Chan Wong Ó Maoláin - the everyman

Something about my email name attracts hundreds of daily have-a-go spammers. I would take this as a compliment, but for the fact that they are certain of my need for penis enlargements, electronic goods and nose warmers. 

I'm torn between admiration for their determination - they never give up - and wonderment at their stupidity. I mean, never once have I opened a message about something that I was interested in, something I would actually want to buy. Surely it is only the clinically single that would buy viagra from these people anyway?? Or minions of the underworld that would want whatever tape deck they can re-flog on Moore Street. There's no shoes, no wonder-slim solutions, no tips to get through a bad hair day. 

Of course, it's not limited to sales. There's also those enterprising young chancers that try and fenagle your bank account details. I have won more Nigerian lotteries than I could shake a whole pile of sticks at. I have been randomly selected thanks to my unbelievable good luck. Elderly women want to leave me money in their wills. The list goes on and on. 

But all of these pale in comparison to the new breed of spammer. Oho, he's clever. He knows many tricks. He knows IRISH. I feel like giving the Manager of this Chinese bank all of my pin numbers just as a reward for learning a language that only Peig herself still knows. I certainly wouldn't learn Mandarin just to swindle a few susceptible Asian idiots. But a man of this commitment should be teaching in our schools (business and Irish for the Junior Cert maybe?). What's more, if he can spam in Irish he can probably converse in Latin, Ancient Greek and Clanger. The man is a genius. He can spam me anytime.  

We're all winners :)

There's the Baftas, the IFTAs, even the Oscars, but really, do we care?? You and I both know it's all about the Irish Blog Awards this year. 

And yours truly has even blagged a nomination! 

......Hence my lack of interest in anything else. 

This year's list is one to be proud of - a diverse reflection of the Irish online. There's the seasoned experts who blog about ice cream or the state of the nation, but I've always loved the photo blogs the best - the pictures that you wish you had taken, in places you wish you had been. 

My favourites are too myriad to list here, but the beautifully titled Half a Dream Away or the amazing shots in North Atlantic Skyline are well worth a look. 

One of my all time favourites has been nominated in the 'group blog' section - the heart grabbing The Lives of Others. There's few things that draw me back time and again, but this is one of them; sometimes uplifting, sometimes downright maudlin, it's like peeking inside strangers heads. And bloody addictive. 

My offering falls under the 'personal blog' category, which showcases some of the best blogs out there, so I don't have a chance with my irregular musings, but I am touched to the bottom of my ickle pink heart that I have been nominated. Thanks guys!

Not the Six O'Clock News

It's been a while since I posted, but fretting about snow, failed new year's resolutions and whether Stephen Baldwin would ever shut up has taken up all my spare time since Christmas. 

There hasn't been much to laugh about so far this year, apart from the kind folks at RTE News who have provided non stop entertainment, from headwear to the best fall ever shown on TV. The national broadcaster is tuned in perfectly to the Irish psyche - there may be terror, threat and tragedy but we don't need any snappy CNN type graphics here. 

All we need are people to laugh at.  

Expect to see Ann Doyle shouting the headlines over interviewees falling in water à la Total Wipeout and Charlie Bird slipping banana skins under the heels of politicians on a 6.01 near you.

It's learning and it's fun. 

Fashion polygraph

It's the main problem with a relationship - accountability. Back in the rose-tinted single days I could freely max out the credit card, buy a bag with a month's wages or just withdraw all my cash for the purpose of rolling around in. Now, I have to sneak bags past my significant other, marvel aloud about amazing bargains that are to be had and practice clever accounting (quite different to accountability, believe me) with the resultant receipts. 

Fooling neither of us, I might add. 

I thought I was alone in living with a sensible guy, but after the last post (below), Harriet called her boyfriend. Her beautiful dress was instantly downgraded from 'vintage' to 'second hand' (as in: 'Iboughtadressbutit'sokayit'ssecondhand' - all in one breath before he could object). 

I guess it's the price (no discounts here) we all have to pay for liberation. Women broke out of the kitchen and headed straight to Topshop on our lunchbreaks.  It's a total generalisation, and possibly a disservice to my gender, but what females can't resist a bit of retail therapy? 

