around the block and back home. I mean, who'd want to spend more than twenty minutes out in those freezing temperatures? It's bleedin' Baltic out there! And the healthy lunch that you'd get up every morning to prepare has become nothing more than an inconvenience, ten more minutes you could have spent lying in bed listening to Ian Dempsey shite on about how much he loves David Bowie before he plays "Heroes" for the trillionth time. And that session in the gym you swore you'd commit to at least three times a week has dwindled down to your reluctant attendance of the odd step class, consisting of you standing at the back shuffling from one foot to the other while cursing the instructor for her amazing figure and boundless energy. Ah yes, the gym. The one place in the world where I feel significantly fatter, uglier and dumber than everyone around me. So here's my list of reasons for hating the gym. Feel free to add to it with a comment below!

Sweet Jesus. God, help us all.

1. Not knowing how to use the equipment but being too intimidated by the muscled bound oafs who work there to ask for help. Seriously, why don't they get some normal looking people working at the gym? Someone who doesn't look like a steroidal Honey Monster after a body waxing session.

2. If you exert yourself in any way you will end up looking like Waynetta Slob after a quick one down the alley way with some randomer. This is completely unavoidable.

3. The fact that the last statement is only unavoidable for you! Others will end an hours treadmill session looking refreshed and positively blooming.

3. The mirrors stuck to the walls everywhere you look will make sure you are constantly reminded of the above facts.

4. Not knowing where to look. When you look in the mirror and watch yourself exercising you will feel like a complete tool/tit. This is especially true when completing squats, probably the most embarrassing exercise ever invented. However, if you chose not to look in the mirrors then where do you look? At the other people doing their exercises? And risk being thought of as a gawping idiot, verging on lewd stalker? Or maybe you could just look into space, look no where and end up smacking some lad in the head with your bar bell. Well done, Nutty.

Me and me husband before we head out for a jog

5. The constant feeling that others are looking at you, judging you and laughing at you. Even though you have no proof of this and it is clearly paranoia of epic proportions due to lack of self worth brought on by exposure to impossibly perfect bodies parading themselves about the place.

6. Men standing around watching one another bench press. Yeah, they'll say they're spotting but we all know it's all about competition brought on by their feelings of inadequacy. Losers.

7. There is always one weirdo who strolls about the place, picking up this weight and that weight, standing just that bit too close and staring for just that second too long. This guy never actually seems to do any weights, exercises or machines and he is always at the gym. Always. Even when you get up at half seven in the morning in a desperate attempt to avoid him. He will be there.

Model doing a poo, I mean squat. Attractive, eh?

8. It ruins your whole week. If I go to the gym I always feel great after a session, so glad I pushed myself and went and did what I had to do. But how long does that feeling last? Maybe an hour or two, until you realise you have to go to the gym again tomorrow. Until you remind yourself this isn't a one off thing. You have to keep going to the gym to maintain any kind of fitness level and/or slim figure. How depressing is that? I literally spend hours dreading the gym. It's there in the back of my mind the whole day. Contemplating going, contemplating just legging it home and getting into my pyjamas and watching "Tallifornia" repeats on TV 3. It drives me crazy. Takes any pleasure out of the day. This year, I reckon you should add up all the time you spend feeling good after going to the gym and then add up all the time you spend dreading going to the gym. Maybe after a glance at the results you'll do the same thing I did, not bother your arse going at all.

Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-89965443342079760562011-12-19T19:02:00.000+00:002011-12-19T19:15:32.543+00:00Coming home now, bah bah dah.

Some one you like would like some!

I'm going to be home tomorrow, airplane crash permitting. And I can't fucking wait! I'm going to make the super duper almond marzipan for my exceptionally frisbee like Christmas cake - Nigel Slater recipe, using orange blossom water no less, dead posh! And I'm going to buy some Kimberly, Mikado and Coconut creams and eat them. And then buy some Tayto and eat them. And then I'm going to smile at people in the street and say hello and they'll smile back at me instead of treating me like a weirdo! And I'll go to Superquinn and get some sausages for St Stephen's day, yeah that's ST. STEPHEN'S Day not poxy Boxing day - what does that even mean? Ah yes, can't wait to be in Ireland again.

