Oireachtas na Samhna

Gaeilgefest 2007's already underway, I'm off to join the fun and frolics tomorrow*. I did my holiday shopping earlier in the pharmacy across the road; babywipes and Anadin Extra. Bring it on.

I was searching for a suitable image to accompany this post when I came across the following:

Q: What's a seven-course meal in Ireland?
A: A six-pack and a potato.

Goodness, I wondered, who perpetuates these awful stereotypes?

Oh.

*Looks pretty staid and cultural on the site, doesn't it? Not so. Irish people have a fearsome reputation worldwide for lunacy (we call it craic) and the Irish speaking contingent do it better than anyone else. 12,000 Gaeilgeoirí are due to descend on Westport over the weekend. I hope someone's warned the Guards.

So, Are You Going Anywhere Nice On Your Holidays?

I'm generally happy enough to make smalltalk. It passes the time, makes people feel more comfortable in forced social situations and gives me endless opportunities to regale strangers with Walter Mitty esque tales of my adventures without having to worry that I'll be found out (who doesn't tell extravagant lies to taxi drivers?). But I hate making smalltalk when in front of a mirror; at the hairdresser's, say, or in the beautician's. Because I can see the lies tripping off my tongue and I redden instantly. I've discovered that I can manage the hairdresser's by pretending to be engrossed in the latest glossy magazine (okay, it's not entirely pretending. Grandad will be disgusted but I too have a morbid fascination with shiny useless objects... WWTDD is often the highlight of my day). The beautician's, however, poses a problem. They have big mirrors fixed on each wall of the treatment room which means that when you go for a bikini wax (like I did this morning) you get a wonderful view of your vagina too. And it's very hard to maintain enough concentration to lie when you're exposed so vulnerably and have a stranger hovering over your lady garden with hot wax and strips of cotton.

So instead of lying I find myself telling her everything. I think my brain panics at the sight of the wax and hopes (in vain) that full disclosure of whatever happens to be in my head will result in some kind of leniency on her part. Smalltalk with strangers doesn't necessarily have to be one lie after another (it's just more fun that way) but it certainly shouldn't consist of the brutal gory truth either. Sinéad does not need to know that I haven't had a wax since the last time I had sex, and that I haven't had sex in a while either. Because beauticians (like hairdressers) are masters of sympathetic flattery and a consolatory reply to a revelation like that goes something like "There there. I'm sure you'll find somebody to ride you eh, you know, soon..." (trails off uncomfortably). I'd say she thinks I'm a right fucking spacer. I think next time I'll pretend to have lost my voice. It'll be a relief for us both.

Colour Me Impressed

In a bit of a rage over the car being vandalised, I rang Kelly's Garage in Rathmines at angry o' clock this morning to see if they'd be able to fix my wing mirror. I spoke to a sexy sounding mechanic who advised me pleasantly to call back at a reasonable hour (i.e. when the garage was open and I wasn't in a tantrum) and he'd see what he could do.

So I called 3 other garages and got sent from Billy to Jack, had to go down to the car to see if the mirror was electric or manual, and then again to check the car registration, and then again to open the bonnet and get the chassis number (fucking Peugeot dealer...). Eventually Peugeot said they'd do it for me tomorrow for the obnoxious price of €47. Great.

Then Fred, the sexy sounding mechanic's amiable sidekick, left a voicemail asking me to call him back when I got the chance. I did, he had a mirror, I drove the 200 yards down the road and spent a pleasant 5 minutes talking shite with him while one of the "boys" glued on the new mirror "for this very pretty young lady here". It cost me €8.30.

I didn't get to meet the sexy sounding mechanic, but I'm going to smash the passenger wing mirror later and give Fred a call again in the morning.

Colour Me Pissed Off

Some fucking cretin smashed the wing mirror on the car last night. There's not a scratch on the car and the glass was still in place, albeit in smithereens. Apart from hammering the shite out of it with a little elf hammer, I can't see how they managed to break the glass and not even bend the mirror back but I suppose I should be grateful that they didn't break more and ultimately end up costing me more.

I'd be far more grateful had they not broken it at all.

I'm waiting for the nice man in the garage to call me back to let me know if he can fix it and how much he'd like to charge me for the privilege. It'll be an exorbitant fee I'm sure, but there's only so long I can continue driving craning my head out the window like a Labrador retriever.

