My blog is weird

You guys see a very different side to me in comparison to what many people in my life see. My closest friends know that I am pretty…erm…odd, but my work colleagues and casual acquaintances see “professional Jane.”

Professional Jane likes pencil skirts and blazers. She eats rye crackers and discusses politics with men in suits. She analyses exam results and collates them in the form of pie charts. She attends meetings with colleagues and has an actual clipboard. Sometimes, she ties her hair up with a pencil. Yes, professional Jane is a straight-laced, no-nonsense nine to fiver.

Then there’s “crazy Jane”. Crazy Jane tries to teach her cat how to curtsy (she *almost* has it). She has an inexplicable fear of foam and waltzes with herself. She likes to not stalk her neighbours with binoculars and pretend she’s a French mime artist. She also loves wrestling and tequila (in that order). Sometimes, she likes to drive slowly beside random joggers she’s never met while playing Eye of the Tiger. She also likes to frequent karaoke bars where she can rap California Love in its entirety.

So yes, I’m weird. But I’m not always weird. I could come on here and be normal but then you guys wouldn’t be (hopefully) laughing at with me.

In case you guys are wondering, crazy Jane mostly lives in a cage while professional Jane is at work. I let her out in the evening, where she likes to dance to Abba and blog. Crazy Jane sure loves to blog. She also loves talking to all her fellow weirdos and sending them virtual cake. She is uncomfortable with referring to herself in the third person so she’s going to stop now and knit some tea cosies even though she doesn’t have a tea pot. Sinister.

Bad Blogging Tips

Say you want to boost your blog stats, inject your site with a bit of razzle-dazzle, wow every visitor with your gorgeous graphics and perfectly crafted posts… Well, there’s an abundance of blogging advice and tips out there for you to reach for those blogging stars. So hit up Google and say hi to all the cat memes you’ll inevitably meet for me.

But say you want your blog to be rubbish? Not just rubbish, the biggest pile of reconstituted horse faecal matter this side of the Seine. Well friends, as the author of a blog that is so spectacularly disorganised that it makes a person on an episode of Hoarders look like Sheldon Cooper, I feel it would be prudent to dispense the bad blogging tips. Because it’s boring being perfect all the time.

So here it is guys, my top tips to achieve blogging mediocrity:

1. Have no schedule, whatsoever

Sure, you could have a blogging routine and schedule posts for say, once or twice a week…or you could just post whenever you damn well please. *picture me slugging beer and smoking cigars…and coughing because cigars are awful.*
Seriously, why make blogging a chore? Just write whenever the mood (or owl meme) strikes. It’s what I do and we all know I’ve made a huge success of my life. *awkward silence*


2. Get lazy and just post pictures of hungover owls

People like owls.



3. Don’t bother editing your posts

Peple wil stll kno wht u meen.


4. Forget what you were talking about halfway through a post so just post a picture of a cat…


5. Post while highly intoxicated*



6. Have absolutely no blog niche

Honestly, I still have no idea what category my blog fits into. I haven’t made a concerted effort to attain a defined niche. Instead, I post whatever my brain decides is a good idea. You may have noticed my brain likes owls, cats, weirdness, awkwardness, memes and my boyfriend.


Do you have any bad blogging tips?

*I’m not intoxicated right now. It’s a school night and my cat needs a responsible role model.

My worst post EVER

Sup guys.


I’ve done something that I wasn’t expecting to do for at least twenty years: I’ve hurt my back. Quite badly. I don’t know how I did it. I mean sure, my wrestling/limbo/weight-lifting parties probably weren’t the best idea in hindsight but I just needed to offload, ya know? So now I can’t do much. I can’t swing dance. I can’t do my impression of a crab and I definitely can’t high five anyone. Jack and I also can’t settle our disputes with a good old fashioned dance-fight so we play WWE on the Playstation instead.


Seriously, if you’ve never tried to settle an argument this way then you have to try it. There’s nothing like breaking a steel chair over your boyfriend’s on screen ego to ease your anger.

