Getting jiggly..and it’s shit.

What he said.

What he said.

I hate exercise. HATE IT. Yeah I get it, it’s good for you, Nature’s anti-depressant, blah blah blah, you won’t know yourself…fuck the fuck off! I just DON’T. LIKE. MOVING. Unless it’s to turn arse-cheeks and reset the butt-groove in the couch after a two-hour marathon. And don’t tell me that’s not an effort. You’re also not taking into effect the amount of times you’ve to lunge forward to click the ‘Continue Playing’ button, lest you end up staring gee-eyed and a paused screen for the remainder of the night until sunrise (or your bladder, whichever comes first) alerts you to the fact that you may have to vacate your trusty cosy haven of sloth, otherwise you’ll end up with some serious stain issues on the couch. Take it any further, and firefighters will have to crane-lift you and your new furniture-shaped adult diaper to the hospital so the doctors can try and separate your bloated flesh from the leather settee it appears to have fused itself to. I’m not even joking; it’s a thing. I saw it on Nip / Tuck.

It’s all well and good lauding exercise as Nature’s Anti-Depressant, but that just means that in my opinion, Nature is really shit at making anti-depressants. Gimme hard chemicals any day. Nice little pills wrapped in foil, like tiny promises of mental peace & quiet for anyone who opens them. They’re fantastic. They have the ability to stop me running, crying and terrified, into the arms of complete strangers on the footpath because I’m too afraid to walk a few blocks down the road to Dunnes. You know what else comes wrapped in foil and makes me feel better, Nature? Chocolate. Chinese Food. A kebab at 3.30am after a night of delicious gin (which doesn’t come wrapped in foil, but it sure as shit makes me feel better).

Mindy Kaling is Truth.

Mindy Kaling is Truth.

Some would say heroin and meth also come with a foil accompaniment, and to those I say shut up; this is my blog where I’m ranting without fear of logic or consequence jumping in. I’m venting. You want calmly presented facts and all that shite? Go look up some medical journals and feel smug while the rest of us enjoy a good mental blowout. We’ll all behave again tomorrow. If you’re going to keep reading; suspend all realities and known benefits of exercise, and join me in my Circle of Hate.

You know what else is utterly cock-rotten about exercise? It interrupts my day. I’ve become quite used to spending up to twelve hours a day worrying incessantly about nothing and everything, while trying to write some coherent thoughts as a thousand voices roar behind me into my ears that I’m complete shit. I’m an expert at Anxiety Management; well, to be more accurate, Anxiety is an expert on J-Ro Management. It gives me full-time hours and expects me to work weekends and nights at a moment’s notice, and if I could turn in some reports on why I should never leave the house and socialise with mates again, that’d be great. It’s the mental health equivalent of that douche-bucket manager in Office Space.

IMG_6045

Also can we take a moment to call bullshit on all those exercise videos with women who don’t sweat? They can kiss my fine white Irish plus-size arse. There they are, sighing gently through The Insanity workout with only a little ‘eeek’ or ‘oooh’ emanating from their perfectly over-glossed lips in between the kind of fitness regime that I’m pretty sure was previously rejected by Navy SEALS or fucking Black Ops for being ‘A tad harsh’. All of these skinny bitches in the background behind their slave driver / trainer grinning widely and yipping in between sets as they’re tortured are the best living example of Stockholm Syndrome I’ve witnessed since Patty Hearst. Sweat? NOT ONE DROP. Oh no, not these gals. Sure, they’re lightly misty across the face, but they just look glowy and dew-fresh, like a Stephanie Meyer vampire walking around in the sunshine. In the meantime, just getting in the main door of the gym makes me look like this:

Anyway, I joined Zumba. I know it’s not the ‘in’ thing to do in the face of all things TRX and Crossfit and TR-fit and Cross-X (or whatever the fuck they’re called – are they the same thing? I bet they are the sneaky bastards), but as I mentioned in my previous post “Life As A Living Before Picture“, my lung capacity is in dire straits, and I’m tired of breaking a sweat and needing my inhaler every time I so much as open a book, so I decided to jump in at the deep end and really give them something to give out about. It seems to be working. I’m pretty sure I left half of one on the floor at my very first class. Must check with reception to see if anyone handed it in.

