Sunday, September 30, 2012

jovani dresses.

MissesDressy approached me recently to check out some of their gorgeous designer dresses. I know Debs season is just about over in Ireland (save for some of the more middle-class city schools) but if you’ve just started Sixth Year and you’re ahead of the pack and on the hunt for the perfect frock, look no further. I just wish it was 2010 all over again and I could splash out on one of these beauties!

MissesDressy’s Jovani Dresses collection is particularly glamorous. Think A-List Celebs, Red Carpets and you looking absolutely stunning at the next UL Clubs and Societies Ball, for example.

Here are a couple of my favourite dresses from the Jovani collection (I’m on a girly vibe and I have a real fetish for feathers at the moment):

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

£1 shots are a bad idea. three in quick succession is idiocy.

I'm doing nothing for the Irish stereotype here in Scotland. The other day I suggested to my German housemates that we'd go for some drinks. It was about five in the evening and they were stunned. My reasoning was that the sun was shining and in Scotland, as in Ireland, that is a rarity. In Ireland, if the sun is shining, it's a cause for celebration, and therefore a cause for pints. Apparently that's not a German thing. (Neither is dressing up fancy or wearing a lot of make-up. I'm learning things about other cultures; Erasmus is working.)

Anyway, yesterday evening, my Scottish housemate expressed a desire for alcohol and I didn't need much persuading. Threw on some casual clothes and hit the Students' Union with a bang. No, not a bang. More of a mumble, really. The place was empty. The lights were still on. The Union was still in day-time mode. Granted, it was about 5 pm. So we crossed the road to Spar and grabbed a couple of bottles of wine. Ate cheese and crackers and drank white wine while imagining I was French in my housemate's room before heading back to the Union at seven and immediately demanding the three cheapest shots on the menu. £1 a pop? Can't go wrong. Except that shots for £1 is a recipe for disaster and I went very wrong.

Cut to two hours later and I'm asleep in bed, having eaten the contents of the fridge, not before trying to kiss a German, a Pole, and a Scotsman. (I succeeded with the Scot. He looked like someone from home but with a Scottish accent. It was confusing. I think I called him by the wrong name a couple of times.)

Today I had The Fear. Woke up at 9:40 am for a lecture that started at ten. Throw on some clothes and a hat (to hide my bird's nest hair) and rush to the lecture which had thankfully been delayed. The Fear manifested itself when I followed some people on my course to the Students' Union during a break in the lecture. I was too tired and hungover to do much speaking and I absolutely refused to make eye contact with anyone in the Union, vaguely remembering my tragic behaviour of the night before.

After the lecture (Research Methods - lovely and familiar), I went back to bed for a few hours, then went to Frankie & Benny's with Fiona for a meal that cost too much money and made me feel ill. Fucking goat's cheese.

Lesson learned: I am also a lunatic in Scotland.

Monday, September 24, 2012

fashion rules.

I don’t think I’m very good at clothes. Sometimes I know what looks nice and what pieces look nice together but for the most part you’ll see me un-made-up in a tracksuit (or jeans, if you’re lucky). However, I do have certain rules when it comes to clothes. For example, everyone needs a decent pair of everyday shoes. (For me it’s my grey Marco Tozzi brogues which I left at home in Ireland – wahh.) And those ballet pumps that I so desperately wanted when I was thirteen are very, very dead. Also, knitted skirts: no. Velvet anything: yes yes yes. Dropped waist dresses: no. Just no.

I'm going to vomit.
 I’m so over Aztec print and I never liked the peplum trend. Dipped hem dresses and skirts are still cute and I'll probably always love leopard print. Studs are edgy and on trend but florals have been done to death – I cringe when I see florals these days. Playsuits are over but blazers are a wardrobe essential. Embellished collars are in but if I see another black lace dress, I might vomit. I like disco trousers (though I know I could never pull them off) but leggings need to leave. Creepers and low-top Dr Martens are cute and wedge heels will always be a fashion fave. I’m kind of over dots for the most part but crosses and skulls are cool. Collar necklaces, yes. Pearls, yes. Dangly earrings, probably not.