PS - Update on the body brushing which I have totally surprised my self by actually doing every day! And guess what - cellulite is gone! I cannot believe it, it does work and I have come to enjoy my ten minutes of vigorous brushing and feel weird if I have not done it by the end of the day.Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-36525705490089678212011-12-11T13:39:00.001+00:002012-02-22T16:30:20.381+00:00Leading 'em on.I haven't been on a girlie night out since I met husband. So I was looking forward to a night out with the girls from my flat the other night. These girls are young, free and single so I can't blame others for thinking that on Friday night I was too (minus the young!) And by others I mean men, boys the opposite sex. So what's a gal to do when blokes approach ya, start chatting you up, ask for a dance, maybe ask to buy you a drink and then move in closer... At what stage do you inform them that you are in fact married and not in the least bit interested in taking this any further? I mean, I remember what it was like when I was on the prowl. You invest a lot of time in the chatting up process. After twenty minutes of dancing and chat you do begin to think you're in there. So say the night came to a close and you went to throw the lips on your prey and he told you that he had a girlfriend, wife, significant other..? Well, you'd be entitled to feel more than a little pissed off, wouldn't ya? You could have spent all of that time rubbing up against some one who wanted to rub ya back! But no, instead you spent the last hour shaking your arse into a taken man's crotch.

"And by the way, I'm married."

This was the dilemma I faced on a few times on Friday. Each time I handled it a different way. The first I am so embarrassed about. I was standing at the bar about to order a drink and I could see this guy looking at me from the corner of my eye. He was a total ride, I might add; tall, blond hair, blue eyes and strong, broad shoulders. So he taps me on the shoulder and says in a German accent: "You're not English, are you? I can tell by looking at you." I laughed and told him indeed no he was correct I was Irish, and I also wondered how the hell he could tell I wasn't English just by looking at me. So we started chatting and I ordered my drink and stayed chatting to him while I was waiting for it. My Southern Comfort arrived and I said goodbye and then he asked me what club I was going to next. I told him and he said "I'd love to meet you there, would that be ok?" So I panicked and shoved my wedding ring finger in his face and said: "Actually, I'm married." The guy was a little bewildered, he said "oh, that doesn't matter, I didn't mean just to..." Cause it doesn't, does it? The guy probably just wanted to be friends, have a chat, ye know, like normal men and women do. But I felt like if I told him yes I would meet him there that I would be somehow leading him on and letting him believe that I would like to meet him there and ye know, take it a little further. Is that crazy? Or stupid? Or totally big headed? I sat down in my chair and thought, 'Nutty, you need to get over yourself! Not ever guy who chats to ya fancies the arse off ya.'

So this happened a few more times throughout the night, sometimes I danced with the guys, other times we were just chatting, one guy just approached me and asked me to come for a drink with him. Two of the guys moved in for a snog (at different times, I'm not that bad!) and I told them then that I was married, and next minute they were taking out pictures of their girlfriends and telling me they too were taken, and how much in love they were with their beautiful ladies. Now, these guys were totally going to kiss me, I know the signals, I was doing the single thing long enough me self to know them. Fucking pricks! God help their girlfriends. One guy was brilliant - he said it was very good of me to tell him and he understood completely why I would feel it necessary. Then we danced for ages and had the craic, he was a total sweetheart.

What do you think? Should you tell guys/girls straight away that you are married? Or should you wait til they offer to buy you a drink? Or should you except that drink and only tell them when they go to kiss you? Or should you just not engage in any chat with the opposite sex on nights out? Turn down every offer of a dance? Should you presume that every male/female that shows you a bit of attention wants to get into your knickers?
Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-30863967332284802802011-12-02T23:27:00.001+00:002012-02-22T16:30:47.306+00:00Crying.I just finished watching "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" there. Had a good cry. It made me want to roll around in the snow with my husband, and fall in love all over again. So I cried. Cause he's not here and I am. Jesus, it's crap being away from home. Being away from him. Being away from everyone I know and love. I'm a right little whinger, aren't I?

Seriously, what did you expect?

It made me think of other films that make me cry. I reckon "American Beauty" is a full on snivelling, snot fest. I think I sobbed for about two weeks after I first saw it. I just couldn't get it out of my head. I cried all the way home from the cinema. On the 41C, no bother to me. I wasn't always so comfortable with my public displays of emotion. When I was a kid I fought them tears hard. A lump would build in my throat as I looked around me to see if anyone was watching me, it actually really fucking hurt! I'd be sitting there and I'd feel them coming. The lump in my throat starts to build, eyes sting as I held the tears back, then the chin would go. Shaking like I'd just come in from an Arctic expedition. Eventually I had to give in and let the tears spour down my face.

Thank god I don't have to go through that crap any more. These days I'm a happy and open, emotional wreck. I can go at any time. Today I was in local café, having a coffee, reading the paper; a sad story about a local girl and I started to cry. The man across from me noticed and remarked on how he wished the papers would print something happy for a change. I sniffed and nodded back at him in agreement.

So, I was thinking of making a list of films that are guaranteed to make you bawl. Please add any as you see fit but keep in mind I will slag your choices if I don't agree. And I am very picky in my film choices. For example; "The Notebook" just don't cut it. Sorry girls, but it's shit. But "It's a Wonderful Life", now that's a classic tearjerker. So here goes anyway, let me know if you agree or not and like I said add on the ones you won't watch without a box of Kleenex at the ready.