Colour Me Blue

I got into the car this evening to drive home, pleasantly tired and fed and looking forward to my bed. The weekend was great (the party on Saturday night in Galway in particular) and I was in good form. It was good to be home with my parents, to spend some time with my brother and sister (especially the Saturday morning hair salon which I'll tell you about tomorrow) and to spend time with the mutts (it's oddly flattering that the little one still wets herself with excitement every time she sees me).

But I pulled out, turned on the radio and started crying.

What the fuck? There hadn't been a bother on my two minutes beforehand and I had no idea why I was crying. I wiped the tears, sucked back the sniffles and got my shit together. Laughed. Focused on something else, resumed my usual internal monologue, listened to the radio. But for the 45 minutes it took me to drive home, every time I let my brain drift off and my concentration lapse the tears would start again.

I'm home now and The Panel is on. It's not very good but it doesn't matter, I seem to be just fine again. I'm sure I'll be rosie again by morning.

Nobody Reads My Blog Anymore

Checked my statcounter thingy this morning and panicked. Then remembered I haven't written anything for people to read.

It's like the time I forgot to feed the gerbil. Don't ask.

No Laughing Matter - Update

I sent a mail to the folks at the Laughter Lounge politely expressing my disappointment at Monday evening's fiasco and in fairness to them they've replied with a prompt and sincere apology. I feel mildly uncomfortable now as I have to call them with my details so that they can issue me a refund and send me some vouchers (I asked for neither but they've generously offered both). It's not that I think they'll be mean to me, or that I've complained when I shouldn't have, it's just that I hate to think of myself as someone who complains at all. Like most people I know, I'd much rather bury my head in the sand than face any kind of confrontation, no matter how civilised. But I'm a grown-up now (legally, at least) so if I'm going to complain about them I may as well do it in an adult fashion and not just slate them on my blog.

I blame Irish mammies and their war cry: "You'll eat it, and you'll like it."

Good Morning

I think the new Metro guy on Leeson St bridge fancies me. He gave me a big beaming smile this morning, and a "hello".

I know he's paid to smile at people. But he was finished work (I was running late) and just having a sit down. He didn't even try to give me a paper. So he must, right? Besides, I look radiant in the mornings when I'm running late for work.

I could fancy him though.

Sibling Revelry

The BGF* has frequently remarked (with his custom disdain) on how close-knit our family is, my siblings and I in particular. He says he finds it creepy ("I'm not coming over for dinner. I'm still not convinced you don't lure guests in with the promise of food and then serve them as the main") but I like to think that secretly he finds it endearing. He still hangs around with us anyway. Yesterday he told me that he thinks the three of us share a brain, because as soon as he tells one of us something we seem to communicate it telepathically to the other two. Actually we use googlechat like everyone else, but I can see where he's coming from and it's really his own fault. He shouldn't make his stories so interesting. Anyway, it set me to thinking about the attributes we do share and my favourite of these would have to be our colourful turn of phrase. Some examples:

Snarf
To eat something (especially if it's not yours to eat) so quickly that you may as well have shoved it up your nose.

Pinkie
To land someone with something they'd rather not have to do (especially if you've narrowly escaped from having to do it yourself)

Ponc IE
Shorthand for Irish language nerdism (Dot IE translates as Ponc IE, pronounced "punk aiyeeee!" by the gleeful little fuckers when they're taking the piss out of my job)

Twisty Watcher
Someone who stares inappropriately and eavesdrops on conversations (especially if they happen to be slightly cross-eyed)

In your La Las
In cross humour (we used to foster a kid with Down's Syndrome who, like us all, occasionally had bouts of bad temper. I'm not sure if the phrase originated with him or with my mam's descriptions of him when he was having a bad day)

There are plenty more, but you'll have gathered by now that most are best not used in company. They're great to use in your brother and sister's company though! It's what makes spending time with just the two of them so easy and enjoyable. You can talk shite all you like, and they'll still understand you.

*Not to be confused with the BFG (Big Friendly Giant) as he's kinda small, and decidedly unfriendly, or with a GBF (Gay Best Friend) as he's not my best friend. He'd balk at the idea. He is, however, my Best Gay Friend. And he likes to try to culture me.