I am in love with the pretty grunge trend at the moment and I can definitely get on board with this season's baroque look. I've already got my eye on a couple of pieces from Topshop and River Island. In the meantime, I'm drooling over these select pieces from the interweb:

Baroque meets grunge meets Emma's bank account.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

adventures in scotland.

My adventures in Scotland started last night after a long, long, hungover day of travelling. Friday saw me in a dentist’s chair, an orthodontist’s chair, and a piercer’s chair all in the space of a couple of hours. My teeth are pretty healthy, I’ll be getting my braces off in January, and my right nipple is pierced. I also ate my weight in breaded chicken in KFC with Shona, bought the Urban Decay Naked 2 palette and spent the night in the pub drinking pints and acting the maggot. With grazed knees and bruised elbows, I climbed into bed at 5.40 am. Up again at 10, shower, orange juice, in the car to Waterford. Ate a roll on the way and the sweetcorn turned my stomach.

JJ Kavanagh bus for three hours and forty-five minutes. Dublin airport. Check in my grossly overweight suitcase and somehow, miraculously, avoid paying a fee. Eat at McDonald’s. Go through security. Pop into Claire’s Accessories for some cute earrings and a light-bulb necklace (as a treat for not having to pay for my suitcase). Get on the plane amid harsh Glaswegian accents, cute boys, and the odd North Dublin twang. Get off the plane. Collect suitcase. Shuttle bus to Glasgow Central train station. Train to Hamilton West. Taxi to university halls. (Taxi driver not particularly friendly.) Sweat profusely. Unpack somewhat unsuccessfully. Get some mediocre chicken curry from the Chinese across the road and share with my flatmate, Fiona. Attempt to bond over strangely-coloured curry.

Discover to my dismay that one of the balls of my piercing has fallen out and disappeared. Search all over my room. No luck. Put on pyjamas gingerly so as not to move my piecing. Dress bed. Sleep gingerly. Wake up in the middle of the night with blocked sinuses and a snotty nose. Sleep terribly thereafter.
Wake again at half nine, have a shower and get dressed – cute dress because I want to feel human today. Make plans with Fiona to go to the shops. Go to shops. Buy food and clothes hangers and a bin and a lamp and washing detergent. Discover lamp is of the kind which requires screw-in bulbs rather than the familiar ones I’ve already bought. Consider returning the lamp.

Cook some noodles. Meet an Irish boy. Feel slightly better about being in a country which is not Ireland. Eat noodles. Bond with German flatmate, Julia. Talk about the German language and trashy celeb magazines. Hang up clothes on brand new clothes hangers. Worry about my nipple piercing. Vow to locate a body art place in Glasgow ASAP. Still haven’t talked to anyone from home. Still have no internet. Induction and enrolment tomorrow. Excited and nervous. Building is literally beside the halls of residence though so v. convenient.

Going to Morrison’s later with lovely German flatmate, Julia, to purchase milk and bread and shampoo. Have already resumed student habits of eating noodles and cold baked beans – not together but in quick succession.

The girls I’m living with are all post-grad students which is weird. They’re not likely to be binge drinkers or alcoholics in the making. Hopefully the people in my course will be. I could hang out with some first years but they’re far too enthusiastic for my liking. I’m in third year at home so I’m passed the feeling of freedom you get when you move away from home for college. I know that I can drink or eat or play whenever or whatever I want. It’s not amazing anymore and I certainly don’t feel the need to apply fake tan in order to do it. So I guess I need to find some mellow third-year alcoholics to hang out with.

My allergies have flared up like nobody’s business – hence the blocked sinuses last night. Must procure some Clarityn tablets. Am in desperate need of a cup of tea – bought Tetley teabags because they were cheap but I’m nervous. Regret not bringing some Lyons from home. Miss home already! As on the first day of first year in Limerick, I am convinced that I won’t make any friends. But that’s unlikely, right? It’s a small campus but surely there are some other lunatics lingering somewhere in the vicinity!

