Very Secret Pregnancy and Birth Secrets

Edit: If you want to add to these glorious list please slide right into my DMs on Instagram: @everythingismarvellous

Pregnancy is a magical time. Renting out your body for nine glorious months. Inside things becoming outside things. Dry things becoming leaking things. Haemorrhoids.

A few years ago, a beloved friend of mine got pregnant. And she told me my first pregnancy secret. A little nugget of information that she only learned through experiencing it. When I mentioned it to other women who had given birth the response was always along the lines of “Oh yes, I completely forgot that happens!”

So, last week, I put a call out across the island of Ireland asking for pregnancy and birth secrets. Over 80 women (and two unexpected men) responded. I have collated them and present them to you now. I call them secrets to make them sound mysterious and sexy. And many of them are (that’s a little joke).

This list is not medical advice. It is a list of things that have happened to some women that no-one really seems to talk about. It is a list of things that might be helpful to know. This list is not for the faint-hearted or for hypochondriacs. Read at your own peril and remember that, ultimately, pregnancy is a gift and none of us really need intact nipples anyway…

Pregnancy Secrets

• Let me open by saying that swollen vagina is a thing. Inner labia bits could start poking out to say hello. Welcome them.  
• While we’re in the area, it is possible to get varicose veins on your lady parts. Think of them as veiny friends that itch and hurt.
• There will be discharge. So much discharge. Discharge as far as the eye can see.
• Your pee (and sometimes farts) might smell different. Not necessarily worse, just… different.
• Your gums will probably bleed but they also might recede.

Sex Secrets 

• Inexplicably pregnancy can bring on sex dreams. Very vivid sex dreams. And possibly quite old school ones. Teachers you fancied 15 years ago may suddenly appear. Don’t read into it too much.
• Some women experience a massive sex drive once they stop breastfeeding. Other women will decide to never touch another human being again. I salute both groups.
• You may experience stabbing or shooting pains towards your vagina after orgasming – through sex or masturbation. This is because none of us truly escape the clutches of Irish Catholic Guilt.

Labour and Birth (‘Glamour Time’) Secrets

• Vomiting throughout labour can be a thing. It seems to be very rare though.
• After your waters break, you might find yourself gushing out liquid with each contraction. Splish splash!
• Taking gas and air can make you quite windy. But also, pregnancy makes you windy so this is a tough one to prove.
• Tens machines are the business. Beg, steal or borrow one.
• No feeling is as weird as when the baby is hanging halfway out of you between pushes. Feeling shoulders and other bits come out is mad.
• Your placenta might come out a bit raggedy or even in bits. Like a placenta jigsaw. A fun game for all the family to enjoy!
• Episiotomies can be made on an angle towards your thigh. So, before you assume it’s pads chafing your thigh, throw a mirror down there and have a little look!
• This might seem slightly beside the point but bring a power bank – you might be far away from your charger. I know you probably won’t be playing snake during labour but better to be safe than sorry.
• This one I simply had to include word for word: “If you have a smooth pregnancy and labour you’ll be surprised how fine you’ll feel afterwards. I was expecting it to be like recovering from an operation, but you’d go to Coppers like.”

One Token Bowel secret

• More of a shared experience than a secret: Most women commented on the crippling fear that comes with the first poo post-birth. Many recommend stool-softeners/ laxatives/ anusol suppositories. No-one suggested hallucinogens, but I say embrace whatever gets you through this time.

Post-birth body secrets

• Take all the painkillers you are offered leaving the hospital. You might feel like you don’t need the painkillers. This is probably because you’re on painkillers. Take the pills/ prescription.
• Chances are, there will be period-like cramps in the days after giving birth. Think of it as your nether regions saying hello. But, like, a passive-aggressive hello.
• You could potentially need your episiotomy stitches re-done if the stitching is not done well or if it gets infected. This can require tissue to be burnt off with silver nitrate. Put your birth partner in charge of staring down the person who gives you your episiotomy, so they know they must do a good job. 
• You can get phantom kicks after you’ve given birth. These are fondly referred to as ‘Fanny Daggers’ (adorable).
• Standing up the days after birth is horrible. Chances are your kidneys and liver aren’t going to fall out of your gaping vagina. But also, one never really knows…
• Your first few periods after bébé comes out might feel like being kicked in the vagina. Even more than usual.
• Your abs might not reknit properly after birth which could give you a little dome. Befriend it. Give it a name.
• If you’re breast-feeding, silver nipple covers are the OG. Compresses also come highly recommended.
• Also, breast feeding makes you sweat. And your breasts radiate heat – basically enough to fry eggs.
• You will most likely experience night sweats right after having the baby. Possibly more so with winter babies. This is because you are hot stuff, and don’t you forget it!
• Post-partum B.O. is a thing. Always hold your baby so you can say it’s them.
• Have a peri/ spritz bottle or a little jug ready to douse your bits whenever you go to the loo.
• Your milk coming in might be heralded by a temperature, chest pains, flu-like symptoms and shortness of breath. Again, this is because you are hot stuff and don’t you forget it!
• You might fart differently. How exciting to wait and find out!
• A lot of fluid comes out of you for quite a while after the birth. It’s not just blood, there’s all kinds of fun stuff in there.

Mental Health Secrets

• There will be crying. At everything. During pregnancy, but also around Day Three or Four onwards after the birth.
• You may have out-of-body experiences during pregnancy, the birth and afterwards. You are not losing your mind (probably). This is a common experience.
• In Ireland, you can request to change your Public Health Nurse if you are not working well together for some reason.

Baby Secrets

• For the first 24 hours of their lives, babies sleep a lot and recuperate after the birth. And then on Day Two, they seem to realise they are not in Kansas anymore. And they have a SHIT FIT. Your second night with your baby might be slightly testing as a result.
• Baby girls can bleed vaginally for a little while after being born.
• Babies can be noisy at night – grunting and generally making little noises.
• Many babies need to get up ‘womb mucus’ after the birth.
• Extractor fans can work a treat for fussy babies. And are handy for 80s style music videos.