Captain's Courageous: If nothing else, see this film.

E.T. - I love it cause it makes me cry happy tears as well as sad ones.

Garage - You'll want to take the same route as Josie after watching this little Irish gem.

Love Actually - Emma Thompson after she opens that Joni Mitchell CD, your heart breaks with hers.

Awakenings - Don't let De Niro go back to sleep!

Goodbye Mr. Chips - If only teachers were really like this.

Empire of the Sun - Christian Bale as a child actor just blows me away.

Brokeback Mountain - Beautiful love story, rips your heart out and serves it to ya on a skewer.

Erin Brockovich - When she visits the families at the end I just couldn't hold it in.

Captains Courageous - Just see it, please. If you are going to watch just one of these films make it this one!

It's on to you now!

Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-12797554886973374462011-12-01T16:43:00.000+00:002011-12-01T19:44:11.257+00:00My super talented friend.

Just a quick post to say Congratulations to my BFF Jonathan Irwin for winning an IMTV award last night for Best Production/SFX. Well done Jono! You are amazing. Here's the video he directed - Florida by The Funeral Suits.Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-30635016237075981652011-12-01T00:20:00.001+00:002011-12-01T19:44:56.338+00:00Christmas shopping.

Get this vibrator out of my bum!

I went Christmas shopping with husband last weekend. We said, fuck it, we're gonna get it all done in one day! So we set out on a mission on Saturday morning. The bus was leaving at quarter to nine so we'd leave the house at 9.40, loads of time we thought, as the stop is very close. So just about to walk out the door when he realises he can't find the key. Run around house, look for key, get angry with each other, lots of grumbling and mumbling from me, finally find key and leave. We're rushing up the road now, I'm giving him daggers behind his back and cursing him from a height until I realise I forgot my photograph CD. I wanted to get some photos printed as a present for husband's Mam. So had to run back for that, while he grumbled and mumbled, fucked me from a height and threw me a few dirty looks. So, finally we have everything and we're walking up the street. Husband says:" I bet the bus comes along right now and we miss it." And what happens, bus comes along right then. But I'm not missing anything, I leg it and turn to husband and tell him to leg it. The two of us dash for the bus, knowing there is not a hope we are going to make it. Fortunately the bus driver spots us and kind soul that he is, pulls over and lets us on even though we're miles away from the stop. We jump onto the bus and thank the driver, husband takes a seat and I get my wallet out to pay for bus. But I don't have enough money. I'm thinking to myself: "I can either tell him I don't have enough and risk getting thrown off the bus, or I can pop the gallons of five cent coins in the drop and hope he doesn't notice. I do the latter. And get away with it. Yes!

It's actually made from her breast milk, caught in a bowler hat.

So into town we go. I love town at Christmas time. The lights, the decorations, the music; it really gets you in the spirit of things. Until you start shopping, then you just want to kill someone, usually whoever is with you being a fussy, picky, annoying, little fecker. He tries on a pair of jeans, then another one, then wants a bigger size, then a different colour. Thinks they're too short but the others are too long, they're the wrong shade of dusty blue, those ones are too flared... AHHHHHH! So he finally decides which ones he wants and buys them. Then we go to buy a gift for my Mam. Husband wants to get her perfume. I suggest Elizabeth Arden, Sunflowers. Husband shakes his head. "No, I want to get good perfume", he says. He wants Chanel. "What's wrong with Elizabeth Arden?" I ask. "Well, she didn't have any films made about her did she?" he retorts. I can't argue with that. After a consultation, yes a consultation no less, with the Chanel assistant, husband decides Chanel Mademoiselle is the perfect fragrance for my mother. I'm beginning to fear for his sanity. Also, husband would like it gift wrapped please. Ooh la la! Get him and his high falootin' ideas. The assistant wraps the perfume in shiny, white, wrapping paper and ties it with black Chanel ribbon. She sprays some tissue paper with the scent and wraps the already wrapped perfume in the tissue paper. It is then gently, lovingly placed into a glossy Chanel tote. Husband nods approvingly at the assistant's efforts. I snort. Tis far from Chanel totes he was raised. As we walk out the shop doors I ask Husband where is his other shopping? The two bags he was carrying before we ended up poncing about the perfume counters. His face drops. He left it downstairs when he was trying on jeans. I shake my head and frown. Tut tut. He runs off down the escalator. I walk over and look down at him and laugh. Watching him weave through the crowds of people, trying to get to the changing rooms. He finds the bag and runs back up to me, face red from his escapade. "You're some ejit. What are ya like?" We both laugh. It's time for lunch I reckon.

Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-38147635618727785632011-11-30T19:34:00.001+00:002011-12-01T19:45:25.279+00:00Hate to love you.

Cosmo: A load of crap.

Women's magazines, aren't they just full of crap? I'm talking about the likes of Now, OK, and Star, not those mad true life magazines with stories titles like: "I just wanted some pizza, now I have no arms and legs!" or the sex obsessed magazines like Cosmopolitan that will teach you "The dirty secret that will make him beg for more." More? A dirty secret to make HIM want more? You can keep your secret thanks very much. No, those mags are pretty crap in their own right but for now I have a huge gripe with women's "celebrity" magazines. The ones that know what every Hollywood actress weighs just by looking at a photo of them. The ones that speculate on the imminent break up of every famous marriage until it happens, and it will happen. And they will have seen it coming first; another exclusive for Closer magazine. Well, if you speculate on every marriage you are bound to get it right some of the time, after all nearly 90% of showbiz marriages end in divorce.

Lady gaga with gimp mask. Now where's that KY jelly?

Of course my hatred of celebrity magazines does not mean that I don't buy them. Sure why would I do that, I'd have nothing to complain about. I can't stomach some of the most dumb downed magazines though; Now, OK, Star; instead I get the most intellectually stimulating ones like heat and eh... Well you get the picture, I confess; I am an avid reader of heat magazine. Well, maybe avid is the wrong word. I wouldn't say I am enthusiastic about reading heat. In fact, reading it sends me into a frenzy. I get angry, worked up, upset even. For example, this week I bought heat so I had something to read while having a coffee in the local café. I took the magazine out of my bag and straight away I'm pissed off. On the front cover is a few celebs looking a bit porky and the caption reads; "Stars REFUSE to diet!" Now, if you're a reader of this shit you will know that invariably heat will have celebrities on the front cover looking either too thin or too fat. I mean, every week it's the same story. "Britney's midnight MacDonalds binges" or "Posh Spice warned - put on weight or you won't get pregnant." Seriously, it gets so fucking boring. And then you flick open inside and they'll have pictures of celebrities on the beach with either massive muffin tops or washboard abs. This week they had the weight, height and dress size of each one printed beside them. I suppose you could guess someone's height, but how in the hell do these magazines know what these girls weigh? It's such a load of bollocks. One of the girls was 5 feet 7 inches, the same height as me and her weight was 9 st 7 lbs, they said she was a size 12. Now I am 5 feet 7 and my weight is 10st 5 lbs but I am not a size 12, I am a size 10. So how the hell could a girl a stone lighter than me be a size BIGGER than me? Man, I was ready to rip the magazine to shreds when I read that. But I didn't. I skipped to the next page which had a picture of Kate Middleton in a supermarket getting her shopping. It revealed the contents of her trolley; each one had an exclamation mark beside them, as if they were outlandish purchases but come on; Basil! Rock Salt! Chicken! Kellogg's Start! Shocking stuff altogether. If you ask me, unless it's super thick condoms! KY jelly! Porno DVDs! And a gimp mask! It's really not worth the exclamation.

A crotch worth watching?

Another thing I hate about heat is it's devotion to reality television. They make gods of the casts of shows such as The Only Way is Essex, Geordie Shore and Big Brother. People with little or no talent. People who just want to be famous. Not famous for any worthwhile reason, just "to be famous". They put them on a pedestal, praise them, give them interviews allowing them to believe they have something worth saying. Until the show ends or viewing figures drop and then heat demotes them, sends them to the skip. Before they know it they're the "Crap Spot of the Week" on the Spotted page; a regular slot where readers tell the mag what celebrites they saw around town that weekend and what they were doing; Will Young looking handsome in Starbucks, Max George having a wee at the Specsaver's awards or Prince William shaving his balls on the tube. Who cares? Really, who cares about this shite? Flick on through the magazine until I get to "Manwatch; your essential weekly perv on a page" which includes such delights as Prawn of the Week; they pick a celebrity with a fit body but butt ugly face, Reader's Boyfriend; usually a pic of some scrawny git with a shaved head, and the most disgusting; Crotch Watch; an image of some mystery male celebrity's crotch close up, very close, so we can see the outline of a flaccid penis; it's up to you to guess who's it is. Yuck! At this stage I'm pulling my hair out with rage, huffing and puffing, sighing with despondency and generally really annoyed.

Please forgive me heat! I love you really!

So why do I keep buying heat? I don't know if I can answer that. I see the cover sometimes and think: "Oh, there's Katie Price acting the gobshite again, better find out why so I can laugh at the state of her." Or maybe it's the Hoop of Horror; the section of the magazine that exposes Cameron Diaz's camel toe, or Rihanna's sweaty pits. Always good for a laugh. Or maybe, just maybe, it's because I actually love heat. Truly, Madly, Deeply. With all of my heart. Could that be it? I hope not...

Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-3585675768924361342011-11-20T09:26:00.001+00:002012-03-02T16:17:37.673+00:00Christmas cakeIt is said that cooking is an art, baking a science. And I'm crap at science. But this year, for the first time, I felt an overwhelming urge to bake a Christmas cake. My Dad used to bake a Christmas cake every year when we were little. He always chose a heavy, rich, dark and dense cake recipe. My mother would end up doing the icing and marzipan. As Dad poured his heart and soul into that cake, my Mother surely ripped it out. If his style was Michelen, my Mother's was McDonalds. Packaged marzipan and roll out "Icing in a Box". Two weeks after Christmas the layer of icing and marzipan was always half gone, picked off and devoured by us kids on a sugar binge. The actual cake was left virtually untouched as the only ones who liked it were my parents. It was too heavy and boozey for our undeveloped taste buds. Eventually my mother would give in and wrap it up, store it in the press. It would be taken out at intervals throughout the year; Easter, birthdays etc.

Even though I'm pretty sure I'd have a greater appreciation for that type of cake as an adult, I can't quite chase the bad memories away and so chose a lighter recipe to make for myself. No treacle, no currants, better variety of dried fruits and the addition of nuts all sounded like my kind of cake. And so yesterday I added my brandy soaked apricots, cherries, sultanas, figs and mixed peel to the cake batter with whole roasted hazelnuts and almonds to make my perfect cake. Seen as I was snubbing my Dad's classic recipe I felt I had to pay homage some other way. I decided to use the same tin my Dad had back in the 80s. A little bout of nostalgia, an extra ingredient to add a bit of magic to the mix. I texted my mother in the evening, after I had soaked the fruits, to make sure it was still knocking about. She ensured me it was and said she'd have it pulled out of whatever black hole it may have fallen into by the next day. And true to her word, after much routing and rummaging, she found the tin. She called to let us know, with a warning that it was on it's last legs and may not be much use. The tin arrived in the house, looking a bit battered, bruised and rusty but when lined with a bit of parchment, I knew it would be fine. At this point I decided to check the size of the tin needed for the recipe. I like to do things like that, wait until it's too late to check necessary details. And of course I then see that the recipe calls for a 20 cm cake tin. Mine was 25 cm tin. Shit. Still, never mind all that exact science stuff, what's 5 cm between friends, eh? Quite a lot it turns out.

What my cake would look like if I was not stupid

During the cooking, I constantly looked through the glass of the oven door. I knew the cake would be a bit thinner than it should be due to the tin but I hoped it wouldn't be too noticeable. When time was up I opened the door, took the cake out and yes, it did look a little undernourished. In fact, if cakes were breasts, mine was screaming for a Wonderbra, superboost. I was very upset. My cake was ruined. No one would want to eat it. And worse, my Dad would rip the piss out of me for years to come! Husband tried to console me, telling me the marzipan and icing would add at least another half inch. But I didn't believe him. I knew I had destroyed Christmas. I thought about making another cake. I could make the same cake again and place it on top of this one! Or I could make a different cake, but use the right size tin and do it properly. Then again, I could scrap the cake and make some other dessert altogether, a pudding perhaps or one of those Christmas Yuletide log things? In the end I did none of these things. Instead we went to the pub and got drunk. And you know what I discovered? A hangover will relieve you of any grand ideas or great plans you had for the next day. And that scrawny, pitiful, worthless cake you once looked upon with disdain becomes a kooky, alternative and unique creation that you'll be proud to show to friends and family alike. And I also consoled myself with the thought that by the time they're eating my cake on the big day, they'll all be pissed anyway.

Please excuse the lack of pictures of my cake and my bag from the blog below but it turns out we don't actually have a camera or at least we lost the charger - d'oh! Hopefully getting my hands on one soon so all of the millions of you reading can see the pics for yourselves.
Hazel Cassidyhttps://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-1620543663261537559.post-45348271338756831052011-11-17T08:24:00.001+00:002012-02-22T16:31:23.347+00:00The green mile.

