Hello! So it's that time again, one of those 3 or 4 moments in the year when I decide I'm going to do a blog and then update it again soon...then pour an hour or two into a blog, and don't follow it up for 4 months. Why break the habit of a lifetime eh?
I'M COMMMING HOOOME
Oops, ignore that, just listening to some music.
Now. Where was I? It's probably better for you, the reader, if I stop typing stream of consciousness is it? It's funner for me this way though. Discipline, where are you?
I'm killing time right now. I've got the new Busted song...
blaring and I'm
trying to think of a segue from that into my beard. There doesn't appear
to be a good one. Wait, I have it! Ignore the previous 137 words/687 characters/1 video, this blog begins...NOW.
So this afternoon we had a visit from my auntie Linda. Linda is the only of my Dad's siblings I see. Terry is in Canada and Dave is a recluse. I've made an effort to build a relationship with Linda along with her husband & kids, my uncle & cousins respectively over the past 5 years, and as we home in on my Dad's 15th anniversary, that feels like a prescient choice. Anyway, we tend to see each other every 3/4 months for a catch up. As such, last time she saw me was just before Christmas. Her face when she saw the mane of hair currently obscuring my facial features was a mixture of shock and horror that probably mirrored that of thousands of Busted fans who awoke this morning to the bands new synth pop tune "Coming Home" 12 years on from the glorious pop punk days of "Year 3000" not sure exactly what they were hearing (see how I did that!? GO ON, GIVE IT A LISTEN).
The beard, the hair, the whole fucking mess. Where to begin? The start? Works for me. There was no grand plan involved here ('do I look like a guy with a plan?'). I was buzzing my hair last October. 2 all over, on the beard as well. To be fair, it looked sharp. It was just...I couldn't be arsed. Have you ever tried to shave the back of your own head? It's not as easy as it sounds. So I buzzed it, on Halloween, and then I didn't buzz it for a few weeks. Then another few. As Christmas approached, so too did a dilemma, which played out as follows in my brain:
"What's happening on my head? And my face? It's just growing. Someone should really do something. Anyone? Seriously, ANY one? Right, well if no one is going to volunteer, we need a plan". Whoever you are, you've probably known me a while. Whatever you think of how I've looked over the years, the undeniable fact was I have always looked exactly as I have wanted to look. I am vain. Always have been. When I had a pink mohawk, I dyed it every 2 days to keep the colour. When I had blonde highlights, I needed those bad boys topped up every couple months. When my hair was long, I kept a straightener in my desk at work. No, genuinely, I did. Do you know how exhausting it is being fixated on your appearance that much? I mean, I bet some of you really do. It's a pain in the arse. And it's so fruitless. I can remember fixating, obsessing on a single rogue strand of hair that wouldn't gel up into my mohawk right, or that wouldn't straighten as much as the rest. LIKE ANYONE ELSE GAVE A FLYING FUCK! But that's my nature. And so formed a germ of an idea. How would it be just to not give a fuck? Just to let it all grow. No cutting, no trimming. No straighteners, no hairdye, no hair gel, nothing. I pondered what that would look and feel like. Would I learn anything? What would people around me think? Knowing how my brain works as well as I do, I was aware that the second this thing got tough, I was likely to cave and cut it all off. So aware that the only thing that trumps my vanity is my ego, I decided to make it a challenge. Remember the magician David Blaine sat above London in a glass chamber for 44 days refusing to eat? "Above the Below" he called it. This would be my above the below. Let's make it a year. Last time I shaved was October 31st, so the countdown is on and the rules are simple. NO shaving, NO trimming, NO dying, NO hair product. 1 full year.