I would never submit you to an actual video of me trundling my sweaty way through a Zumba routine, so to get a fair idea, please watch this clip of a cartoon potato giving it socks to a dance choon.

The girls in the class are all lovely, mad eejits…and you kind of have to be. To engage in a ferocious cardiac workout like Zumba is (despite what others think, it’s fucking INSANELY tough) for a full sixty minutes in front of a full-length mirror, stuck in a body that you hate, wishing the inches away as you pound the floor, and still have a laugh with those next to you, tells me that my fellow Zumba hostages are a decent bunch of lasses. Added to which our instructor Sarah is a legend of a woman, part insanely happy Energiser Bunny, part Drill Sergeant. The best way to be when you’ve someone like me in your group.

Yes, Gillian. Yes it was. WITH DELIGHT.

Yes, Gillian. Yes it was. WITH DELIGHT.

So onwards I waddle, trying to get myself together. Some friends have told me that I’ll eventually get past the seething hatred I have for moving, and be all super-psyched about the prospect of getting up and out to burn away the calories in time. To them I say “I love you, but take a look at who you’re talking to, and revise that statement.” I’ve been on this planet a good while now at this stage, and I have NEVER, I repeat, NEVER, liked ‘activities’ that involved leaving a couch or a bed or the house when there is no discernible threat to my person from fire, flood or famine. It doesn’t mean I won’t do it, sure anyone with a toast crumb-sized piece of common sense knows that it’s the only thing that’ll shift pounds and make you feel better while you get your eating habits in order. So it’s a necessary evil in my world. Doesn’t mean I’ll be a fitness fanatic any time soon. I’ll leave that to all my fabulous fit friends who enjoy a couple of 5K runs of a weekend while I slave over a hot laptop trying to make a name for myself writing shit like this.

So to all those who love a good calorie burning session in whatever form takes their fancy; rock on, you mad, jammy fit, well-toned bastards. I’ll stick to flipping the bird at my workout gear and undressing my couch and fleecy blankets with my eyes. In the meantime, I’ll still continue to venture out to Zumba on a regular basis to engage in a fat-threatening habit that may, if I stick with it and remain consistent, actually be responsible for me needing to invest in smaller jeans and taking longer to use up my inhaler, as opposed to taking longer to, you know, GET UP A FLIGHT OF STAIRS.

Better keep at it, so.

Grrr.

Women Trapped In Baths Surrounded By Burning Candles

There’s something very sinister going on within the internet, and I’m here to expose it. It’s time for us to fight back. First, it gives the impression that women who are on the brink of giving birth to a child should be strapped into dungarees and made paint an entire house by themselves (and flippin’ well smile while doing it). NOW it appears that no pretty young lady in any stock photo of a bathroom is safe.

I’m talking, of course, about the fact that women are apparently not allowed sit in baths without being flanked by as many open flames as possible. It’s hardly HER idea – I mean, think of the logistics. You don’t fool me, Internet. SO MANY QUESTIONS…..

1: Are they lit before she gets in?

Why would she do that to herself?? She’ll be trying not to burn her fanny off while getting a naked leg over these open flames and the rim of a bath, stepping barefoot into what is essentially a home-made hot skating rink.

2: How the fuck does she get out afterwards?

I have no answer to this. I find it hard enough, what with being on the petite side. It’s like trying to scale The Wall from Game of Thrones.

3: Does she sit in the bath and try with all her might to blow out a few hundred candles all around her?

Not at all. Sure, she’s only a woman. She’d be all dizzy and faint from all the relaxing pretty smelly things she douses herself in after a hard day trying to drink water without spilling it all over her face or while trying to eat a salad alone without laughing. Also, and this is the most important thing:

4: WHO THE FUCK IS TAKING THE PICTURES AND WHY AREN’T THEY SAVING THESE POOR DAMP GIRLS??

So many victims; unnamed, unsaved, their skin wrinkling like raisins while they sit stewing in their own filth waiting for those bastard candles to burn themselves out. Rumour has it they survive on a diet of suds, face flannels and the slimy skins from those old Musk bath beads lying around the edge of the bath behind the taps from gift baskets that their granny gave them when they got all those points in their Leaving Cert in 1997.