She's asking for them boots to be nicked

I love coming home to Dublin. I love getting off the 41 and strolling down to my house. I love looking around, taking in the surroundings and feeling comfortable and safe. But what I don't love about the trip back is getting up at 3.30 am and walking through Derby City to get to the bus station. My flight this morning was at half six. So to get to the airport on time I had to get the Skylink bus at 4.20 am. Now, I don't have a problem with getting up early, that's easy peasy. My problem is that Wednesday night in Derby is student night. So on Thursday morning the place is scattered with half cut teenagers, falling out of bars, trying to find their way home. When you're glaringly sober and have to zig zag your way through drunken mobs at four in the morning you tend to feel quite nervous and intimidated by it all. I try my best to avoid big crowds of people; cross the road when they're approaching or just keep my head down and walk as fast as I can.
This morning I legged it to the other side of the road when I saw a group of lads shouting and pushing each other around. One of them had a dog and was threatening to set him on one of the blokes: "Get yer dog off me" " 'es not on ya mate, not yet." Ah Derby, where being stabbed in the belly is all part of the student night experience. Then I turned the corner to see two policemen struggle with a middle aged man who was shouting: "I've done nowt, get yer 'ands off me, I've done nowt." They pushed him against the wall and handcuffed him. His friend stood by the whole time, trying to convince the cops that he had indeed: "done nowt." Then there's all these girls, dressed up like extras from TOWIE, looking preened and primped to page three perfection. I'm in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, head like Wurzel Gummidge on speed, thin layer of cheap makeup that's failing miserably in it's attempt to cover the splattering of acne on my chin. I stick out like a sore and slightly scabby thumb. Which brings me onto my last experience on the 4 am walk.

Me this morning; at least I put some eyeliner on

I was bombing it down the road, thinking I was gonna miss the bus cos I'd left the house a bit later than usual, and I pass this girl in a black mini, lace top and long, perfectly straightened hair. Fag in her mouth, no coat on (coats don't exist in England past 10.00 pm) The girl looks at me as I pass and says to her friend: "That's hideous." I flinched, ouch! THAT'S hideous. As in, not SHE'S hideous, no cos that would imply that I am a woman or a girl or in the very least, human. But, THAT, like I was some sort of animal; a mangy dog escaped from the pound, sniffing out discarded kebabs and chewing on unwanted pizza crusts . I didn't say anything back to her, just kept walking. Cause let's face it, I was looking pretty rough. I couldn't blame her for thinking it and then it probably just slipped out, a case of: " Did I just say that out load?" Still, I felt a bit down about it. It was still on my mind when I reached the bus stop. I walked over to sit on the bench and took my bag off my back, plonked it beside me and that's when I realised my mistake. She wasn't talking about me! Well not my face or me as a person. She was referring to my schoolbag. My old reliable, purple and not quite mint green, straps hanging down all over the shop, gigantic, Sporthouse schoolbag. It belongs to my Mam and by jesus does it looks like it belongs to my Mam. This thing is monstrous; big, ugly and unashamedly proud of it. And on my back, clashing with my long red coat it looked even worse than usual. I calmed down after that. Note to husband - buy me a new bag for Christmas, please!

Am getting husband to take a pic of it on my back with red coat and all for the full effect so will add it later to the post!

I think he means trousers

On another note - Fair play to the Irish students. 15,000 of them protested outside The Dail yesterday. (They'd do anything to get out of a lecture, the lazy bastards!) Not congratulating them on the protest mind; it's the clever banners and posters that I'm celebrating. They ranged from the very serious and boring: "Stop fees and save the grant", to the mildly amusing: "Drug dealer or student; it's your choice", and the putting it bluntly: "Fuck the Fees", to the hilariously funny: "If we had €3000 we'd have decent signs" and my personal favourite: "Less Fees, More Gees." Brilliant.Hazel Cassidyhttps://email@example.com