My back injury has meant that I’m just about able to work, but I have to sit down. I HATE teaching while sitting down. It makes me feel like some creepy kids’ show host. I also can’t carry anything heavy and I’m a big bag lover (that’s what she said tee hee hee) so I’m hating having to carry a tiny purse. I also can’t really drive or stand for any period of time. Im trying to stay positive about it all, I’ve got great posture now. Great posture FTW!

My other news is that a close family member of mine who has been struggling with an illness for a very long time has taken a turn for the worse. It hasn’t been an easy few weeks for anyone in my family but we’re getting through it together. I’m trying to keep that smile on my face and keep my sense of humour throughout. Reading all of your kind comments and feedback under my posts also helps to keep me upbeat and positive, so thanks guys. Jeez this is officially my worst post ever. Sorry. Here are is a picture of my Halloween costume this year:


Come on guys, let’s go hang out in the comments :D

Five Ways To Find Your Inner Child

Do you ever just not want to be an adult? Do you ever just want to let your inner child run riot in an explosion of macaroni, crayons and bad decisions?

I have to say that I adult pretty hard on a daily basis. I work hard, I’m allowed to play with scissors and I even pay taxes. Except on the wages in my off shore account, but that’s for another post.* There are times, however, when I yearn for the simplicity of my childhood years; for the times when my only worry was how my friend was definitely shafting me in our Pokemon card exchanges. If you too miss the carefree fun of your childhood, here are some ways to let your inner child out for an irresponsible time:

1. Make prank phone calls

There is nothing quite as exhilarating as asking some stranger over the phone whether their refrigerator is running. Some would say “that’s immature” and to those people, I say “is your refrigerator running?” :D


2. Colour

Let’s face it, no one ever grows out of colouring. It’s the third most fun thing you can do with your hands (the first being eating pizza, the second being a tie between juggling and mime artistry).


3. Give the worst comeback in an argument…EVER

The best thing about being a child? Being exempt from mature debate because, well, you’re a kid. When someone is clearly gaining the upper hand in an argument, you don’t have to actually respond with anything remotely sensical. Say something like: “why don’t you go high-five a unicorn?” Argument: won.

4. Eat so much junk food you almost throw up

Remember when you got to go to a friend’s house for a birthday party and Mammy wasn’t there to say “stop stuffing your face with ice cream sandwiches and bacon” so you just went wild on an orgy of sugar and bite sized snacks? You officially did not have a childhood if you didn’t throw up from overeating at least once. Perhaps on a slide. While wearing your favourite Kylie Minogue top. I’ll stop now. So what are you waiting for? Break out the raw cookie dough and marshmallows.


5. Play a game

I actually play games with my friends all the time (physical games, not mind games, puhlease). Once a friend of mine called to my house unexpectedly. When I answered the door, I was breathless. My friend asked what Jack and I had been up to, winking at me in the process. My answer? “We’ve just had a killer game of Hide and Seek.” I’m not allowed play board games though, ’cause I’m a little bit of a sore loser. They may have been an incident with a monopoly piece and Jack’s nose. Ahem.


*The author would like to clarify that this was a poor attempt at humour and wishes to reassure any members of the revenue commission who may have been lured to this blog by promises of free owl pictures that the author pays her taxes and does not actually have an offshore account. She doesn’t even know where the Cayman Islands are.

How to Speak Irish-English

Here in Ireland, we have our own unique take on the English language.
Here are some of our lovely Irish words and phrases:

1. Having “notions”

In any other part of the world, this would be referred to as being pretentious or smug. In Ireland however, we have a much more derisive name for this: you mutter “pfft notions” in the vicinity of anything remotely…notion-y.

For example, say you’re at a party and your friend is serving champagne instead of boxed wine like most normal people, you lean in to the person next to you and whisper “pffffft, notions.”

Here are a few examples of people with notions:

~Anyone who drinks anything “herbal”.
~Anyone with a double-barred surname.
~Anyone who drinks any coffee other than Nescafé instant.

Oh you better believe they all have notions.

