First a wedding dress, then a maternity dress, now I'm just trying to fit into ANY dress.

Tag Archives: Mammy Dunne

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I’M so chuffed to announce today that I’ve been nominated in the Blog Awards Ireland ‘Best Blog Post’ category for a post I wrote about post natal depression.

I had no idea I had been nominated until I received an email to say I had been, and I didn’t know for which post until this morning when the Longlist was released. And boy, is it a long list!

There are loads of brilliant blogs and posts in the running for this and I’m so so happy to be among them. I’m also so happy that it is that particular post I was nominated for. It’s a post that means a lot to me.

It was written as a visceral response to an interview with the journalist John Waters which I read in the Sunday Independent where he said he didn’t believe in depression, that the condition was ‘made up’. I was hopping mad, I couldn’t sit still and the words just poured out of me.

I couldn’t let that go, I couldn’t sit and read that article and do nothing. Depression does exist, it’s very real and it affects millions of people very day. So it means so much to me that it was deemed worthy of a nomination.

The way the Best Blog Post category works is that there is a two week ‘public voting’ section where the long list will be whittled down to ten finalists. After that then, the ten finalists will be judged by a panel of judges and the winner announced at the awards ceremony in October.

This is where the shameless plug comes in – I’d love it if you could vote for me to be a finalist. All you have to do is follow this link and click on the little circle beside Beating Myself Into A Dress and then click Vote. That’s it! Ah sure go on, what else would you be doing of a Friday afternoon? And if you don’t vote for me, well, I’ll just have to get Mammy Dunne after you and she’s a whizz with the oul wooden spoon so she is.

Thank you in advance for your vote and for your support and most of all for reading the blog. I appreciate it so much.


THERE was much excitement today in Beating Myself Into A Dress towers as we had our prize draw for our three brilliant prizes.

My glamorous assistant Mammy Dunne lent a hand to pull the three names out of the hat.

I wanted her to wear a bikini for the prize draw but she was having none of it.

I wanted her to wear a bikini for the prize draw but she was having none of it.

Our first prize winner, who gets a €20 voucher for Boots is …

Michelle Vesey!

Michelle Vesey

Michelle Vesey

Second prize of the blue and coral mosaic style earrings goes to …

Nichola Hand!

Nichola Hand

Nichola Hand

Third prize of the set of cute star earrings goes to …

Chloe Keeley Power!

Boots comp third prize Chloe

Congratulations to all three winners. Please send me on your postal addresses to karenpdunne@gmail.com and I’ll post out your prizes. Thanks to everyone for entering!


THE thing about having a birthday party for your child at home is that you have to actually clean that home before you can let anybody into it.

Well, anybody not wearing a Hazmat suit anyway.

I don’t know what I was thinking. It started a couple of weeks ago when we went out to visit Mammy Dunne and in a fit of inspiration invited her to stay the night of Seán’s birthday.

His birthday is Easter Saturday, you see, and we were planning to have Mammy Dunne and the inlaws for their dinner on Easter Sunday anyway so it made sense for her to stay, rather than going home and having to come back out to us a few hours later.

“That’s a great idea now, if you don’t mind. I will stay, I’ll pack an overnight bag and all so I will,” she sez delighted with herself.

All was going swimmingly until we were driving home and I noticed Yer Man shooting me terrified, alarmed looks out of the corner of his eye.

“WHAT?” I eventually yelled when I could stand it no longer.

“Nothing, nothing,” he babbled “it’s just you asked your Mam to stay …”

“YES?” I roared “and what’s wrong with that? Not good enough for you is she? Don’t want her staying? You thundering bastard, I have to say, I’d never treat YOUR mother like…”

“KAREN!” he cut me off, mid-rant “it’s not that. It’s just – where is she going to stay?”

“In the bloody spare room, you big thick, where do you …”

I trailed off, remembering. The spare room. Or The Room of Death as it’s more commonly known around these parts.

The room where we open the door ONLY to chuck in more rubbish, closing it quickly lest our eyes be offended by the filth within.

The room that hasn’t been hoovered since 2010. The room where odd socks go to die.

THIS room:

There are two beds under all of that. Honest to God.

There are two beds under all of that. Honest to God.

I don't even know where I got half of this shit

I don’t even know where I got half of this shit

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I looked at Yer Man, horrified.

“We’ll have to clean it,” I managed, gasping for breath.

“I know,” he murmured comfortingly, patting my hand “I know.”

We drove the rest of the way home in silence. Thinking about the beast lurking within our home.

Today is D-day. It’s time to slay the beast.