Thursday, September 13, 2012

just call me aunt satirical.

Now that the UL year has rolled around again, An Focal is back in print under the editorial prowess of Darragh Roche, with a sundry collection of sub-editors, including the lovely Emily Maree (who wrote a guest post for The Magic Position a couple of months ago). Emily is the new Life & Style editor of An Focal and has kindly offered me a fortnightly satirical column on all things life and style. My first article is about the treacherous break-up of heart-throb Robert Pattinson and his sullen beauty, Kristen Stewart. The article, pre-gruesome-editing-process, is after the jump ...

honesty hour. ooh!

Once upon a time, I got a lot of abusive comments on my blog from an anonymous someone. When I disabled anonymous, the someone set up a Blogger profile under the pen name “JackJones2010.” Maybe if I was very tech-savvy, I might have been able to trace the whereabouts, at least, of “JackJones2010” but, as it happened, all I could really do was cry and speculate about who hated me that much. I had some theories but I hardly wanted to believe my own suspicions. It seemed like the person leaving the hateful comments knew me personally and was consciously poking at my most vulnerable parts. If that abuse was being perpetrated by someone I knew, it would have hurt even more. And maybe it was just another internet troll and maybe I was unlucky. In any case, I still have some of the comments left un-moderated on my blog home page. Just in case. Just in case “JackJones2010” makes an unwelcome return.

The comments left by “JackJones2010” told me that I was deceiving myself and everyone I knew: I wasn’t as happy as I posted in my blog. According to “Jack,” I was in a relationship I didn’t want to be in, I was on the rebound from my ex, and I was only pretending to be happy. When I deleted one of the abusive comments, its successor read: “Delete delete delete. Show show show. SHAM SHAM SHAM.” At the time, I wrote it off as unintelligent bullying but now …

There are a couple of reasons why I go off the blogging radar sometimes. I’m busy, I’m depressed, I’m trying to sort my life out. Sometimes I’ll do depressed blogging but it’s not much fun for anyone really. It makes for dull reading and it’s not nearly as cathartic for me as it used to be. I used to write a lot about what was going on in my life – “Today I rang the grant office”; “I just texted a cute boy and I’m wondering if it will go anywhere”; “I’m thinking about buying this dress – what do you think?” Nowadays though, I’m very wary of posting anything that’s not already set in stone. I don’t post about clothes I want to buy because what if it turns out that I can’t afford them or I change my mind? I’d be embarrassed. I can’t talk about relationships in any meaningful or specific way because what if something goes wrong? There’s the details, the moment in time when I thought everything was lovely. What a fool! I’d be embarrassed.

In that way, JackJones2010 (the cunt!) was right. This is all a show. This is contrived to make me look a certain way. Interesting, quirky, smart, funny. See, I pride myself on being honest so I blog about farting and being bad at flirting and eating too many carbohydrates, but did I tell you that this summer I’ve taken to wetting the bed after I’ve had a few too many pints? Or that a boy once left skid marks on my white bed sheets? Or that I’m only now looking forward to Erasmus because everything is sorted – ticket, accommodation, induction? I’ve mentioned Erasmus before but I neglected the details because what if something changed? I’d be embarrassed.

So I tell you what I want to tell you. I tell you what I want you to know. I try to save face. I try to retain dignity – and it’s a lot easier to pretend like I still have “dignity” here on my blog than it is in reality, in The Strand or UL or sitting by the side of the road selling strawberries. (Did you know that I was earning approx. €3.89 an hour sitting by the side of the road selling strawberries? No, you didn’t. Because I’d be embarrassed.)

If it means anything to you, I hereby pledge to tell you all the gruesome details of my life. I can’t tell myself that my best quality is my honesty if in reality I’m telling half-truths and giving the impression that I’m middle-class and mostly polite. (My mother told me that I had to behave like a lady at my birthday party. I was enraged. Also, I spent a couple of days in Limerick telling people that I was getting my boob pierced and grabbing it aggressively. Such a lady!) Here’s to being a hybrid man/woman/girl/lunatic and being honest about it.