2. A pencil sharpener is a “topper”

This is a hugely contentious issue here in Ireland. Some will refer to it as a parer while us more same types will refer to it by its true moniker, a topper.

Pff, parers…notions!

3. Everything is grand

The word “grand” can be used to describe almost every emotional state.
If you’re sick, you’re “grand, just a bit off colour.”
If you’re feeling good, you’re “grand now altogether.”
If you’re asked how you are, you always respond with “grand now.”
It can also be used to describe almost any weather condition:
“Grand soft day, isn’t it?” (When it is torrentially raining.)
“Grand fine day, isn’t it?” (When it is not torrentially raining.)


4. “I do be watching telly on Saturday.”

In the English language, we mainly have the past, present and future tense. You say “I was”, “I am” and “I will be”. In Irish, we say “bhí mé” for “I was”, we say “tá mé” for “I am” and we say “beidh mé” for “I will be.” However, we also have an extra tense, “bíonn” which has no direct translation. It means “I am continuously”. For example, you maybe always drink tea at eight o’ clock on a Saturday night. To demonstrate this, you could say “I drink tea at eight o’ clock on Saturday night.” But the Irish could not translate it into English so when we want to show that do something continuously, we say “I do be.” If I go out dancing on Friday nights, I would say “on Friday nights, I do be dancing.” Confused? Good, you should be. It might sound a lot like bad grammar, but it ain’t.

5. Giving out

To give out means to get angry and complain.
“Me mam is always giving out to me.”

She is. She really is.

6. Runners

We call “trainers” or “sneakers” “runners”. I wear a lot of runners but I don’t do a lot of running because I’m rebellious like that.

7. “Bye. Bye. Bye bye bye. Bye.”

This is the only acceptable way to end a telephone conversation in Ireland.

Even Liam Neeson knows…

8. “C’mere till I tell ya”

Roughly translates as “I must tell you something important.”

9. What’s the craic/how’s the craic/any craic?

Basically, we’re very interested in your craic. Wait, that sounds bad…

Craic means fun. It is not a class A drug, repeat, not a class A drug.

although posters like this don’t help the confusion…
I see what you did there, Dara.

10. At all at all

Us Irish like to exaggerate. We also like to emphasise. We could tell you that we have no money, and you’d probably believe us. If we were to follow that statement with “at all at all”, oho, you’d better believe we’re telling the truth.

Now that you’re practically Irish, here are some bonus phrases for you:

“You know Mary? Mary? She’s related to your man who works for the butcher on a Thursday? No? She has the dog with the gimpy leg? Yeah. She’s dead.”

“So to get to Danny’s house you pass the church on the right. There’ll be a one eyed man with a patch smoking a pipe a hundred yards down the road, turn left. Then you’ll pass the house with the sheepdog. If he barks twice, turn right. If you get to a house with two broken windows, you’ve gone too far.”

“Jaysus, I’m freezin’..”

“Jaysus, I’m roastin’..”

Hope you enjoyed and feel free to share with any Irish friends!

I don’t do winning…

As my dad would say “well shite anyway.”

I didn’t win my category at the Blog Awards Ireland. Which is totally fine. It’s fine. I’m fine.


To be honest, winning would have been great, yes…but I am incredibly lucky to have amassed such an amazing group of people who read and comment on my posts and who actually seem to like what I write. That is amazing. So I don’t need to go and do this:


…because I’ve got you guys and that’s enough of a reward for me.


Whatevs, Tina Fey, I’m serious.

So let’s all group hug and eat consolation cake. You may have to pat my head, I’m feeling very delicate.

P.S. I know I have an insane amount of emails and posts to catch up on. I haven’t been feeling terribly hunky dory lately and I have a note from my mother to explain this which I totally didn’t forge…ahem…

My Boyfriend is as weird as I am

For anyone who thinks I’m weird (hello!) my boyfriend, Jack, is at least 73% weirder than me. This just happened:

Jack walks into the living room while I’m watching TV, and I don’t look at him but I can feel that he wants me to look at him. He walks past me a few times and clears his throat.