The mathematicians among you will have worked out that we have just passed the half way mark. You know how often you imagine how something will go, but then when you experience it, it's completely different? Yeah? Well this isn't like that. This has gone EXACTLY as I'd imagined. I feel exactly about how I look as I expected to feel. And others apparently feel even more repulsed than I. Friends, family members, colleagues, ex girlfriends...one and all have queued up to make me aware of this fact. Amongst the sharper lines - I've let myself go, 'Is your wife ok with you looking like that?', I used to look so much better, 'Would you not just trim your mustache!?", "No Kenny, just no", "No really, IS YOUR WIFE OK WITH YOU LOOKING LIKE THAT?" and we go on. Perhaps the most amusing part is every single one from a woman. I never knew my looks were so appreciated previously but anyway, at least I've something to go back to come November (I hope). I had imagined people telling me most of these things, but truthfully nothing prepares you for the overwhelming feedback that you need to do something about how you look. However, and this is the key, that was the whole point in the beginning. As someone who's spent my life being vain and fixating on looking my best, I wanted to experience what it would be like to not look my best and know it. And believe me, I know it now.
So present day, at the half way mark, the honest, brutal truth. I am DYING to hack at it all. The most jarring thing for me personally is seeing my hair this long and it's all my natural mousy brown colour. Whenever I've had any length in my hair whatsoever I've had some black or blonde in there. I've never liked the colour. It's...noncommittal. It's bleh. And it's bloody curly. My kingdom for straight hair! Hairdresser (no, not a barber, a HAIRDRESSER) once told me that everyone who sat in her hair with wavy hair wished their hair was straight and everyone who had wavy hair wished theirs was straight. Is that just the best metaphor for the human condition you've ever heard? I digress. The moustache, I will readily acknowledge, is out-fucking-rageous. There is no excuse for a man in employment and not living on the streets to have this 'tache. It is the one thing I really want to trim. But I can't. It's the rules. It's funny how my brain works. I've no problems cheating playing football but THE IMAGINARY RULES OF BEARD GROWING CANNOT BE COMPROMISED.
In other news, BABIES! Well, BABY. Yes that's right, there's one of them en route. This pregnancy has been so different to the last one, it's night and day. (says me...if you ask MT, she might tell you different given she's been growing the bloody thing). With Carra, I was in a different point in my life. I was not well and hadn't been for a while. And I was working full time. Trying to hold down a full time job while you're ill is hard work, so I was sleeping a lot more. As such, MT and I would head to bed about the same time at night when she was pregnant. We would talk at length about babies' growth. I would talk to the baby through her stomach. Our weekends were focused on baby prep. Carra was our whole world. The difference this time is that Carra is still our whole world. As anyone with kids will know, a 2 year old is a full time job. Plus, given I work part time and I'm a dad a lot of the time we've developed a routine where MT & Carra go to bed at 9 or so (Mom has to do the bedtime routine...Dada is banned :( ), and I stay up watching footie or wrestling until 11 or 12. Ergo, those hours spent focusing on the baby haven't been there. And honestly, I have had this undercurrent of anxiety for the past few months about that. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail, right? My only saving grace is that if memory serves me correctly, truly, nothing can prepare you anyway. I am hoping this baby is a wake up call of sorts. I find myself in a daze of my own making these days (or these daze, should I say?)
MT and I first started discussing having another baby last July and right around that time we began to explore the options of either moving home or extending & renovating the house we had. The idea was to maybe do it before the next baby came along as it could be a tumultuous period and the more kids around, the harder it would be. However, it was very much just a thought. It didn't seem like a pressing issue. When we decided to try for a baby in August, I think in the back of our heads we both thought that would probably give it about a year or so before anything needed to be done. Of course, what neither of us had counted on was the incredible power & quality of my 'boys'. Swimmers, one and all. If they'd been