The Ultimate Secret

Everyone is shitting themselves (literally and figuratively, AMIRITE?!) so go easy on yourself. Don’t forget about yourself. Phones get accidentally dropped on babies. Mothers forget they have a baby. Women don’t know how to be around their babies.

Yes, women have been doing this for thousands of years, but never with as many other demands on their time. And never with as much pressure. And certainly, never with as many Instagram profiles of women who have it all and are perfect mothers. Good on them. Wish them love and then come join the rest of us who see each day where no-one has died as a raging success. You da bomb!

I’m bringing sexy craic.

And by ‘Sexy’, I mean ‘Sweaty’. And by ‘Sweaty’ I mean ‘Christy Moore in the thick of menopausal hot flashes’ sweaty.

I always dreamt of being a performer growing up, but my voice is not great (think 3am wedding singsong, as opposed to 3pm wedding ceremony standard). I got into the chorus in school and college musicals because, basically, anyone who auditioned got in. I used to look at the girls who got the lead roles and wish for their lungs. Or vocal chords. (Possibly both, I wouldn’t be great on how things work internally …).

I had put that dream to bed and satisfied myself with enjoying the amazing singers I knew in real life and giving emotional sold-out concerts in my car when something fairly magical happened. And now I stand before you as someone who is now paid to sing and perform. I am the Irish Mariah. The non-piano-playing Alicia Keys. I am someone who has ‘gigs’. Here’s the miraculous story of how:

On the last day in November in 2015, I went to an event on behalf of The Down Syndrome Centre, a charity I was working for at the time. It was in the Lisa-Hannigan-and-toasties hipster bar, MVP on Clanbrassil street. (A side note about people like me who are absolute hipsters but still throw around the phrase ‘hipster’: I have made peace with the fact that many parts of my life are full blown third-wave-coffee-movement-drinking-polaroid-photo-taking-secret-influencer-indulging-active-wear-enjoying-knotted-hairband-wearing hipster. However, like all hipsters, I still don’t believe myself to be a hipster. Not a full blown one, anyway.) That night, I stood on a stool and told everyone where their funds would be going and then I shouted along to the full Rumours album with everyone else on the top floor. The event was Sing Along Social and it was life changing.

Now, the Sing Along Social backstory: A few months prior to that life-altering night, the wonder that is Aoife McElwain decided she wanted to mark the 20th anniversary of Alanis Morissette’s ‘Jagged Little Pill’. Chatting with a friend, she joked that they should have brunch and then sing along with the whole album. This turned into her organising an event for a few friends to do just that. Then things exploded, non-literally. Aoife explained what happened next in this Dailyedge inteview: “Soon my guestlist had expanded past the limitations of my kitchen so I got in touch with MVP, a great little boozer around the corner from my house in Dublin 8, to see if they’d be cool with me hosting a ‘Jagged Little Pill’ Sing Along for 30 people. They thought it was gas so when I got the date set I thought, “Sure feck it, I’ll put up a Facebook event to see if anyone else wants to come.” Within a couple of days nearly 1,000 people wanted to come.”

Thus Sing Along Social (and a room of unexpected stars) was born. Jagged Little Pill night was followed by other album-centric evenings. Aoife handed out lyrics booklets and then pressed play. Prizes were given for the best warblers. Everyone sang along at the top of their voice and no-one heard anyone else. It was the chance to perform that all of us nay-very-good singers had waited our whole lives for. This was our Wembley.  

Sing Along Social’s popularity has since soared like a soprano’s solo (#singingreference). It’s been the highlight of all the hip hop happening music festivals, used by Universal to promote Mamma Mia II (I swear to god that film is my Citizen Kane) and provided the best party entertainment for national and international organisations. I was one of many regulars who MURDERED the hits of Whitney, Madonna and blasted my inflatable sax along to Careless Whisper every few weeks in the Sugar Club. But all this came with an outrageous workload for Aoife, so she started to need people to help her. Cue all my dreams coming true (complete with bonus boiler suit and cheek glitter uniform).

An ad went up for ‘Craic Mechanic’ applications late last year. I promptly nearly wet myself, didn’t, and then emailed in an application that was 90% me talking about how much I LOVED Sing Along Social and the rest saying I had relevant experience, yadda yadda yadda. And then, akin to Simon Cowell ringing up the Pop Idol finalists in 2004, Aoife called me and I became a bona fide Craic Mechanic (for my non-existent international readers, ‘Craic’ here means a certain type of fun that brings with it divilment and messing.)

I’m one of six Craic Mechanics and the other five are an absolutely brilliant, gas, mad gang (and the fact that they’re all really young never makes me subtly try to cover my wrinkles with glitter and star stickers.)(and I had to learn how to use Slack, lads!). Before each gig we look at the playlist and get the props we need for each song (Inhalers for The Corrs ‘Breathless’, full-sized cardboard boat for Enya’s ‘Orinocco Flow’ or simply 390 inflatable guitars for Aerosmith/ Run DMC’s ‘Walk this Way’.) and then – basically – have the craic with everyone. Lead them in a conga line, make sure they don’t drop Aoife when she crowdsurfs, find the people who have never gotten to enjoy the spotlight and beam it on them full-force (but not forcefully) (important.).

And, as discussed, it gets hot. Imagine lepping around to all eight minutes of Riverdance with the Darby O’Gill-style patriotism of Michael Flatley. Now imagine you’re one of 500 people in a contained space doing it. Shiny, happy people like you wouldn’t believe.