P.S. I’m not sweating half as much as I was. It may be an autumn thing or it may be a decreased dosage of Prozac thing but, either way, I’m happy. As happy as a girl can be with a slightly salty face.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

birthday and scotland and boobs.


It’s been a while since I’ve had the time, the patience, or the inspiration to write about anything worthwhile but now that my birthday is over and done with and my adventures in Haggis Country (normal people read: Scotland) are fast approaching, I thought I’d bang out some consonants and vowels, and hope that they make sense. Sometimes they do. Sometimes these hieroglyphics mean something.

I turned 21 last Sunday. After a long weekend of eating shit food and drinking too much cider (and yet not enough) and being around people, it feels good to be alone with my thoughts (and a glass of Irish Country Cream, courtesy of Becks).

My birthday went pretty well. I made cute bunting from the pages of Harper’s Bazaar and some baby pink florist’s ribbon. I also filled some heart-shaped balloons with helium and much to my amusement, they ended up looking more like nipples and arses than love hearts. (If you know me, you’ll know that that’s about a thousand times more appropriate for my birthday party.) I made some little party favours filled with sugar-heavy sweets and confetti stars, as well as providing blowing bubbles which mysteriously vanished on the night. The food, which I worked all summer long to pay for, was delicious. And there was so much of it! The cake was quality and I almost cried blowing out the candles (20 plus 1 dinosaur) and receiving my 21 awkward, wet, and lovely kisses.

I got some lovely presents, including Country Cream (Cunt Cram), Buck’s Fizz, Soap & Glory stuff, cute necklaces and some much appreciated moolah – which I then spent shopping online: two gorgeous skater skirts on as well as a grungy tank top and the most purrrrfect shoes. I got a denim shirt from Forever 21 (as I am now forever 21) and I’m seriously considering buying the Urban Decay Naked 2 palette. I so rarely have a good birthday, and it’s even rarer that I have such a disposable amount of money on my hands – the couple of Euros I have left are burning a hole in my pocket!

To round off my birthday weekend nicely, I got the result of my I Grade assignment (that’s Incomplete Grade to all you non-UL people – if, due to illness, you don’t meet all of a module’s requirements during the semester, you can take the repeat assessment in the summer). I got an A1. I laughed. I honestly thought it was a mistake at first. My essay, on feminist theories in The Company of Wolves by Angela Carter, was a complete rush job (as usual), though I really did feel very passionately about the subject. Maybe that’s what saved me. (The combination of Out in UL and Literary Theory has turned me into a feminist.)

More good news yesterday morning when my grand letter finally came confirming that I’d be getting some dosh to further pursue my education. This priceless piece of paper meant that I could apply for an overdraft from the bank to fund my adventures in Scotland while I’m waiting for the first grant instalment to come through (we’re talking maybe October). So the overdraft is applied for, my registration fee is paid, my orders from and Forever 21 have been dispatched, and I’m heading off to Glasgow on Saturday.

I have a couple of leftover pint tokens from my birthday party (and the generosity of my lovely family) so I’m thinking I’ll call into The Strand on Friday evening for a sup of cider and some quality time with my lovely friends. Also on Friday, I’ll be getting some shrapnel in my right boob in the form of a nipple piercing – a late birthday present courtesy of my friend, Valerie. I’ve wanted my nipple pierced for such a long time. I’m really excited!

I’ve already started packing for Scotland (because I’m pretty excited about that too) and despite my vigilance, I think I’ve already over-packed. I can’t help it that I own so much stuff. In fact, I can hardly believe that I own so much considering how often I complain about having no money/clothes/make-up.

In other news, I’m in the middle of a really good book and I have lovely friends and I’m happy and nervous and excited for life right now. :)

P.S. If you missed The Secrets Party in Limerick last week, boo you! It was part of the Limerick Pride celebrations and a really good night out. Congratulations to my friend, Kate, who was crowned Miss Gay Limerick at the end of Pride Week. You absolute babe!

shhh cat.