In my opinion, it's the answer to the age old question of what women want - a credit card with no limit and no-one to question our purchases. 

In with the old....

I like to shop as much as the next girl. If the next girl is Paris Hilton, that is. 

I spend ridiculous amounts of time, money and energy on finding that perfect dress/top/pair of shoes and usually end up buying nothing that I wanted but yet somehow need to have THAT INSTANT.

But today the magical doors have opened to a whole new realm - vintage clothes shopping. Yes, I realise I am approximately 2003 with this but what can I say - we can't all be surfing the zeitgest all the time. Plus, that vintage smell put me off (kind of like old people and musty shoes ...niiice).

I've been hearing about the joys of vintage for ages from Harriet (read her stuff here), and she finally coerced me through the doors of a 'previously loved' store. I was instantly seduced by the designer labels. And then the price tags on said labels. Hey, I can forget about the smelly dead person who used to wear it for that price. 

I even forgot about the smell in the shop. 

And the sales assistant was lovely and more interested in talking about her second home in Malibu (she must sell a lot of clothes) than following people around the shop in the guise of 'helping'. 

We eventually found the dream dress (Galliano dahlings) and still spent 30 minutes examining it from all angles. No one even minded. It's like shoppers heaven. 

Old is the new cool. It's my new motto. 

A game of two halves

The mere mention of football to someone as soccer-phobic as me has always resulted in symptoms not unlike the onset of a coma. My hearing goes, my eyes glaze over and even my limbs feel heavier than usual.  You could say I'm not a fan. 

Unfortunately, I happen to live in a country where 'ole ole' is the unofficial national anthem, the mention of the name Roy Keane can divide families, and the scoring abilities of 11 men can have a drastic impact on the national psyche. Not that I pay the slightest bit of attention to any of this. 

Living with my sport-obsessed better half, this is quite a feat. Our home rings with the sound of Match of the Day, Sky Sports News and testosterone fuelled shouts at the hapless commentators/referees/innocent bystanders. Depending on how benevolent I'm feeling, I swing between feigning interest and outright belligerence.

However, a conspiracy between the man of my dreams and a WAG friend found me at a League of Ireland game recently. It's impossible to remain dispassionate when your seat faces the stand of die hard supporters (they kill people apparently) and you have a connection to one of the players, even if it is the most tenuous of links. 

Since joining the masses that night, I don't immediately protest when Rockbottom v Isle of White takes over the TV at home. It's not beyond the realms of possibility that I may stay in the room the next time the dulcet tones of Eamon Dunphy begin. Most of all, there will be another match. 

And maybe next time I'll inch a bit closer to the die hards.  

The Book of Face

It was always going to happen - more a matter of when than if. 

Carefully edited facebook photos mean nothing when you are weaving your way through a club, having just gone 12 enthusiastic rounds with Kayne West, what's left of your make up smudged around your face and the responsible limit for alcohol long since passed. 

And then you hear your name. 

My eye/brain co-ordination not being what it should have been, my face went into default 'huh?' mode. It took me quite a few precious minutes to arrange my features back into something that did not resemble a bloodhound, and focus attention on the hottie that had called my name in the first place. 

And then I realised, the curse of Facebook had caught up with me. 

It's all well and good to have five thousand friends and for them to see you in poses that would make Tyra Banks proud, but when you are confronted with the reality of this - and you can bet your life that it will at the pinnacle of your attractiveness, sweaty and glassy eyed from too much dancing/drink/Saturday night fever - it won't be pretty. 

In my case, the lovely boy in question is a primary school classmate that I haven't set eyes on since the heady days of bowl haircuts and questionable knitted jumpers. A genuinely nice bloke, he erred on the side of caution and refrained from mentioning the disparity between Facebook me and the grim reality.  

So I am now left with two options. I can do a Harper Lee and disappear from public view, sporadically releasing a tantalising picture  in order to keep everyone interested. My social life will be somewhat curtailed with this option though. Do I want to wear a fake moustache and glasses for the rest of my life?

Or there's option two - I can remove all of the airbrushing and replace my photos with the warts 'n all version. Come clean and expect to see my friend list plummet to family members and hardy friends only. 

Time for a disguise then.