So, you wonderful human, if you’re someone who has a dream (a vocal chords based dream or otherwise), I would truly urge you not to give up. Martin Luther King and Gabrielle were on to something all this time: dreams can come true. People meet their soulmates in the most magical way, the odd person actually does win those ‘Like and share’ Facebook competitions (honestly they do, I met one!) and – against all odds – I get paid to sing in front of hundreds of people every month. Technically. It’s a bit of a stretch but it’s my dream come true moment. And instead of glass slippers, I have glitter Converse. But it still counts.  

And listen, I’m a glass of wine in and I’m jumping onto my philosophical high horse now but hear me out; There are lots of jobs that exist today that were unheard of ten years ago. Giant companies have created apps and routines and SHITE we ‘need’ that we don’t actually need that have changed the way people live. Things move quickly. Things change and decisions have to be made. And you have to embrace and accommodate it. And that can have magical results. So I say let go and let magic!

Nobody wants to be lonely

So warble Ricky Martin and the Artist Formerly Known as Xtina in their CRIMINALLY underrated modern masterpiece of the same name. (If you get nothing else from today’s post, do yourself a favour and listen to it right this minute. I have gone to the trouble of finding it for you and everything. Here it is.)

In today’s blog, our hero – who is me – takes on Westport, struggles very deeply with loneliness and throws herself into many (many) activities to try and alleviate said forced solitude.

Important scene setting:

My fiancé, David is a doctor (thank you). He got a place on a training scheme to become an anaesthetist just as we started going out. As part of this he’s sent to different hospitals across Ireland to train for a few years. We met in January 2017 when we were both living in Dublin. He was then based in Galway from July 2017 to July 2018. After that he started working in the award-winning (I need to check that) Mayo General Hospital in Castlebar and living in Westport.

We wanted to live together so I initially thought it would be a good idea to work part-time in Dublin from Tuesdays to Thursdays, and then be with him in Westport for the rest of the week. I got a part-time job as the Communications Manager with a phenomenal addiction charity called Coolmine. This was a brand new role within the organisation and rapidly proved to be a horrendously stressful job with full-time requirements. The pressurised nature of the job, coupled with the weekly seven hour round trip (always, fecking always, spent behind a tractor) and the fact that I felt that I wasn’t being a good girlfriend or friend to anyone made me stressed, made my hair fall out and made me cry a lot.

My hair lacks volume at the best of times, so I decided that something needed to give. I became Coolmine’s remote social media officer and moved to Westport full-time. Yayyyyyyyy!! (Or so I thought.)

Also important to note:

Actual footage of ‘Friend Excitement Overheating’ happening.

I need people. More specifically, I need my people. My friends are my therapy. I tried actual therapy once and found it horrendous and then talked about that with my friends which literally makes them my therapy therapy. And, in my opinion, it doesn’t get much better than that.

I enjoy nothing more than sitting around a table with friends, talking over each other, shout-singing, shout-slagging and downing many €9-11 bottles of wine (we’re in our 30s now which calls for the next price bracket). Such is my excitement that I frequently suffer from ‘Friend Excitement Overheating’. On my last three birthdays I had to have a costume change because I had sweated through my original outfit. That is a disgusting fact that only my true friends could find endearing. But also disgusting.

I thrive on my friendships; they’re my sunlight and water. They’re my refresh button. They’re a full body hot stone massage for my soul. They make me who I am. 

Final preamble note:

DUBLIN!!

I also LOVE Dublin. I love Molly Malone. I love George’s Arcade, the Iveagh Gardens, the Liberties, the buskers, the chancers and Collins Barracks. My kinsmen are the people who drink their Grogan’s pints across the road at the wall that gets the sun and are constantly being asked to move their stools back to Grogan’s by the staff there. I still worship at the altar of cans at the Pav even though I am too old. I love every cobble stone and brick. I visit paintings like The Opening of the Sixth Seal (I’m VERY cultured, you see) (that’s how I got a doctor) in the art gallery and it feels like going to see old friends. When it comes to Dublin, I’m utterly and completely – and slightly creepily – head over heels in love.

Westport. It’s secretly raining in this photo.

So, in fairness, Westport was always going to be up against it. The poor divil. Yes it has the greenway, and Granuaille ties and two grammy awards behind the bar in Matt Molloys. But also it never stops raining. Ever. Sometimes it looks like it isn’t raining. But it is. It is always raining. Also the town shuts down from October to possibly April or May. I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know when it happens. I’m very excited about it.

My life has slowed down a lot here.  A lot. Reader, it’s slower than the what-the-fuck-are-they-AT cars I get stuck behind on the road from Westport to Castlebar. Back in Dublin I had to consciously make sure to give myself one evening each week where I didn’t do anything because the BYOB paint nights and dinners in friends’ houses and general craic meant I was ‘going’ the whole time. And I loved that. Here it’s a bit of a different story. Here, despite my best efforts, my days are almost completely made up of working, pottering, going for spins (we truly all do become our parents) and hanging out with my one friend. Who is David.

When it came time to move to Westport, I had this glorious idea of my new rural life: I’d take to the Mayo hills for hikes and have afternoon coffees with my Westport Gal Pals and start a business where I would bring team building games to organisations. The reality is that the non-shagging-stop rain makes walking the hills quite dangerous, the gal pals are working (and don’t exist) and, well, I just can’t motivate myself to get cracking on the last thing. (In fairness, that one isn’t Westport’s fault. I just need to get off my arse!)

Also, I feel bad that I tend to jump on David like a puppy whenever he gets home from work. It can’t be easy being someone’s only friend and the only human being that they speak to most days. And every three or four days, he has a 24 hour call in the hospital which means he leaves at about 8am and returns at about 10am the following morning. Those days are long. They’re very long. On those days I try to stay in bed until about 10am so the day feels shorter. I realise that this is the dream for many people. To them I say “Get yourself – and a sturdy brolly – to Westport!” 