on the Titanic, those motherfuckers would have swam to shore! Once we realised MT was expecting, suddenly the clock was ticking. The 7 months between then and now have FLOWN by and mostly in a blur of home stores and kitchen showrooms and bricks and plaster and paint etc etc. I have bought two houses, and I have moved house a bunch of times. Nothing has ever come close to the stresses and strains of extending, converting, renovating & rebuilding the house you already do own. For starters you've got to pick EVERYTHING. If you want to test a marraige - SOFT FURNISHINGS. That's the big one. Oh sure - love, trust, communication - these are cornerstones of any good relationship. But find me the couple that can pick a fucking kitchen tile together and I'll show you happy ever after. Tiles, floors, sofas, chairs, tables, kitchen units, wall colours, room layouts...MT and I must have traversed Dublin 10 times over looking at every tile in the county before picking anything. And talk about a pressure situation...you're spending 95 THOUSAND EURO on your house but the first thing anyone will see is THIS FUCKING TILE SO YOU'D BETTER PICK WELL! (Can you tell it was hard to pick the tile? That's what I'm getting at here). Anyone who's ever gotten a mortgage knows the hassle you go through there. Then there's moving out. Find a place that's going to take you for 2 months but not charge you an arm and a leg. You've got to get as much of your shit out of this place as possible because, let's be honest, what's left behind isn't going to be the same when you get back. Getting the house done seems comparatively trauma free when compared with other parts of the process. It was actually kind of a relief to see the back of the house in a pile of rubble. Progress. Moving back in was equal parts relief & devastation. The sheer joy at being back in your own home is immense. And it's a wonderful feeling to see everything is taking shape. But then you realise there's so much left to do. Pictures to be hung, furniture to be built, stuff to be unpacked, floors to be hoovered and mopped, then hoover and mopped, then hoovered and mopped, then...well you get my point, but honestly, we are still picking dust up off the floor 6 weeks later. As the person who tries to take ownership of the organisation of all these things to allow MT to focus on the pesky business of pregnancy, it feels like I've been in a blur of "Oh, I've got to do X" forever. Only the kicker is that now there really is little left for me to do. Honestly, I cannot believe how great my house looks. It's perfect. I've typed this blog in the new living room which feels twice as big with the redesign, and I've had a 4k stream of a caribbean beach on the TV the whole time which is remarkably calming. When I leave this room I step into a big long hall way with doors either side to the playroom, downstairs bathroom, utility room and the big ass new kitchen. I often feel like I am in someone else's house. I genuinely pinch myself. But yet...I can't shake that feeling that I'm still behind, chasing my tail. I'm a hamster that's been on a wheel so long that the room won't stop spinning even though I'm standing on solid ground. So I guess my hope is that nothing will bring me back to solid ground with a thump quite like baby.
In the interim, Michelle Branch has just popped up on my iTunes with a timely message. If I just...
Breathe.
As always, any thoughts, feedback, opinions or otherwise...please comment below or email me at kennymurphy2105@gmail.com
I'M COMMMING HOOOME
Oops, ignore that, just listening to some music.
Now. Where was I? It's probably better for you, the reader, if I stop typing stream of consciousness is it? It's funner for me this way though. Discipline, where are you?
I'm killing time right now. I've got the new Busted song...
So this afternoon we had a visit from my auntie Linda. Linda is the only of my Dad's siblings I see. Terry is in Canada and Dave is a recluse. I've made an effort to build a relationship with Linda along with her husband & kids, my uncle & cousins respectively over the past 5 years, and as we home in on my Dad's 15th anniversary, that feels like a prescient choice. Anyway, we tend to see each other every 3/4 months for a catch up. As such, last time she saw me was just before Christmas. Her face when she saw the mane of hair currently obscuring my facial features was a mixture of shock and horror that probably mirrored that of thousands of Busted fans who awoke this morning to the bands new synth pop tune "Coming Home" 12 years on from the glorious pop punk days of "Year 3000" not sure exactly what they were hearing (see how I did that!? GO ON, GIVE IT A LISTEN).