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Getting the Bride off of email
Studies are showing that more and more Brides are not only setting up separate email accounts for just their wedding, but that they are stepping into non- productive buying cycles. When I speak of a non- productive buying cycle, I refer to the method of how they buy and how it does not produce the desired effect for them. In this non- productive buying cycle, there are two major flaws which I want to discuss and some ideas on how to overcome them. It is my feeling that when used properly, these techniques will allow you (the Wedding Professional) to gain more Brides who will continue onto the next step (typically the phone call) and that the Bride may become a customer. This is not a guarantee or a promise that your life will change (I try to avoid these forms of hype and self promotion), but simply that by using these methods, at the end of the year, you may have 3-4 more weddings on the books.
The Two issues that are present are 1) the Bride does not trust us (the Wedding Professional Community) as a whole- this is not personal, but she has heard from most of here friends/relatives horror stories and she is trying to avoid these. Let's face it- there is no such thing as a "perfect wedding." She is hell bent on getting one and so scared/sensitive in the process that she almost creates an imperfect wedding because of her trying to avoid hiring the wrong person, she often gravitates to exactly that. Issue #2) the Bride shops on the one form of measurement that she understands- Money. She does not understand the difference between the quality that vendors offer, the service they provide or the experience they have. Those three measurements are not hard and fast like green dollar bills. In shopping based on money, if we get sucked into that false measurement, and we try to compete on price and price alone, we most times lose.
In overcoming trust, we must first understand the psychology of the Bride and what she is attempting to accomplish. Simple enough- she wants a great result for what you sell and what you provide. When we push the result in our marketing, when we talk about the result when she contacts us, we stand a better chance of pushing her emotional button. Try to think about what goes right when you have a Wedding that is off the hook fantastic. Did you please her guests, her Mom, did you offer something extra that she was not aware that you were going to offer, did you provide the exceptional service that maybe your brochure did not, maybe it was that by comparison, you shined as a professional (you know – you showed up early, kept in contact with her throughout the engagement, sent her notes and emails detailing your progress or simply picked up the phone and touched base with her every month). When you overcome trust, she will overcome the price for you. (in other words, she will find more money when she has more trust).
IN the challenge of overcoming price, it is necessary that you educate your brides on what goes into building the price. Think about the saying, "you get what you pay for." What is the Bride paying for when she gets a higher price? She is getting typically three diffent features: 1) Quality 2) Service 3) Experience. I teach this often- you cannot sell based on features alone. You must sell her the result of those features. Homework assignment: write down the results of those three features in your business and start using them in your marketing and when you get her on email.
For a free report that will outline the three techniques in getting the Bride off of Email and on the phone, email me and I will share with you how to get that report (Hint: It involves a little- very little , sweat equity )
Until Next week, Here's to your Success!

subset: commoncrawl


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Santana Fashion ships products all over the world. You can make payment via credit cards. We also accept Western Unioin Payments.
Delivery of your order will take approx 15 to 20 days, depending upon availibilty of stock and your shipping location.
For more details you can even email us at firstname.lastname@example.com


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Original Air Date: November 17, 2015
For this very special 25th episode Jill stops by to chat with Jack and all of our listeners. Jack and Jill give some great advice on creating a good profile on a swinger website, and the changes that you can make to your profile to attract the perfect play partner.
Podcast: Play in new window


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How To Unlock 1.4 GHz Samsung S8600 Wave 3 Bada v2.0 OS
Among other great products from Samsung there is also Samsung S8600 Wave 3. This is a great smartphone that has a 4.0? touchscreen with 480 x 800 pixel resolution and offers a tone of joy to its users. Inside it you will find a 1.4 GHz processor and runs on the platform Bada OS, v2.0. Also speaking about some exterior details, the height reaches 125.9 mm and it has a width of 64.2 mm. speaking about depth there are 9.9 mm available to you and it will weight around 122g. Watching a little over these dimensions you have probably figured out that this is one of the thinnest and lightest phones yet. The connectivity between it and other devices can be made through a micro USB connector that was placed by producers at the bottom. The volume rocker is located on the left side. Also for multimedia purposes there is a 5 megapixel camera with 720p video capture.
All these features go to waste if you think about the fact that this phone is locked. But stay assured because people from Cellunlocker.net managed to find a way to unlock the device. They guarantee the lowest and the easiest way to unlock the device in just a couple of minutes. And also the unlock procedure makes your phone work in any GSM Network you can imagine.
If you encounter problems like "SIM network unlock PIN" then there is only one solution: unlocking it. But 1st of all be sure that if you have tried this before with other codes, there are still enough tries in order to insert the one provided by them. With that little digit number, the device will stay unlocked even after upgrading it with a new firmware. The unlock code can be found here.
Messages like "Network locked", "enter network pin" or "network code" or "no SIM card allowed" are now long history with only a few steps easy to follow. You will receive via your email address the Samsung S8600 Wave 3 Unlock code and also all instructions to unlock your phone from the comfort of your own house. All that they require is the IMEI number. This is very easy to found and by pressing *#06# (the same way you make a normal phone call) a number composed of 15-17 digits should appear. That is the device's IMEI number. Here are a few instructions that will free the device from any GSM network restrictions.
Samsung S8600 Wave 3 Unlocking Instructions:
Insert in the device a non accepted SIM card
You will be displayed a message saying "SIM network unlock PIN"
Now simply enter the code received via your personal email address
And that's about all to it, your device is now free and with no network restrictions
I think the time has come to tell you only a few reasons why a person should unlock their Samsung S8600 Wave 3 and not only.
1st of all imagine that you are a business man that travel a lot. Or in fact let's just say you are a person that travels a lot around the world. You could resolve the fees you pay on roaming with a simple bought of a local SIM card. Even better if you are a group of persons that require to have permanent connection between them.
Another reason would be if the device doesn't feet your need. You can unlock it and then sell it at an even higher price because unlocking it also increases its value. Also it is easier to sell because it is available now to all carriers. You don't have to always carry two phones at you for different numbers. SIM cards are smaller and with a simple switch of them both numbers are available very quick.
The entire procedure is made from the comfort of your own house. There is no need to go to another person and even let other people handle your device and at the same time your personal information inside it.
Also the entire procedure is done with no use of any complicated software or cable. All that you need is a nice pair of glasses if you have sight problems. Just enter a simple unlock code and that's all to it. In the entire process there is no point of it where there could be some damage made to your S8600 Wave 3. The unlock is very safe and secure and can be made by any person. It doesn't really matter if there is no technical or experience in such sort of things. The process is the easiest there could be.
And you can enjoy it even after multiple firmware updates. It will still remain unlock no matter what modifications producers do to it. And because you are not opening it to anybody and not making any modifications inside the warranty is not voided. The people from this site also guaranty that if the process fails they will refund your money back no questions asked.
That being said happy cracking and hope this tutorial was of help. If by any change you have any questions or anything you might thing may help others please feel free to ask us in comments or mails. We are here to help you!


