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.

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

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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!

Being Bob Newhart

Some of you might assume that if you were to meet me in real life I would be as friendly as a motherlovin’ seal.

….Wait, wrong Seal…

To an extent, that’s true. Within a few minutes of meeting each other, who knows? We could be line dancing to Billy Ray Cyrus while eating fried shrimp (you’re right; that is weirdly specific for a spontaneous hypothetical situation…it’s almost like I’ve thought of us doing this before…). More than likely, however, I’ll be a little less Russell Brand and a bit more Bob Newhart.

Remember this? My favourite Simpson’s moment because this is my life…

It’s not that I’m shy, it’s just that I’m…well, weird. I don’t need to go into that, you guys know the deal by now. I know how to function in everyday life, don’t get me wrong. I know that you probably shouldn’t fist bump a person the first time you meet them (although I would be totally okay if that replaced cheek kissing, because awkward). I also know that not everyone finds protracted conversations about owls interesting (whatever, Sally from accounts, pfft).
The thing is, when you’re a little, er, eccentric like myself, you need someone a little weird to bounce off.
When I meet someone who is just as “unique” as myself, it’s as magical as unicorn farts.


When I meet a normal or serious person who doesn’t appreciate a good owl meme (or who doesn’t like dance-fighting and karaoke rap) I find conversation can be a little awkward. Something like this usually happens:

Normal person: Hi Jane.
Jane: Fine thanks.

Wait, what?

Yes, this happens when I get awkward. I just can’t conversationalise…I can’t good talk…I can’t make mouth words…I… OH GODDAMMIT!

The more I try and force conversation, the worse I get. I end up saying the weirdest things. I just can’t shut up.


The worst instance of this was in a teaching job I had a few years back. My boss was a very serious lady, and while she was very nice, I found it nearly impossible to talk to her. One Monday morning, we were stuck awkwardly sitting beside each other in the staffroom when she initiated conversation:

Boss: Did you do anything this weekend?
Me: Not really. I mean, I didn’t do “nothing” just I didn’t… (all of a sudden brain Jane kicks in screaming at me: if you say you did nothing, she’ll think you’re lazy)… I actually went…diving. (Diving, Jane? WHAT THE EFF?) Er, driving. I meant driving. To the beach…sea…not into the sea. Haha. To the sea. (SHUT UP JANE, JUST SHUT UUUP!)
Boss: Er, right. Great.

So you see reader, life would be a lot easier if we were all weird. Or if we were all normal…but that would be boring.

What makes you awkward?

This is the kind of relationship we have…part deux

Yesterday, I bought myself a lot of some chocolate. Not just any chocolate mind you, Galaxy chocolate. Galaxy is so fancy and tasty that before I eat it, I pour it a glass of wine and light some candles. You can’t just scoff this chocolate, you have to be nice to it.

I decided to save it for Saturday night, where I was going to sit femininely cross legged and eat each square one by one, all sexy like. LOL, joke, this was totally the plan:


Instead, something terrible happened. Now readers, I must prepare you. You won’t want to see chocolate like this but it’s necessary for my story. I got up in the morning and found my chocolate like this:


Turns out, Jack had decided that it was far too much for one person and had taken half of it. I can’t describe the feeling of betrayal that swept through me. I decided to deal with the thievery in the only way I know how: sending Jack a barrage of angry owl memes.






Naturally, I expected Jack to be terrified. You know, because…angry owls. Instead, he sent me this:

“This is what I’m imagining you doing right now Jane”:


Good News (for me…so selfish)

Things just got insane.
I’m a finalist in the humour category at the Blog Awards Ireland. If I was a teenage girl, I would be squealing. Who am I kidding? I’m totally squealing.


Since there was no one around for me to celebrate with, I shared a packet of crisps with my cat. I’ve heard that’s how Jack Nicholson celebrates Oscar wins (there’s possibly more Playboy models involved, but whatevs).

My sister also had a baby, so I now have a nephew. The addition of this kid means I’m one step closer to achieving my dream of turning my family into a travelling circus. Dibs on lion tamer.

Want to tell me what you’re doing for the weekend? I am watching YouTube clips of people falling over a documentary about the humanitarian crisis in Gaza. Ahem.

Have a great and wine-filled night! X

A Tour Through My Very Weird Camera Roll

Happy weekend everyone! LETS GO CRAAAAZY AND DO SHOTS! Haha, not really, let’s wear onesies and watch Finding Nemo.

So today Jack needed to send a text from my phone. I left the room to do important Jane stuff (eat marshmallows and line dance with my cat). When I came in, Jack looked confused.
“What’s up?” I asked, taking my phone back.
“Um, nothing”, he replied, eyeing me suspiciously.
“What?” I prodded. It was obvious something was bothering him.
“Your camera roll on your phone…is…really weird.”
“What else would you expect?” I asked, laughing. He’s right, by the way. It’s insane. Let’s take a look at some of my pictures, shall we?

There this photo of a dog that I don’t own because cute dogs are to me what supermodels are to teenage boys.

I’m not even gonna feel bad about this, it’s gold.