The beard, the hair, the whole fucking mess. Where to begin? The start? Works for me. There was no grand plan involved here ('do I look like a guy with a plan?'). I was buzzing my hair last October. 2 all over, on the beard as well. To be fair, it looked sharp. It was just...I couldn't be arsed. Have you ever tried to shave the back of your own head? It's not as easy as it sounds. So I buzzed it, on Halloween, and then I didn't buzz it for a few weeks. Then another few. As Christmas approached, so too did a dilemma, which played out as follows in my brain:
"What's happening on my head? And my face? It's just growing. Someone should really do something. Anyone? Seriously, ANY one? Right, well if no one is going to volunteer, we need a plan". Whoever you are, you've probably known me a while. Whatever you think of how I've looked over the years, the undeniable fact was I have always looked exactly as I have wanted to look. I am vain. Always have been. When I had a pink mohawk, I dyed it every 2 days to keep the colour. When I had blonde highlights, I needed those bad boys topped up every couple months. When my hair was long, I kept a straightener in my desk at work. No, genuinely, I did. Do you know how exhausting it is being fixated on your appearance that much? I mean, I bet some of you really do. It's a pain in the arse. And it's so fruitless. I can remember fixating, obsessing on a single rogue strand of hair that wouldn't gel up into my mohawk right, or that wouldn't straighten as much as the rest. LIKE ANYONE ELSE GAVE A FLYING FUCK! But that's my nature. And so formed a germ of an idea. How would it be just to not give a fuck? Just to let it all grow. No cutting, no trimming. No straighteners, no hairdye, no hair gel, nothing. I pondered what that would look and feel like. Would I learn anything? What would people around me think? Knowing how my brain works as well as I do, I was aware that the second this thing got tough, I was likely to cave and cut it all off. So aware that the only thing that trumps my vanity is my ego, I decided to make it a challenge. Remember the magician David Blaine sat above London in a glass chamber for 44 days refusing to eat? "Above the Below" he called it. This would be my above the below. Let's make it a year. Last time I shaved was October 31st, so the countdown is on and the rules are simple. NO shaving, NO trimming, NO dying, NO hair product. 1 full year.
The mathematicians among you will have worked out that we have just passed the half way mark. You know how often you imagine how something will go, but then when you experience it, it's completely different? Yeah? Well this isn't like that. This has gone EXACTLY as I'd imagined. I feel exactly about how I look as I expected to feel. And others apparently feel even more repulsed than I. Friends, family members, colleagues, ex girlfriends...one and all have queued up to make me aware of this fact. Amongst the sharper lines - I've let myself go, 'Is your wife ok with you looking like that?', I used to look so much better, 'Would you not just trim your mustache!?", "No Kenny, just no", "No really, IS YOUR WIFE OK WITH YOU LOOKING LIKE THAT?" and we go on. Perhaps the most amusing part is every single one from a woman. I never knew my looks were so appreciated previously but anyway, at least I've something to go back to come November (I hope). I had imagined people telling me most of these things, but truthfully nothing prepares you for the overwhelming feedback that you need to do something about how you look. However, and this is the key, that was the whole point in the beginning. As someone who's spent my life being vain and fixating on looking my best, I wanted to experience what it would be like to not look my best and know it. And believe me, I know it now.
So present day, at the half way mark, the honest, brutal truth. I am DYING to hack at it all. The most jarring thing for me personally is seeing my hair this long and it's all my natural mousy brown colour. Whenever I've had any length in my hair whatsoever I've had some black or blonde in there. I've never liked the colour. It's...noncommittal. It's bleh. And it's bloody curly. My kingdom for straight hair! Hairdresser (no, not a barber, a HAIRDRESSER) once told me that everyone who sat in her hair with wavy hair wished their hair was straight and everyone who had wavy hair wished theirs was straight. Is that just the best metaphor for the human condition you've ever heard? I digress. The moustache, I will readily acknowledge, is out-fucking-rageous. There is no excuse for a man in employment and not living on the streets to have this 'tache. It is the one thing I really want to trim. But I can't. It's the rules. It's funny how my brain works. I've no problems cheating playing football but THE IMAGINARY RULES OF BEARD GROWING CANNOT BE COMPROMISED.
In other news, BABIES! Well, BABY. Yes that's right, there's one of them en route. This pregnancy has been so different to the last one, it's night and day. (says me...if you ask MT, she might tell you different given she's been growing the bloody thing). With Carra, I was in a different point in my life. I was not well and hadn't been for a while. And I was working full time. Trying to hold down a full time job while you're ill is hard work, so I was sleeping a lot more. As such, MT and I would head to bed about the same time at night when she was pregnant. We would talk at length about babies' growth. I would talk to the baby through her stomach. Our weekends were focused on baby prep. Carra was our whole world. The difference this time is that Carra is still our whole world. As anyone with kids will know, a 2 year old is a full time job. Plus, given I work part time and I'm a dad a lot of the time we've developed a routine where MT & Carra go to bed at 9 or so (Mom has to do the bedtime routine...Dada is banned :( ), and I stay up watching footie or wrestling until 11 or 12. Ergo, those hours spent focusing on the baby haven't been there. And honestly, I have had this undercurrent of anxiety for the past few months about that. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail, right? My only saving grace is that if memory serves me correctly, truly, nothing can prepare you anyway. I am hoping this baby is a wake up call of sorts. I find myself in a daze of my own making these days (or these daze, should I say?)