He’s wearing a medium length black coat and a scarf. Jack isn’t really the scarf wearing type, particularly in mild weather, so he looks different than normal. I have to say, he looks very handsome and fashionable in his coat and scarf. The thing is, I can tell he is self conscious. He’s the sort of guy who doubts his fashion choices and who needs reassurance. He also overthinks everything.

He clears his throat again.

“What do you think?”
“Yeah…but what have you got it on for now? We aren’t going anywhere tonight.”
“Yeah…erm, I might go for a walk just…around.”

Now reader, this might seem perfectly normal but Jack and I never walk anywhere from our home. You see, we live a few kilometres from a forest park, so we always drive there for our walks instead. Hence, Jack going for a walk alone at night from our house is not a regular occurrence.

“Erm, why would you do that?” I ask.
The thing is, I already know the answer. Jack knows he looks handsome in his coat and much like a child who gets a new Ironman tshirt, he wants to show it off.

“I’m just…bored.”

There’s a silence.

“Does my coat really look nice?” he asks again, adjusting the sleeves. Before I can answer, he asks another question: “Do you think it’s too early in the year to wear a coat?”

Since I’m watching one of the last episodes of How I Met Your Mother, I’m not really paying adequate attention to Jack. I just shrug.

“It’s just…I don’t wanna go out wearing a coat if I look like a douche.”


“Maybe we could watch the news? If the reporters are wearing coats and scarves then maybe I can too?”

“I’m not changing the channel, love.”

“Right. Will ya just check the temperature there on your phone?”

I reluctantly check, silently worrying that my weirdness is contagious and I have seriously infected Jack.

“It’s thirteen degrees.”

“That’s cold, right?”

“I’d say it’s more…mild.”

“Ah, damn it.”

And then all I see is Jack flouncing out of the room, dramatically ripping off his coat. He still hasn’t come back downstairs.

He’s adorable.

He looked a little like this, except it wasn’t a duffel coat…and he’s not a cat.

So I Think I Can’t Dance

There is a lot of things that I can’t do: I can’t eat just one Pringle, I can’t say the name of the bird ‘blue tit’ without giggling and I can’t speak Mandarin Chinese (I can only read it*).

There one thing though that I really really can’t do….

…and that my dear readers is dance.

I can’t dance. I mean, I dance all the time. Constantly. I’m even dancing right now (sunshine…moonlight…good times…boogie).

But when I do dance, it’s carnage. Not literally…except for that one time I tried waltzing but…whatever. I just have zero coordination. It was a conversation with Cheryl over at Tropical Affair that reminded my of the time my mother took me to dance lessons to try and cure my multiple left feet. It did not go well.

There were two teachers, a man and a woman. Apparently they were former dance champions or something. When I found out they didn’t actually have championship belts like wrestlers do I lost interest pretty quickly.

Anyway, I assumed it would be pretty easy. I’d carry a watermelon, the male teacher would take a shine to me and we’d end up closing the season at Kellerman’s. Then, in week two, I’d learn to moonwalk. Yes, I had big plans.

I would have the time of my life…

Unfortunately, my plans didn’t exactly come to fruition. We were supposed to learn not one, not two, but three dances: salsa, jive and ballroom. Piece of cake, right?

The first week, we just had to learn basic steps. Pfft, I thought as I glided into the room, easy peasy. I did my stretches and readjusted my leg warmers (I’d watched Flashdance to get me pumped). I even rang my good friend Kevin Bacon** for some advice. He said something like “yadda yadda…footloose…blah blah…” (Kevin rambles a little). I was ready. I had this.

“Okay, we’re going to do very basic steps today,” the lady said, smiling. “So we’ll start with a very basic turn, two three, kick one two, twirl, toe, heel, spin, three four five and click. Got it? Good?”

Needless to say, this was my face:


All I’d heard was “something something twirl” so I twirled. And promptly fell over. Flat on my ass.

Like this, except I wasn’t ice skating. If I had been, I probably would’ve killed someone.