This is a gallery dedicated to all those poor souls, fates unknown, whose suffering is now emblazoned across the realm of the cyber-world for all eternity. Vaya Con Dios, pretty ladies.

She's not far away, she's up close, and she's shrinking.

She’s not far away, she’s up close, and she’s shrinking.

Havin' a mad laugh, so she is. IT'S BEHIND YOU...

Havin’ a mad laugh, so she is. IT’S BEHIND YOU…

That better be a rescue manual.

That better be a rescue manual.

Somebody tell this eejit that she has a fighting chance. DON'T GET IN YOU FOOL...

Somebody tell this eejit that she has a fighting chance. DON’T GET IN YOU FOOL…

Sticking your knee out won't save you love, you're basically potential lady-stew...

Sticking your knee out won’t save you love, you’re basically potential lady-stew…

First known pic of The Bath Arsonist. WHO ARE YOU AND WHO DO YOU WORK FOR??

First known pic of The Bath Arsonist. WHO ARE YOU AND WHO DO YOU WORK FOR??

There was a woman in this bath, but she was boiled into oblivion...God rest her...

There was a woman in this bath, but she was boiled into oblivion…God rest her…

This is not romance, this is a murder-suicide pact. She's not laughing, she's trying to get out...

This is not romance, this is a murder-suicide pact. She’s not laughing, she’s trying to get out…

Her hair is just kindling at this point. Seriously.

Her hair is just kindling at this point. Seriously.

Silly bitch. Alcohol and an open flame? Asking for it, so she is...

Silly bitch. Alcohol and an open flame? Asking for it, so she is…

She's not sleeping. She's catatonic with fright.

She’s not sleeping. She’s catatonic with fright.

"Oh my, what a romantic death trap you have created..."

“Oh my, what a romantic death trap you have created…”

She's fainted with the fear. SOMEBODY, PLEASE SAVE HER...

She’s fainted with the fear. SOMEBODY, PLEASE SAVE HER…

She's awake but hasn't seen the ring of fire around her. Poor pet.

She’s awake but hasn’t seen the ring of fire around her. Poor pet.

Looks like somebody remembered where the fire exit is...

Looks like somebody remembered where the fire exit is…

That poor one guy met a grisly end, lavender-style.

That poor one guy met a grisly end, lavender-style.

See? It's only the good looking young wans that get into these scrapes. Not a candle in sight. Gowl.

See? It’s only the good looking young wans that get into these scrapes. Not a candle in sight. Gowl.

No candles, but I find this image disturbing as fuck. It's like somebody gave the girl from The Grudge a voucher for a Spa break.

No candles, but I find this image disturbing as fuck. It’s like somebody gave the girl from The Grudge a voucher for a Spa break.

New Year? New Sneer…

"What you mean, many HAPPY returns?? "

“What you mean, many HAPPY returns?? “

Here we go again. Another twelve months down the drain, another twelve months waiting to take their place. Like the old retired cop, jaded from realising you can’t beat The System, 2012 has slunk away into the corner with its gold-plated clock and now defunct police badge stained with cheap whiskey and tears of regret for a thankless job now finally over.

The next morning he is already forgotten; for in his place, fresh from the academy, bounds a young fresh-faced young cop, ready to take on the world and save it from The Bad Guys. His haircut is all business, his uniform pristine, his badge gleaming, his voice just that little too high pitched and excited for the rest of the die-hard desk jockeys. He is 2013, and he is here to kick ass and take names. And God, I hate him already.

I’ve never been a fan of New Year’s hype. I’ve tried. Heaven knows, I’ve tried. I rang in the Millennium up in Belfast with a bunch of amazing people and had mad laughs while the fireworks went off – I even allowed myself a little frisson of dread during the countdown to midnight, and said a quick prayer for forgiveness just in case our world ended in a searing ball of white heat and crunching tectonic plates. I’ve made all the resolutions in the world, and kept none. Apart from writing more. As you can see, it’s done much for me so far. Here I sit, typing away, on an armchair made entirely of foldy money, drinking hot chocolate topped with gold-flake shavings while Frank Sinatra’s hologram croons ‘Seventeen’ and Wes Anderson films my every move for a documentary because my life is so awesome. SWEAR T’GOD.