MT and I first started discussing having another baby last July and right around that time we began to explore the options of either moving home or extending & renovating the house we had. The idea was to maybe do it before the next baby came along as it could be a tumultuous period and the more kids around, the harder it would be. However, it was very much just a thought. It didn't seem like a pressing issue. When we decided to try for a baby in August, I think in the back of our heads we both thought that would probably give it about a year or so before anything needed to be done. Of course, what neither of us had counted on was the incredible power & quality of my 'boys'. Swimmers, one and all. If they'd been on the Titanic, those motherfuckers would have swam to shore! Once we realised MT was expecting, suddenly the clock was ticking. The 7 months between then and now have FLOWN by and mostly in a blur of home stores and kitchen showrooms and bricks and plaster and paint etc etc. I have bought two houses, and I have moved house a bunch of times. Nothing has ever come close to the stresses and strains of extending, converting, renovating & rebuilding the house you already do own. For starters you've got to pick EVERYTHING. If you want to test a marraige - SOFT FURNISHINGS. That's the big one. Oh sure - love, trust, communication - these are cornerstones of any good relationship. But find me the couple that can pick a fucking kitchen tile together and I'll show you happy ever after. Tiles, floors, sofas, chairs, tables, kitchen units, wall colours, room layouts...MT and I must have traversed Dublin 10 times over looking at every tile in the county before picking anything. And talk about a pressure situation...you're spending 95 THOUSAND EURO on your house but the first thing anyone will see is THIS FUCKING TILE SO YOU'D BETTER PICK WELL! (Can you tell it was hard to pick the tile? That's what I'm getting at here). Anyone who's ever gotten a mortgage knows the hassle you go through there. Then there's moving out. Find a place that's going to take you for 2 months but not charge you an arm and a leg. You've got to get as much of your shit out of this place as possible because, let's be honest, what's left behind isn't going to be the same when you get back. Getting the house done seems comparatively trauma free when compared with other parts of the process. It was actually kind of a relief to see the back of the house in a pile of rubble. Progress. Moving back in was equal parts relief & devastation. The sheer joy at being back in your own home is immense. And it's a wonderful feeling to see everything is taking shape. But then you realise there's so much left to do. Pictures to be hung, furniture to be built, stuff to be unpacked, floors to be hoovered and mopped, then hoover and mopped, then hoovered and mopped, then...well you get my point, but honestly, we are still picking dust up off the floor 6 weeks later. As the person who tries to take ownership of the organisation of all these things to allow MT to focus on the pesky business of pregnancy, it feels like I've been in a blur of "Oh, I've got to do X" forever. Only the kicker is that now there really is little left for me to do. Honestly, I cannot believe how great my house looks. It's perfect. I've typed this blog in the new living room which feels twice as big with the redesign, and I've had a 4k stream of a caribbean beach on the TV the whole time which is remarkably calming. When I leave this room I step into a big long hall way with doors either side to the playroom, downstairs bathroom, utility room and the big ass new kitchen. I often feel like I am in someone else's house. I genuinely pinch myself. But yet...I can't shake that feeling that I'm still behind, chasing my tail. I'm a hamster that's been on a wheel so long that the room won't stop spinning even though I'm standing on solid ground. So I guess my hope is that nothing will bring me back to solid ground with a thump quite like baby.
In the interim, Michelle Branch has just popped up on my iTunes with a timely message. If I just...
As always, any thoughts, feedback, opinions or otherwise...please comment below or email me at kennymurphy2105@gmail.com
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