So, initially, I threw myself into every activity and opportunity I could in Westport.

Friend-making activities I have tried:

• Running club Very few people want to have the chats when they’re struggling to breathe. Who knew?!

• Trying to volunteer On the Westport library noticeboard there is an ad looking for befrienders for elderly people. I emailed to offer my services and they said they were ok. Not even the lonely old people want me lads. (Further to this point, I also volunteered at the Sea to Summit event and Westival arts fest. For both, I was stationed in remote places on my own. In a way, it’s kinda funny.) (Kinda…) 

• Meditation and yoga It’s hard to carve out a friendship in a room of silent people with their eyes closed. Who knew?!

• Friend blind dates I have met two lovely girls from being set up on playdates by David and an old school friend. I have very little in common with either and they just remind me that I’m not with my actual friends. I realise this makes me sound like quite the stuck-up, spoilt little witch and could possibly be the real reason I have no friends here…

• Going out for coffee No-one ever suddenly takes out their headphones and strikes up a captivating conversation with you in cafes and there’s really no un-strange way to go from “One latte please.” to “Also would you like to have a chat about absolutely anything?”.

• Doing a course I signed up for an evening acting course led by ‘Sheila who has done ads on telly’. It was cancelled just before the first session (It’s Sheila I really feel sorry for there). I then tried to register for a beginners’ sign language course but then it turned out to be an intermediate course and, well, I would do anything for friends. But I can’t do that. 

• Speaking at an Irish Countrywomen’s Association Picture the most biddy-tastic group of Mayo women you can. Women with the greatest collection of slapped-arse faces you can imagine. Now picture their Christmas wreath-making being interrupted for me to talk to them about de-stressing and body image. Suffice it to say, I felt hatred the likes of which Majella must surely have experienced when she started going out with Daniel O’Donnell.   

But Aileen, that’s all a bit indulgent and wallow-y, no?

Yes, it is. And it all came to a head several times – snotty tissues strewn about (then thrown away because unhygienic), knives put into the dishwasher the wrong way up in protest at my increasingly domestic role, listening to Mamma Mia II on repeat etc. Classic loneliness coping mechanisms.

Everyone will experience loneliness in several forms. I get that. Apart from the Dalai Lama. (Hang on, scrap that – I just googled ‘Dalai Lama lonely’ and the following came up: “Yes, the 14th Dalai Lama does experience loneliness.” This was immediately followed by “But no, the 14th Dalai Lama does not get lonely (at least not ideally).” But that’s because that author wants to differentiate between experiencing emotions and becoming emotionsand I’m just going to take the meaning I needed from the first, out-of-context line and run with it.) Officially, everyone gets lonely.

In a burnt-out, exhausted world, people told me how lucky I was to have all this spare time. And, apart from my many ongoing activity attempts I throw myself into other things: I got our wedding planned in a matter of weeks, I started a short-lived Instagram profile where I uploaded photos of second hand clothes I found (it’s shite, don’t go near it). I went to a Dolly Alderton talk and realised that I wanted to start writing a blog so I started writing this blog. And, thankfully, I had my regular Coolmine work to help make me not feel totally inconsequential as a human.

But it wasn’t enough. I was a different person in Mayo. I wasn’t confident or excited or enthusiastic or positive. I was more sarcastic (I said “Perfect!” a lot, sarcastically.) (That’s not doing anyone any good).

There I am. Time of my life.

At the same time, lots of exciting things were happening for me in Dublin (*Sigh* Dublin’s such a heartthrob!). I got a gig as a Craic Mechanic for Sing Along Social events where it’s my job to shout along to pop songs and make sure everyone’s having fun. I’m working on a corporate presentation for women working in STEM which is completely based around Madonna songs. Also all the best people seem to be moving back to Dublin from foreign places at the moment.

In his wisdom, David offered the obvious solution: Go back to Dublin. My Dublin people. And my Dublin self. As often and for as long as I need.

I initially found this hugely logical suggestion flawed. I’d miss David. And I felt that, if I started going back to Dublin frequently, it would mean Mayo had ‘won’. That I hadn’t conquered it. That I hadn’t lived up to the expectations of utterly well-meaning friends who told me that I’d be running Westport after a few months and that, “If anyone can do it, you can!”. My vanity got in the way of contentment. And, akin to a bra I own that really is too small but pushes my boobs together to give a hint at what it would look like if I naturally had cleavage, it’s not worth it. I haven’t ‘failed’ at Westport. Well, I kinda have. But that’s fine, actually. It’s not real failure.

“What would the Dalai Lama do?”

Well now, I go up to Dublin for a few days at a time, as often as I need. I see the people who make me overheat with happiness. I walk the streets that fill me with inexplicable joy (I cannot fully express my love of Dublin. I truly believe it is a perfect city. I have a problem). The only downside is not getting to see David as much because living with him is fun, silly, gorgeous and even better than I had hoped. I adore it. But when I’m in Westport full-time he’s not living with the normal Aileen. And that’s not fair to him. Really I’m doing this for him.

“But, back to you!” I hear you shout. You old flirt. Well basically – and for several reasons – when David goes to Galway in July I’ll be returning to Dublin full-time and we’ll do our best to see each other each weekend. The thought of going back to that set-up is shite. It’ll be hard to go back to the daily “What are you having for dinner?” phone calls, the feeling of not being around enough for him or for my friends and the fact that we’ll have to go our separate ways for ten months after we get married. HOWEVER, I have a bloody sweet deal in general, and I am aware of that. And it’s only a year. And the Mamma Mia II soundtrack isn’t going anywhere.

Lesson learnt: Choosing to look after yourself is never a shameful thing or a sign of weakness or failure. Once it isn’t at the expense of anyone else’s happiness, fecking go for it. Life is far too bloody precious.

Six thoughts from an international woman.