No Laughing Matter

I headed along to the Laughter Lounge last night in an effort to cure what I can only hope is PMS and not some kind of personality disorder, and also because I got a mail from them a fortnight ago offering me a special deal on tickets for the show. I wasn't in form for it at all (I haven't been in form for anything all week so far) but I figured that a comedy gig could only cheer me up, right? Wrong. I came home in such a bad mood that I gave myself a headache.

Myself and the lady of the house arrived at the door at 7.55 for an 8.30 show only to be told we weren't getting in because we were late. It seems that anyone who booked tickets online got an email advising them of an 8.30 start but the gig was in full swing already. There were 6 people behind us who looked as dismayed as we did but some budgie with a clipboard had a word with the bouncers, told us (in no uncertain terms) to put our coats in the cloakroom and then herded us down the stairs as if we were bold children. There's nothing worse than trooping in late to a stand-up gig, except perhaps when there are 8 of you and there are no seats left. We formed an inconspicuous huddle down the back until the clipboard budgie swooped in again, this time looking positively pissed off. "I'll have to put you in the back" she hissed. "It's being recorded and this looks really bad". She pointed to a curtain and ushered us in behind it to a small room behind the bar where we got to watch the gig on telly. With a time delay.

I was incensed. We decided to leave during the interval and discovered a fine crowd outside who had also turned up for an 8.30 kick-off and been told to fuck off, at least until half time. There were no apologies made, there was no acknowledgement of the mistake made in the email and apart from the lovely girl manning the cloakroom the rest of the staff were rude.

Not a night out I'd recommend.

Rolf Harris na Gaeilge

Tadhg does his best Gil Grissom Impression

I was a lazy wagon in college, as an undergrad at least. I'm paying for it now. I pulled my socks up a little (under duress) when I undertook to do an MA (because I didn't fancy leaving college and having to get a job) but not quite enough to atone for my previous bone-idleness. Now that I'm out in the big bad world and trying to earn a living for myself I've discovered that my brain atrophies at at frightening rate when I'm not studying, so last year I decided to bite off more than I can chew take on a part-time postgrad course. I love it, but as I studiously avoided tutorials for oh, 3 years or more, I'm just about keeping my head above water grammar-wise. So I've decided to get a little help this year in the form of an advanced grammar class. Which is where I was subjected to this:

Amhrán an Ghaeilgeora Mhóir
(Mac Dhonnagáin)

Mura bhfuil an tuiseal ginideach agat
Agus smacht ar do chuid “h”annaí
Níl suim dá laghad agam ionat
Mar is cinnte go mbrisfidh tú mo chroí
Ach más Gaeilgeoir snasta blasta thú
Is má thuigeann tú cúrsaí gramadaí
Tar trasna na páirce móire chugam
Táim anseo i dtóin an tí.

Translated (roughly, and not by me) as:

If you don’t have a good grasp of the genitive case
And your “h”s aren’t in good shape
I have no interest in you
Because you’re sure to break my heart
But if you’re a polished, skilled Irish speaker,
And if you’re well across the grammar
Come across the big field to me,
I’m here in back of the house

As if reading it and underlining the finer points of the grammar wasn't punishment enough, we then had to listen to it. You can do the same yourself if so inclined here. A quote on the website boldly proclaims that "This classic recording from 1988 was greeted with horror by Irish-language purists when first released". I can't say I'm surprised, Irish-language purists have ears just like the rest of us so they were bound to find it offensive.

Would that I hadn't been such a dosser in college the first (or second) time around.

Wispa Saves Monday

My Monday grouch has just been given a nice kick up the hole by a Wispa. I've mentioned before that I don't generally mind Mondays all that much, Tuesdays tend to be more trying. They remind me of small midlands towns; unavoidable drudgery on your way to somewhere much more fun (be your destination The Weekend or Galway) and I for one will breathe a heartfelt sigh of relief once we figure out how to bypass them.

But this particular Monday has been an exception, and for no good reason. I had a great weekend (Garage in the cinema on Friday, which was great, and then a party on Saturday night, which was even better) and my day today's not going badly (dry morning, pleasant walk, not-too-hectic workload, comedy gig later) but I got up feeling that I just couldn't be arsed. The only reason I came into work was because I figured a day spent not cleaning the flat would only put me in even worse humour. I think this morning's low should probably be attributed to Saturday night's boozing; I was in too much of a jocker yesterday even to feel like I had a hangover (I just felt like I had terminal something) so the hangover's having its way with me today instead.