My teacher tutted.

“Erm, you there! Are you having difficulty?”

Noooo, what makes you say that?

“Eh, I’m good. I’m good. Just might have went into ‘the twirl’ a little…enthusiastically.”

She looked at me with at sympathy. She knew it then. She knew I was one of the few people on this planet who are just beyond help. She just didn’t have the heart to tell me.

“Erm, perhaps you should just stick to doing three steps left and three steps right?”

That’s correct readers; she asked me to do a “dance” a monkey could learn. Frustrated with my lack of progress (I had fully expected to be leading the steps to Thriller by this stage), I agreed. I stared to take three steps left.

“Erm, no…that’s not quite it…” She was now looking confused.

“Really?” Wasn’t I just supposed to walk three steps left and three steps right?

I should point out at this stage that my mother had accompanied me to these classes and was now waltzing around the floor like Ginger Feckin’ Rogers.

“Why don’t you go have a drink of water?” The dance teacher pointed towards the drinking fountain.

Seriously, this is what I began to feel like:


The following week, I was just as hopeless. I just about managed to stay vertical, but when people were going left, I was going right. When people were dipping, I was hopping on one foot. When people were clicking their heels, I was clicking my fingers.

By the next class, I had come to the attention of everyone in the room; including the male teacher. While we were warming up, he approached me.

“Um, listen Jane. I think I might partner up with you for this class…just because, well…you know.” He gave me one of those agonisingly sympathetic looks. I nodded. I fully expected that a world class dance instructor would no doubt be able to help me.

“Okay, we’ll start with a very simple three step dance. It’s a piece of cake.”

I didn’t get it.

“Ok, we’ll try two steps.”

I stood on his feet.

I’d like to mention at this stage, his hair was unkempt, his tie was askew and he was covered in sweat. He was trying to stay patient.

“Oookaaaaay. How about just rocking from side to side on your feet?”

No readers, he was not kidding.

What happened? Well, I tripped. I kicked one foot with the other and fell down like a sack of potatoes. At this point, I imagine his brain to have done something like this:


He put his hands on my shoulders and calmly said:

“Listen, Jane. I can’t teach you. Baryshnikov couldn’t teach you. I’m sorry; I would be wasting your money. Why don’t you learn to paint instead? Or act? Or…crochet?”

“I really can’t dance?”

“Jane, you fell over while standing still.”

“That’s true.”

So reader, my experience with dance lessons didn’t quite go to plan. That doesn’t mean I don’t do an amazing Macarena when I’ve had a glass*** of wine.

Is there anything you can’t do?

*I can read it…with Google translate
** No relation to the actor Kevin Bacon
*** Six glasses. Six glasses of wine, okay?

Is Orange the New Black?


My contribution over at the wonderful Cats at the Bar. I adore this site, pop over for a look!

Originally posted on Cats at the Bar:

Is Orange the New Black
‘Yes Possum?’
‘Am I….different to the other cats?’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘I mean, I’m different somehow. You all love Posh Spice.’
‘I love Ginger Spice.’
‘And all of you have the same favourite celebrity cat.’
‘Yes….whereas, I love Garfield. And when we go hunting, the prey always spots me coming a mile away and you guys just seem to blend in with the night.’
‘And remember that time you guys lost me in the autumn leaves for three hours?’
‘Orange you getting it, Possum?’

‘Never mind.’

Guest writer; Janey of the wonderfully funny http://cupidorcats.wordpress.com

View original

Cupid or Cats is also on Facebook

Hello everyone! <— I'm using my nice voice today.

I decided to set up a Facebook page for my blog so if you happen to be on Facebook, then please throw me an ol' like and we can be Facebook BFFs. I will update it every time my brain decides to be weird…so, yeah…a lot.

I would really appreciate if you could like and share my page, and if you don't…well, you're not invited to my imaginary barn dance. Imaginary Billy Ray Cyrus will be leading the imaginary line dancing.

Thanks so much guys! :)

Here is the link:

Cupid or Cats Facebook Page

Enjoy your weekend!