Women. Women are class. Men are class too but IT’S NOT YOUR DAY.

Here are some thoughts that I, an International woman, have had of late (All the women, international! Throw your hands up at me!) Some of them are a teeeny bit ranty (but, as our lord Britney Spears once said, that’s my prerogative).

• Fake lips scare me.    

A lot of women nowadays look like their lips are being slowly sucked up into their nostrils. They have big, mad looking lips that look the same as when you used to lick the red Smarties and paint it around your lips. And that’s obviously grand and more power to them and whathaveyou but it worries me that teenage girls think it’s normal to see someone’s lips TAKE UP HALF THEIR FACE overnight.

If we pretend not to notice that people have lips so big they struggle with the letter ‘F’, where does it end? Pretending we haven’t noticed that you’ve had your arse fat (i.e. nature’s cushion!) pumped into your clavicle to make it pop? Pubic hair extensions (trend-wise, the 70s bush is definitely due a comeback and, let’s face it, all our own natural pubic hair is too weak from laser removal)? What the hell is going to be the craze in 2023?! And when will enough be enough?!

On the other hand, who am I to judge?! Swanning around my ivory tower with my double standards and my war on fake lips. I’m trés partial to a big healthy whack of eyeliner. My eyebrows are so naturally see-though that I don’t have emotions when they’re not coloured in. And my eyelashes grow at such a mad angle, that I’m very tempted to be like those girls who have permanent fake eyelashes but the mammy in me has the fear of god that I won’t have an eyelash left by the time I hit 40.

Billions of dollars are paid to highly intelligent people who specialise in making us feel not good enough and selling us the wonder products that’ll make us finally feel acceptable. Opt the feck out. Decide you are bleedin’ gorgeous this very minute and they lose their power. (But, at the same time, throw on the bit of mascara if it’ll make you happy. Life’s too bloody short to not have some visible eyelashes every now and again!) 

• Men who ask if there’s an International Men’s Day are dzopes (‘z’ is intentional, helps with full schneery pronunciation effect)

First of all, there is, honeybeam. It’s on Tuesday, November 19^th this year. We’re all very excited.

Whiiiiiiiiiile you’re here, the fact that you feel the *hilarious* need to ask indicates that you’re almost certainly a crawly little man who feels at once entitled but also threatened by both women and men and anyone at all who understands that women are still oppressed. Did you know that if you were a little girl living in South Sudan right now, you’d be three times more likely to die in pregnancy or childbirth than to complete primary education? Did you know that one hundred and thirty million girls across the world can’t get a proper education? Isn’t that just *MAD BANTS*?!

In 2019 there are parts of the world where women need their husband’s permission to apply for a passport. In 2019 Rapists can claim parental rights in some US states. In 2019 women are still putting up with medieval shit that was created by the most ignorant excuses for humans you can imagine. And it’s maintained by those of us who don’t do Mary Robinson proud and shagging well DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.

Toxic Masculinity is a real thing, not just an opportunity for Eoghan McDermott to host verywoke panel discussions (in fairness, that panel was a real event and was very good) (fair play to him). Toxic Masculinity buys into the idea that certain criteria define masculinity. Listen sweet cheeks, the disgusting idea of what makes a man A MAN is as frail and delicate as a pair of hanging balls.   

Kindly fuck off and grow a pair (of brain cells) and decide to opt out of that entirely harmful shitshow.  

This is Baby Ariel who is 18. She was born in 2000. MAD.

• Teenagers who look like they’re 26, have a mortgage and could kill you.

Absolutely terrifying. How did they learn to do their make up like that?! How do they light their selfies so well? How were they allowed to get their tongue pierced and they doing their mock junior cert orals next week? WHERE are they going without a coat and it only March?! They scare the holy jaysus out of me.

• #metoo fatigue

Are you a bit fed up of brave men and women finally feeling like they can open up about being sexually abused? Did you like some of the posts on Facebook a while ago but now you’re ready for everyone to just move on? Have you started making #metoo jokes at the expense of people who were made to feel guilty about being raped, children who were afraid to go to bed every night, men who felt shame for the double whammy of being abused and then the gender stigma of admitting they were victims?

No?

Phew! For a minute there I thought you were a waste of organs that someone with basic empathy could make use of instead being silly.

• Aging and fertility. MAD LOLs.  

Aging. What an almighty prick. What an unnecessary way for us to have to be. If aging was a person he’d be that man/ woman at a Q&A who asks a question just to hear their own voice.

Friends, I have wrinkles. I can’t go on any funfair rides any more (this is an actual fact – I shagged up one of my discs lifting a box! A MEDIUM SIZED BOX!). And, going by popular opinion, my ovaries are basically shot to shit and I should have been producing kids fifteen years ago instead of trying to get in to REDZ to enjoy some Smirnoff Ices in a tshirt that said ‘Not only am I perfect, I’m blonde too’ which did not at all correctly represent my chronically low levels of self-confidence at that time. 

Fertility is gas craic, obviously. As is the assumption that everyone wants babies. And that we can all have babies without issues. I look forward – as much as anyone – to the days of lifting my legs in the air after sex to give the sperm a bit of a dig out (“Come on the lads!”), downloading many ovulation apps and mentally egging on (wha?!) my ovaries (“Come on the other lads!”). But I’m not quite ready for kids at the moment. Regards, Aileen.

• My female (and honorary female) friends.

Without my friends, I am not Aileen.

Like a group of unintentional Leonardo Da Vinci’s they have sculpted and moulded me into the FINE THING I am today. I am the better for each of them and I cherish our past, love our present and am excirah and delirah for our future.

I have had just one romantic love of my life, but I’ve been lucky enough to have a few platonic loves of my live. And each love is precious to me. And is person is utterly utterly irreplaceable and absolutely never allowed to be too far from me.