text: leaf header October 23, 2017 Michele Cooper It's only fair to share...FacebookGoogle+TwitterLinkedinPinterest Search for: Search Categories Blogging Recent Posts Reasons Your Carpet Might Smell DIY Carpet Stain Cleaning Benefits of Polyester Carpet Should You Hire a House Cleaner? It's Always Spring Cleaning Season! August 2018 M T W T F S S « Feb 12345 6789101112 13141516171819 20212223242526 2728293031


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2nd Sunday in Lent
2nd Sunday / Lent / A
March 11-12, 2017
St. Thomas Aquinas, Ames, Iowa
Fr. Jon Seda
In a few hours, I will take five Iowa State students on a spring break trip to Conception monastery in northwest Missouri. We also have trips to Washington D.C., to Appalachia, and to Nicaragua. But I tell the students this is the hardest one, because it involves lots of silence and solitude, and I find that students are more comfortable with non-stop activity. We deliberately do not call them service trips, but instead call them immersion trips. The point of all of them is not to do for others, but to be with others, to learn from others, to encounter others in a different cultural context. If they are done well, they could be called pilgrimages. They go to encounter Christ in the poor, in silence, in fellow pilgrims. And they come back to us changed.
In a reflection for Dynamic Catholic a year ago, a priest named Fr. Bob Sherry wrote this after leading a pilgrimage to Rome and to the Holy Land. He wrote: "Is life a vacation or a pilgrimage? Tourists and vacationers usually plan their trips in advance, with most details figured out so that they are no unhappy surprises. In contrast, a pilgrim sets out on a journey without knowing the final destination or outcome. A pilgrim learns to trust God the whole time. Some of us live our entire lives planning things, as though we are in control, whereas others know that our lives are not our own."
The first reading from Genesis gives the story of the beginning of the Judeo-Christian story of salvation, and it begins with a pilgrimage. Abraham and Sarah are old and childless, but comfortable in their own home with their own people. They receive a promise that they would become parents of a great nation. They leave everything behind, led by an unknown God to an unknown place. This is the beginning of the story of our salvation, and throughout Scripture it is how God acts in our community.
We resist this because it means leaving behind the familiar and comfortable. The idea of leaving one's home resonates with me these days, as I am moving to a new rectory in a month. While this is the right decision for the parish and the archdiocese, I resist it because I am really comfortable living where I live now. I even know where all the light switches are!
But that seems to be how God acts in our lives, the call to leave behind the comfortable and predictable. Some choose to do this, and we call them saints. But many of us have to be pushed to do this by the circumstances of our lives.
This past Friday I had a conversation with a woman who works at the Iowa Veterans Home in Marshalltown, where I served as chaplain for six years. I told her that what I learned from the vets was how to let go gracefully. The reason many, but not all of them, were able to do this is because they had turned the care of their life over to the care of God many years before, perhaps on the battlefield. Most at that time were World War II men and women, and they were so graceful in the autumn of their lives because they had already realized that their lives were not their own many years before.
To be like Abraham and Sarah is to be a pilgrim. It is to be humble and open enough to let go of comfort and control and be led by God into an unknown future. How we deal with illness and addiction now, how we deal with the loss of a job or a marriage now, and how we deal with our anxieties about the future of our lives and our family now is really a dress rehearsal for how we we will deal with the moment of our death. This is the ultimate experience of being led by God into the unknown. And we tend to die as we lived.
So we have two choices on how to approach life: We can be a tourist, with everything all planned out so there are no unhappy surprises, with the illusion that we are in control. And when things do not turn out as we planned, we become angry and bitter.
Or we can be a pilgrim, and set out on a journey not knowing the final destination or outcome, learning to trust God the whole time. It is more virtuous to be a pilgrim than a tourist. It is also a lot more fun.