Being the cynical soul that I am, I watched in amusement last night as my Facebook news feed filled up with New Year greetings fused with all sorts of corny generic ‘go-get-’em tiger!’ type ravings. It was as if my entire friends list turned into Tony Robbins, Dr Phil, Oprah or – in some unfortunate cases – Shane MacGowan. If I had cringed any more, I would have become the first living Inside-Out Human. Imagine the fun I’d have had with that on Instagram.

So why am I spewing venom and hatred at something as light-hearted and whimsical as New Year’s Eve, you ask? The answer is simple: I see it for what it is. It doesn’t fool me for a second. It’s like Ben Stiller’s guest character in the episode of Friends when Ross is the only one who notices he’s a completely psychotic asshole while everyone else loves him because he’s so nice to them.  I AM ROSS GELLER. (In many more ways than this, but that’s a whole other blog post.)

New Year’s Eve has never been nice to me. It’s only ever been a disappointing non-event full of massive expectations, holding a magnifying glass up to all the previous unrealised hopes and dreams you had for the year before. Mind you, back when I was a teenager, I only had myself to blame for that. It’s hard to get the facilities together to resurrect Brandon Lee, keep him in his Crow character AND convince him to live with you in Limerick while living happily ever after, dancing to The Cure in Termights night club of a Saturday. So to be fair, most of the time my disappointment with my New Year’s failures have been my own fault.

However, nowadays my resolutions have become so mundane and depressing that frankly, I’m ashamed. When did it come to this? Once, I dreamed of worldwide fame & fortune; visualising best-selling modern classic literature and marrying the love of my life while at the same time being linked in the press to affairs with assorted Hollywood hunks, all while touring a Grammy-winning indie album and adopting a child from each country I visit.

This year, my wish is simple: To get glasses that stay on my head.

You may well laugh. The consequences for breaking this resolution will be tragic. For as sure as I will never see five foot in height, the following will happen:

Scene: A crowded pub. Me standing next to the potential love of my life. I turn to say the perfect thing to make him fall in love with me. Camera pans out to witness the crowd’s reaction when my glasses fall right into his pint as I trip up when running away, trying to suppress a snart. 

And wouldn’t you know, there’s Wes Anderson filming it.

Happy New Year, folks.

 

 

 

 

 

J-Ro Vs Brain, Pt 12

Brain: “How are you Jen?? Been a while since we talked…”

Me: “The grandest. Apart from the nagging feeling that we are all essentially just lumps of carbon and water in varying shapes and sizes, bestowed with a limited number of days on this giant ball of crap. We struggle daily to engage – and compete with – other carbony watery lumps to leave some sort of lasting print on this pissy little planet before we all evaporate into an abyss of nothingness. We are forgotten in a miniscule amount of time relative to the existence of everything ever, only to be replaced by other lumps pretty much the same as us. And so it shall go on, ad infinitum. Hope, love, happiness…these are all man-made constructs designed by those above who seek control to keep us from destroying ourselves within seconds of becoming self-aware. For fear that we would gain even the smallest fraction of understanding that at the heart of it all, in the grand scheme of things, we, and all that we believe to be connected to us, are nothing.”

Brain: “Left the phone at home again did we?”

Me: “IT’S LIKE I HAVE NO HANDS…”

 

J-Ro Vs Brain, Pt 11

We’re all in this together… *sniff*

Brain: STOP WRITING.

Me: Why? What now?

Brain: Check your Facebook.

Me: I just did, five minutes ago. Leave me alone. I’ve things to do.

Brain: Five minutes? FIVE MINUTES? That’s seven years in facebook time. You could have missed so much! Any longer and you’ll be like Rip Van Winkle, wandering around your page, asking what a meme is, not knowing what Guardian articles are trending…not having a notion what music video to put up on your page to seem cool and down with the kids any more… think of all the ‘likes’ you could have gotten in that time…

Me: You know YOU’RE the reason I’m not published right now, right??

Brain: ALL THE ‘LIKES’…..