International Women’s Day is not about bashing men. It’s not about men at all. It’s about women; the basic rights those before us have had to fight for, the basic rights those across the globe continue to fight for and the struggles, failures and achievements that have brought us to where we are today. If you’ve read this far, thank you. My love to you today. And sorry if you have fake lips, that bit might have been too harsh.   

Awards show (and tell)

For my second blog post, I give you my TELL ALL EXPOSÉ ABOUT CELEBRITIES.

(I know, it’s very explosive.)

They’re they are.

Listen, we all have Oscars fatigue. If Kate and Leo aren’t there to gaze at each other and unofficially give me the Titanic sequel I so desperately need, then I’m never going to be hugely invested. But this week’s Oscars reminded me of a time when my working life revolved around the greatest awards show that ever was: The IFTAs.

My first job out of college was as a journalist with the Irish Film and Television Academy, the place that produced (and definitely never fixed) the annual Irish Film and Television Awards. The Irish BAFTAs. The Brendan Gleeson Appreciation Society.  

Day-to-day IFTA life

The IFTA office was a place which ran on fear, panic and over-reactions. I was grossly underpaid, but got away luckier than the almost-unpaid interns who also worked there. On paper, I had a mighty job; I went to preview screenings of films with the other journalists and then interviewed the filmmakers or wrote up a piece about the films. If you’ve seen ‘Notting Hill’ then you have some idea of how Irish press junkets work – journalists go to the Merrion Hotel or the Dylan Hotel, get FREE FOOD (the Merrion have these strawberry tarts that are TO DIE FOR) and then ask filmmakers the exact same three questions about their film. If the film was dire, everyone secretly knows it but we all pretend that it wasn’t 90 minutes of absolute shite. For a lot of Irish films, this was challenging.

This was me. But interviewing Gay Byrne, not Rihanna.

I also wrote up all the Irish film and TV news for our website. Every day. While in the job, one of the company directors decided that we HAD to have breaking news EVERY SINGLE MORNING. So, before I finished work every day I’d have to have a hard-hitting news piece scheduled to go up on the website first thing the next day. Pre-planning breaking news is as challenging as it sounds. I was shouted at frequently for not landing certain news stories that national papers and their teams of journalists got. It was quite unfair. (Fun anecdote on this topic: On the same morning that my godmother died, a well-known Irish filmmaker also passed away. Intent on ‘getting the scoop’, my supervisor got me to ring every person associated with the late filmmaker to get quotes from them that very morning. This led to me being the one who broke the news to this filmmaker’s agent and friend who was utterly inconsolable.  I ran to the loo and sobbed. Working as IFTA’s journalist was SO MUCH FUN.)

The Awards

The awards themselves were also non-stop fun. I don’t know when exactly this happens but, at some point along the cusp of success, actors stop being functioning grown-ups. They relinquish their membership card to normal society. This leads to unusual situations like Juliette Binoche forcing my colleague to stand outside her hotel room as the French actress passed her demands on pieces of paper under the door. It’s why someone’s job was to go get Michael Fassbender from his hotel room and physically walk him to the red carpet downstairs (when this person knocked on his door, the bauld Michael was smoking and brushing his teeth AT THE SAME TIME). This culture is why Aidan Gillen thought it was ok to act like a petulant child when I tried to gently – oh so gently – bring him to get his Best Actor portrait photo taken. (The man plays the exact same character in every single film and TV show, he needs to stop that carry-on immediately.)

Here’s Juliette taking a break from passing notes.

For all the stuck-up acting eejits, there are the good guys in the Irish film industry (Name dropping, you say? Yes, but don’t get too excited.): Ciarán Hinds is a complete gentleman and I love him forever. Kim Cattrell came as a special guest one year and herself and Kathryn Thomas tore up the dancefloor all night. Colin Farrell is a magic charm machine of a man (honest to god, the man’s pheromones are 100% pure Castleknock sexual magnetism). Amy Hubes is exactly the very-cool-but-also-really-lovely-girl-the-year-ahead-of-you-in-school that you hope she’ll be and Saoirse Ronan is so sound that I think we, as a nation, should all forgive her that very dreadful SNL Aer Lingus skit. We all make mistakes, especially when surrounded by over-confident Americans.

Colin Farrell (that’s not me touching his enticing stomach area)

Lessons learnt:

• Do not work in a place where you are basically paid in pizza if you are in after 10pm. You are not a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.
• Do not work in a place where you are not respected and you are not appreciated. Whoever you are, you deserve more than that. The fact that you might meet Gabriel Byrne in the flesh is not enough of a reason to stay (particularly now he has that weird accent).
• Do not work in a place where you are at the mercy of a shouty woman’s whims and flusters.
• Do not work in a place where you have to try and get Colm Meaney to do anything. Anything at all. He won’t do it. He’s a flute.
• Do not work in a place where ‘getting the story’ (especially when a sorry amount of these stories are about Jonathan Rhys Meyers filming The Tudors) trumps everything else, including human decency.
• Definitely do not work in a place where you are expected to use AND EMPTY a slop bucket into which everyone has emptied their tea dregs throughout the day because a trip to the sink upstairs apparently took too long.

Exact type of bucket we used.

Planning a Wedding in Ireland: Discuss.

Weddings. Weddings, weddings, weddings. Where does one start? With a witty line about setting fire to €20,000? No. Let’s not be cynical. I will start by admitting that, as someone whose main hobbies growing up were reading about the Titanic and the Irish famine, it’s a wonder I’m talking about weddings at all.

Following a veritable parade of men (a small parade) (the Claremorris Paddy’s Day parade circa 1994, let’s say) I have found a man who wishes to marry me. His name is David and he has all the lovely traits one could wish for, and some excellent bonus ones and we are getting married in September this year. Now that we have that smugness out of the way, let’s move on.