On an optimistic note, I've got my costume sorted for the weekend's Halloween party, and it rocks. Inspired by Manuel's dedication to his craft, I'm going to dress up as a 1950s waitress. I can't rollerskate, so I'm going to just write "pretend these are skates" in biro on my plimsolls (Gingerbeard suggested I stick little paper wheels to the sides of them, but that would look retarded). I have the New Daddy and his wailing charge out shopping for a hat for me and I had my mam put the finishing touches to my dress over the weekend (I love it so much I wore it around the flat yesterday evening, admiring myself in the mirror and trying on lipsticks). Even writing about it has hoisted my ill humour somewhat.

I've left a Wispa sitting on my colleague's keyboard so that it might lift her mood a little, as it did mine. I'm only short of sitting on my hands to stop me snarfing it before she gets back from her meeting.

Sunday Morning in Naas

(following Saturday night in Naas)

Fuck Al Gore. They should have given the Nobel Prize to the makers of Nurofen Plus.

A Peculiar Type of Moron

Apparently a truck milled into one of the railway bridges off Grand Canal St. this morning, so DART and train services have been cancelled for the foreseeable future disrupted. The bridges along the stretch between Grand Canal Dock and Pearse are so low that I automatically duck going underneath them (admittedly I don't need to, but they are claustrophobically low) so what the truck driver was thinking I can only imagine.

And I'd imagine it was something along the lines of "Sure fuck it, it'll be grand".

The newsreader read the story and then continued with undisguised glee to say that the spokesman for Iarnród Éireann was "very angry". He wasn't joking. "The bridges around the Grand Canal Dock area are visibly very low," he spluttered into his soundbite. "It takes a peculiar type of moron not to be aware of that."

Brilliant.

You Don't Bring Me Flowers... Um, Ever?

I met a lovely Polish girl yesterday, sweet little thing, cute as a button. She shares a house with one of my college friends (she of the fajita extravaganza mentioned in the post below). Her boyfriend arrived over with a beautiful bunch of flowers for her and myself and the other visiting food critic turned instantly green with jealousy. "Don't be jealous" our chef reassured us "He only does it because he has to. She shouts at him when he doesn't bring her any."

What???

"Oh yeah. All the time. "I'm the girlfriend! You should buy me flowers!" and things of that sort."

Goodness. I'd never have the balls to demand anything of the sort from a man.

Food, Glorious Food

I've been a very considerate flatmate over the last few weeks. I had some ground to make up for after an impromptu Tuesday night party I hosted without consultation or consent (it turns out that my beloved cohabiters don't appreciate acid house and raucous laughter at 5.30am). Ironing, hoovering and grovelling didn't quite cut it so when the lady of the house decided to try out one of those crazy milkshakes-instead-of-food diets I decided I'd be supportive and lay off the cooking.

I love cooking. And I love eating. I even love shopping for food. I don't, however, love carrying shopping bags home (especially if they're the plastic fuckers that cut like cheese wire through your fingers) so eating cereal for dinner any evening I've been home has been a bit of a holiday. Herself has certainly appreciated the lack of delicious smells wafting from the kitchen(ette) when she comes in in the evenings, though on one particularly low night she joked about licking my empty branflakes bowl. Except that she wasn't joking.

I lost patience with it this evening though. I'd been over to a friend's house for dinner last night and we ate like it was Christmas. Tortillas, fajitas, toffee apples, ice cream... I ate so much that I thought I'd never need to eat again but when I got home this evening I was starving. When she arrived home an hour later I was sitting here looking guilty and the flat stank wonderfully of steak and onions.

I'm pretending for her sake that I didn't enjoy it. But my homemade guacamole was delicious.

The Perfect Sunday Evening

What a fucking RIDE

I'm in my jammies and Top Gear's on telly. I fancy the arse off Jeremy Clarkson. I know it's wrong but I can't help it. He's got Jools Holland on to take their moderately priced car for a spin, and I fancy him too.

Got any mortifying crushes you'd like to get off your chest?