I like to intermittently send this to my friends when they text me gossip.

And this if for when they insult me. Sorry not sorry.




You’re probably sensing a theme here. And yes, there are dozens more of these. Seriously, if I’m ever hacked, this is 97% of my camera roll.

I also like to photograph the back of my head…for art. And research.


There’s an estimated 6000 pictures of my cat asleep. She’s majestic.

I love Steven Seagal.

Here’s a woman I don’t know!

Escargot, aw haw haw!

Messi looks like Eric Bana, yes?

I send this to Jack because he is smarter than me.

I’m sure there’s a good reason I have a picture of Emily Dickinson in my phone…


I gave Jack a makeover.

My cat decided she wanted a bath….

…and that she wanted to wear a turban.

There were some pretty pictures…

…and some pictures of Kevin’s Mom from Home Alone.

My guinea pig taking selfies…

…and a hitch-hiking sheep.

The time I realised my cat is also Spider-Man.




Apparently there was an instance where I needed a picture of the scary nun from The Magdalene Sisters and Emilio from Dangerous Minds. Perhaps I was writing very very weird fan fiction.

This donkey confused me. Is it Rastafarian?

I got sunburnt and looked like the Swiss flag.

I probably had this picture for a very good reason but I cannot remember what that reason was.

There are 36 pictures of my own teeth. I can only assume I was drunk when this happened. Very, very drunk.


There are several face-swap pictures of Jack and I. Disturbing. Very disturbing.

Yes. That is frogspawn.

More Beyonce.

My cat sure knew how to chill.

I bought my guinea pigs a swing and they’re all Little House On The Prairie.

That’s only the ones that are safe for here. Most were of me hugging strangers and climbing lampposts. There were 3 photos of me eating hotdogs and no that is not a euphemism, I was actually eating hotdogs.
If you like, why don’t you show us some of your camera roll? Is it as random as mine?

How To Out-Creep A Creep

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m a weirdo magnet. Ladies, I’ve a feeling I’m not alone here. You all know the deal: you go to a bar with your girls, you wanna get drunk and cry-sing Don’t Stop Believing but there’s a guy who wants to get all up in your junk (I don’t know what that means but it sounds intrusive). You politely tell him you’re not interested. He doesn’t budge. You politely tell him you’re a lesbian. Nope, homeboy is still grinding all up on you. That’s when you need to break out the big guns. One of these lines and you’re free to vomit as much rainbow coloured tequila as your heart/liver desires…or end up in prison, whichever.

1. It’s funny, when one boyfriend is cut up with a machete, Satan sends you another one!


2. Ooh, don’t get so close there sailor! Doctors don’t know what I have but it’s definitely contagious.


3. I can’t believe you’re dancing with me. This is exactly what my cat said would happen.


4. Sorry, I just cut one. *sniffs air* I don’t remember having chilli.


5. If I could make a boyfriend out of dough, I’d make you…but I can’t. Trust me, I tried.


6. I’m sorry, I can’t listen to this song with you. Mom doesn’t allow me to listen to rap.


7. Your shirt is cool. I sewed my dog the same one. He wears it for all our business meetings.


8. Thanks. I have all of my own hair. And all of my own teeth. Plus these extras that I carry around in my pocket.


9. *While dancing* “If ya got numerous STDs put ya hands in the ay-arrrre!”


10. I’m just trying to forget my jealous ex-boyfriend, “Stabby-Pete”.


P.S. I got some good test results today that rule out anything serious so brewskis all round!

What’s up with me and other thoughts..

Sup guys?

(Ok, so that’s me trying to come across all nonchalant but really I MISSED YOU ALL.)

I’ve been in and out of the doctor’s and I’m still waiting on an appointment for more tests to find out what exactly is going on with me, but I can definitely rule out Juggler’s Arm because my juggling is still on point. (And also, because I made up Juggler’s Arm.)


So, I’m still making bad jokes but at least I’m not bombarding you with pictures of owls. That was a trick, here’s an owl:


Here are some random thoughts I’ve had today:

I really love this time of year because I get to throw bunches of leaves at people I don’t like.

I would really love to go on a slide.

No one can pull off dungarees.

The thought of someone wearing dungarees and crocs makes me feel physically ill.

If I had a llama, I would call him Brian.

I would look hilarious with a perm.

I would love to go to a hoedown.

I’m scared of the Cirque du Soleil.

1940s style and music was amazing.

I also watched this video, and cried. But they were happy tears. If you want to have all the warm feelings, check it out:

I’m back to work, and I’m also teaching adults now *gives you a few minutes to stop laughing*. It’s actually a lot of fun and I’m being totally mature…ish. It is a little weird having ladies in their mid-fifties call me “miss”, even though I insist they call me by my first name. They are just so polite and I’m actually a little in awe of them.
It’s very surreal for me because these ladies are the same age as my mother and they were educated in a time where a teacher was seen as a very authoritative presence. Maybe I should stop bringing the whip?

So that’s what’s been going on in my life (I also got abducted by aliens but no one cares about that). Tell me about what’s going on with you?