So, weddings. Well, one wedding. Here are the things I have learned so far about the business of sending two people down the aisle and the sharing-platters-photo-booth-singing-chef-toilet-flip-flops-vintage-bunting-witty-blackboard-signs-prosecco-reception craic that comes with it.

You’ll have a moral crisis. And then you’ll get over it.

Now listen, I’m no mathematician. And I’m no millionaire. And that’s a pity because I could do with being both for this wedding.

Weddings cost all the dolla bills. Every single one of them.  I was told by many friends to haggle with suppliers. And haggle I have. I come from a long line of swindlers on my mothers’ side so I know what’s what (more on haggling a little further down). But here’s the deal, if you want things at your wedding they will each cost you a grand. That is just wedding science and a wedding fact.

It seems painfully sinful to spend the income of a small country on a day. And it is. You could just give the small country the money. But then their government will just spend it on guns and drugs and so, actually, you’re saving them from themselves.

Your wedding is saving lives.

Now that we have the party line in place let us continue.

No wedding is different, really.

Soz to be mega blunt here hun but, now that we have the money stuff out of the way, it’s time to be verrrrry verrrrrrrry honest. Let us all agree – but also let’s whisper it – all weddings are basically the same. I know. Absolutely. But… they are. And that hurts when your friends have all had Tenerife weddings and you want an Elevenerife wedding to show them all up. (If that is you, this might be an opportunity for you to look at your toxic relationship with your friends. That level of competitiveness isn’t healthy. Someone’s going to lose an eye.)

Weddings are all generally the same because all the same stuff has to – simply HAS to – happen at them. People need to see you actually get married (otherwise it would be weird for them to wear fascinators which only become acceptable hair accessories at weddings). Then they need to be plied with booze, be fed, stand up for your entrance, be fed again, try to time it so that they can sneak off to the bar in between speeches, shout the “Do do do do! Do do do do!” bits to You Can Call Me Al, be fed again and then go home.

You can add photo props on sticks, you can add a ‘Pimp your prosecco’ table, you can even add llamas. They’re mega, babes. But weddings is as weddings does, regardless.

Irish people like to know what to expect. We pretend we like to be all MAD and out there but we’re all talk. 

Once you realise that, it’s actually very freeing.

Bride tribe culture is terrifying and it will hunt you down 

When you say “Bride tribe culture” out loud it doesn’t sound like “Passive aggression shite being thrown at you from all sides” but that’s what it means.

You’ll be told that you don’t need to lose weight for the wedding. You’ll be told that you need to be true to your own personal style. At the same time, you will be reminded that you need to look your absolutely fucking best for this day of days because the photos from your wedding will be all your great-great-grandchildren will know of you and SCARLEH for them if their great-great-granny was a manky state on THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY OF HER LIFE.

Also family members will suddenly become very vocal about what Sheila’s daughter from down the road had at her wedding. Or they’ll become staunchly religious. Or vegan. And you’ll need to respect that and reflect it in your wedding.

On top of this, the most random people of all time will get in touch with you to congratulate you and mention that they’re “Really looking forward to being there.” This is despite the fact that they are contacting you via Bebo because you haven’t spoken in so many years. Absolute chancers. Throw them an invite and a link to a gift registry where a top of the range Dyson hoover is the only thing on the list.

Similar to anyone who’s ever done a driving test, started to exercise or decided to reproduce – you will become a human welcome mat for everyone’s opinions. If you don’t know where to get married, or what you’d like to wear or what your theme should be fear not, people will tell you.

Say yes to the STRESS!

Ah, wedding dresses. Strapless bras, tulle, realising how broad your shoulders are. Gas craic.

Know this now:

• There are three types of dresses in all bridal shops. They all have lace, or that mesh stuff with lace that makes it look like the lace is floating over your boobs that will possibly give you a rash. (Who knew I would be so sensitive to floating boob lace?!)  
• The vast majority of these dresses won’t fit past your hips so don’t crack out the Sudocrem yet. (For the rash, you understand.) (Seamless.)
• Women who work in bridal shops are sent to test your body confidence and they will absolutely assume you plan on losing weight. Telling them to politely fuck off will be hard and no-one will judge you if you do not muster up the courage to say it. Bridal women are scary and you have enough on your plate (which they will be sure to point out to you, wha?!).

I was ADAMANT that I wasn’t going to spend more than €300 on a dress. (This was my personal preference and I absolutely do not judge women who spend TENS OF THOUSANDS OF EURO on one single dress that will be worn for one single day, honestly.)  As such I went and checked out the bridal boutique part of Oxfam on George’s St and was helped by the loveliest French lady and then I went to the bridal boutique part of Barnardos in Dun Laoghaire and was not helped by the shite-iest Dublin woman.

(A side note about my Barnardos experience: said rotten woman pointed out what didn’t suit me and why. If she didn’t like a dress on me she would tell me. Direct quote “That looks absolutely awful on you, it’s really clinging to your hips.”. She told my mother to sit down after she slagged most of my mother’s dress choices for me. I know of other girls who’ve tried on dresses there and they came away feeling HIDEOUS.) (A further side note about my Barnardos experience: I emailed Barnardos to complain. They got back to me instantly to apologise and followed up with a phone call. Barnardos and I are on good terms again. They are going to deal with the dreadful woman.)

Despite my best efforts (and despite the shite of a Barnardos woman), I came away with no dresses. But also some very amusing photos so, you know, all good. So I booked an appointment with Ghost in London. What with Brexit and Shamima Begum being told to feck off, I felt the UK was a very ‘now’ place to get my gúna. And get it I did. In amongst the Chanel and Dior shops in South Kensington (Note: I am very fancy. This is, I strongly assume, coming across strongly as this blog progresses) is Ghost. Book a bridal appointment there and you will be greeted by the most pleasant lady offering you delightful prosecco and some utterly splendid (and very slinky) dresses. AND, if you’re like me, you’ll get yours for £225. AND they’ll dye it any colour you want afterwards. Have a sexy funeral to attend straight after your wedding? Simply dye your frock black and you’re laughing!