The Seance

I had a lot of reservations about Saturday evening's family gathering (previously referred to -uncharitably- as The Seance) but it was great.

I'm not mad about family gatherings in general. As the eldest child in the family I'm one of the kids and one of the adults at the same time, which sometimes leaves me not quite knowing what to do with myself. My adult self is at ease with them all, confident, but in their company I occasionally catch glimpses of my teenage self and cringe in embarrassed discomfort. I was unhappy for much of my early teens, low self-confidence and self-esteem, both bookish and bullish in an effort to hide it. Most teenagers are the same, I suppose. I wonder how long it takes though before one can look back on those years and not feel those anxieties surface again, or even if that point is ever reached.

Yesterday marked the beginning of something new for us as a family. My father's parents were lost when he was a teenager, the eldest of a family of five. Although we've occasionally talked about it amongst our immediate family we've never all of us remembered them collectively, deliberately. That was what last night was about. We gathered in my uncle's house for takeaway in a scene reminiscent of the Home Alone movies (ever seen 22 hungry monkeys descend on a box full of unlabelled takeaway cartons?) and once everyone was fed and furnished with a drink, the ball started rolling.

Cleverly marketed to the little cousins as a talent competition, they were only bursting to do their party pieces (Irish dancing, guitar playing, stand up comedy, ambushing Rosie in the pitch-dark garden) but my dad was up first. He told us a story. A simple one, of how my grandparents met and fell in love while on a cycling club outing with work colleagues. We know so little about them that to hear the small details of this story told was precious and very affecting. His story was followed by a slideshow of old family photos, a gorgeous family tree poster that we all added our fingerprints to, a reading from Dermot Bolger's Taking My Letters Back and a wealth of memories shared. There was even a singsong, something we've never done and I'd never have expected. That part was pretty horrible, truth be told. I'm allergic to singsongs. None of us knew the words (some enthusiasticator had printed them off, but the elder lemons had all left their glasses at home and couldn't read them anyway) and we're all tone deaf. It deterred no-one. And we had a ball.

So I'm left wondering; when the fuck did we turn into the Waltons?

Sometimes a Good Hair Day is Just That

I need to learn to accept compliments gracefully. Occasionally people say nice things to me and I've realised that it's not polite to make fun of them for it.

"Your hair is lovely today!" should not be answered with "Thanks! I washed it! I didn't brush it though."

"I love your skirt. It's a lovely autumnal colour." should not be answered with "It hides a multitude. Look, I spilled bleach on it the other day and you'd hardly notice."

"You've a Masters? Good on you!" should not be answered with "You'd think that, but I just washed my yoghurt carton and binned my spoon."

I could go on, but you get the picture. I'm off to my room now to practice smiling sweetly and saying "thanks!" in case anyone decides to be nice to me tomorrow.

Earning my Crusts

So, two drunken Tuesdays in a row. It seems I'm back on form! College is back in session so I'm back to behaving like a student instead of a grown-up. (In my defence I did one of those age quizzes earlier and it said I'm only 20. I'd give you the link but I can't find it and I'm too young, irresponsible and lazy to look). This week's boozing was work-related, and a delightful opportunity to introduce my sister to the work that I do. I was pathetically gratified when she confided to me just before bed that she'd hate my job. My job is horribly social and I love it to bits, but it can be hard work. Organising events is fun and rewarding if things go well and people show up but it can be soul-destroying if they don't.* Every party is as stressful as your 21st but you don't get any presents at the end of the night. There's an anxious few drinks while you wait to see if people show and then the relentless schmoozing with people who are not only not your friends, but usually complete strangers.

Admittedly that's one of my favourite things about the job; having a licence (nay, a duty!) to talk to complete strangers. I'm an awful flirt; not as in "oh Rosie! You're just awful!" but as in I'm not very good at it, so work gives me many opportunities to practice. It's exhausting though. My family and flatmates take the absolute piss out of me when I complain about having a hard week in work. Socialising isn't hard work! It fucking well is. I'm shy (stop sniggering down the back) but as hostess I can't afford to be and all that bravado wears you out.

So do the hangovers.

*I'm still the only person I know who's been stood up for speed-dating

Idir Dhá Theanga

Having more than one native language can make for confusing conversations, never more so than when you've had a skinful of wine and it's still bright outside.

"How do you say Ollannach in English? Hollandish?"
"Em, Dutch?"

Crash Grandadicoot

I spent another night with the grandparents last night after himself decided a few hours in St. James' A&E would be a smashing way to spend his (and Nana's) Sunday evening. He slipped on the bathroom floor and banged his head, so it was off for a spin in the ambulance to get checked out. (There was nothing on telly anyway). He was discharged after a couple of hours with a printed list of symptoms to look out for and a mild sense of euphoria but I volunteered to stay overnight just to give Nana peace of mind. We called my mam before heading to bed, and Granda asked to speak to her, winking at me and telling me he was going to "wind her up goodo". He launched into a joke about how he was going to complain to the council about the fierce hard concrete they're using these days but lost track of it about halfway through and started talking bollocks to my bewildered mother. "Listen to him" said Nana, obviously mortified, "if anyone heard him they'd put him in a padded room". She giggled then. "He could fall over all he liked then, I suppose".

I'm going to get him a crash helmet and some kneepads for Christmas.

Normal Service Will Resume Shortly

I don't like to blog when I'm not in good form, I only end up with melodramatic posts like last Thursday's. Nobody likes a whingey bird, and fewer people still like poetry. So I'm going to get my shit together this week, cop on, get out, all that shite, and I'll soon be in flying fettle and wittering wittily about:

• My night out with the boys last Tuesday, which caused me to bypass Wednesday like it was a nasty little midlands town
• My night in with the New Parents on Friday, where I pretended rather uncomfortably to be a grown-up who likes dinner parties
• What a fucking disappointment Superbad was
• My anxieties about an upcoming family gathering that I've taken to calling (uncharitably) The Séance
  
• The origins of the phrase "in your la-las" (an oft-used one in our house, meaning to be in uncharacteristically dire humour (like I have been for the past week)

I'll bet you can't wait.

Still Shockingly and Inexplicably Single

To be dumped on your arse by someone you're not even seeing and you haven't told anyone about is an awful feeling. You've no legitimate cause to be upset and can't go looking for sympathy and ice cream because there was no relationship. But when something's been a pipe dream for a long time (for both parties - I haven't been subpoenaed for stalking or anything) losing it still leaves you gutted, and pretty fuckin' pissed off. I like the way Michael Davitt put it in his poem Poker*

Nach ceait mar atá
Ag deireadh an lá
Tar eis grá
Na gaoithe binbeach

D'imigh sí uait
Is d'fhag sí tú
Gan phunt
Gan tuiseal ginideach

*Apologies for the lack of punctuation, I can't remember how it goes. It was translated to English by Gabriel Fitzmaurice: Isn't it cat, my friend, at the day end, after love like a wind that's venomous, she's left and gone and here I am, flat broke, without a genitive.

I Just Have One of Those Faces

I was walking back to the office this morning after a meeting in town when an elderly gent tapped me on the shoulder and requested my assistance. "It's me legs, you see" he whistled at me through the gaps where his teeth should have been "I've a touch of arthritis in one of them, and it does be very stiff in the mornings, but if I could take your arm and walk a bit of the way with you it'll ease it out". Em, okaay...

So off we set. I was suspicious, to say the least. There were plenty of other people passing where he stopped me and my hurried pace and my massive headphones clearly signalled to the world that I was not in the market for casual conversation. I removed the 'phones in case a natter was all he was after, as I can well understand that. Sometimes folk just want a chat and find that unless they ask, nobody will give them the time of day. No skin off my nose to oblige them if I can. But he was content to walk along arm-in-arm, exchanging just the minimum of pleasantries. I walked with him for some 10 minutes until we had almost reached the canal. He then politely asked if I would take him just a little bit out of my way, down the next street on the right. Sure... I'm a foot taller than him and about 427 years younger, I thought, I'm safe enough. Unless he's old fashioned and uses chloroform.

We hadn't gone far when we reached the door of the Lower Deck pub. "I'll be fine from here, a chroí" he said "They'll look after me. And thank you again for helping me to get this far. You're as kind as you are pretty". And with a wink, he shuffled off inside.

I'm glad he stopped me, and that he thought to flatter me in his gratitude. Would that people were always so considerate.