Other reasonably-priced dresses can be found in Debenhams, on Asos.com and on JJ’s House.

A final thought on wedding dresses: ‘Wedding dress’ can mean anything – a pleather mini, a slightly dated Katniss Everdeen costume, whatever. You do you, you big ride.  

You can opt out of almost everything. It’s class.

Obviously do not opt out of having this celebration of love.

A wedding is as big as your budget. Ish. There are only a few things you HAVE to do:

• Actually get married. If it’s a mass wedding, people will go through the motions and the priest will most probably make people feel guilty about the fact that they only go to mass for weddings. If it’s a non-religious wedding, people will comment on how personal the ceremony was. This is code for them praising how short the ceremony was because non-religious ceremonies come in at about 25-30 minutes AND you aren’t up and down like a fecking yo-yo standing up, sitting down, kneeling down, walking around. I feel like a distinct bias is coming across for the aul non-religious ceremony now so let’s park this point.
• Feed people. By rights this should be point number one. If you don’t feed people at your wedding then you’re basically as bad as the English landlords who didn’t feed people during the famine. If not worse. Give people a bit of dinner and chicken goujons at midnight for jaysus’ sake.
• Have an indoor area. You can be as in touch with nature as you want for your ceremony (this is Russian Roulette, in my opinion) (and by ‘Russian Roulette’ I mean ‘I think it’ll definitely rain, love.”) but, ultimately, Irish people want to be inside. We’re an indoor people. You go off and take your photos, we’ll all just have a sit and a pint. 
• Play Maniac 2000.  

That’s it. Everything else is an add-on. People have come to expect certain things but you don’t have to have them. It’s class!! The list of things I’m not having at my wedding brings dreadful shame to my mother (obviously), but it has been ever so wonderful saying no to spending €500 on a wedding cake, €300 on wedding favours, €600 on moving the hair of four women around (now that’s me being harsh about hairstyling but being charged €130 for a messy bun that I frequently do myself by accident when my hair is greasy is the true crime here!), €600 on flowers and so on. None of those things are important to us and we don’t actually want any of them. So we’re not having them. We’re so bloody smug about this, you’ve no idea. You’d swear we’d invented being stingy. 

So, in conclusion, as the 1994 Stay Safe Code taught us; ‘Say no, get away and tell someone.’ Rules to live by, and rules to wedding by.

A note on haggling.

Listen up: There are cost prices, then there are prices, then there are what-you-will-be-charged-as-two-people-who-are-having-a-wedding prices. You will be screwed. The mark-ups are OUT-FECKING-RAGEOUS.

So, if you are offered a price that is waaaaay out of budget, my advice is to come back with some things you’re willing to lose and then offer an alternative price. I shall now role-play this in email form to make it clearer:

Hardened wedding person who knows an Irish bride when she sees them: “Hi Caitriona, it was lovely to see you and 49 other couples in the 2-3pm slot last Sunday. I’m THRILLED that your date in 2021 is available. I’ve provisionally booked it for you. As discussed, we’re happy to provide venue hire, additional ceremony room hire with large vintage-look blackboard sign that says ‘Pick a seat not a side, you’re loved by both the groom and the bride’, Pimp my Scone station, three course meal with half a bottle of wine and bar extension that’ll mean more time for us to sell drinks and – as such – make more money, will be €14,000 based on 150 people. We so look forward to hosting your day and creating lasting magical memories for every single person in attendance. Regards, Fidelma.”

Caitriona: “Hi Fidelma. Thanks so much for making the time to see myself and Sean, what a gorgeous venue. Unfortunately, that’s quite a bit more than we have budgeted for. I was wondering if there was anything we could do to bring down this price? We’d be happy to reduce our guestlist to 130, and we could do without the Pimp My Scone station (tis far from pimped out scones we were raised, nervous LOL), the blackboard sign, the toast round and we could look into having the ceremony off-site. Could that bring the price any closer to €11,000? Thanks so much, Caitriona and Sean.”

Hardened wedding person: “Listen pet, we have nothing but Polos and Golfs in the car park from December to March full of couples looking at our venue. That Insta blogger from Dingle who has her own fake tan line got married here. So I can’t really budge on the price. But I really liked you two. So the best – the VERY BEST – I can do for you is €13,500 if we move from a Friday to a Tuesday, you bring your guestlist down to 120 and we remove the evening nibbles. Best, F.”

See? Huge success. (Although obviously not because, as we know, ‘evening nibbles’ is the midnight chicken goujons and – as discussed – these are non-negotiable. As Fidelma well knows. This is not Fidelma’s first rodeo.)

Seriously though, wedding vendors are humans. And if you’re not being too wildly unreasonable they are all in a position to move down the price scale. This I guarantee you. Cowboys, Ted!

It’s bloody exciting!

All the points above are true, but cynical, I think we can all agree. I’m a 32 year old woman, you see.

Here’s the only thing that really matters: Your wedding is the only chance you’ll get to have a certain group of loved ones and friends together to celebrate you and the person you love. It’s a moment in time that won’t happen again.

It’s rare to find someone, it’s rarer again to want the same things as that person and it’s the rarest thing ever to want to do those things together, forever. So celebrate that. In a world where things are so bloody grey and tedious and dull, love is a confetti cannon explosion of excitement and giddiness and fun and safety and contentment. Celebrating love acknowledges its strength and is one of the best things we can do.

A wedding brings together all the stories of love you have in your life; family love, friend love and all the other random-but-wonderful love and it surrounds you with reminders of what makes this little life of ours just a bit magical. Have the wedding that fits the two of you.

And definitely play a bit of Riverdance at some stage.