Gnéas Trí Thine

My fretting has borne fruit - a contract arrived in the post this morning. With a careful reading and a careless signature, I have secured my future here for another year.

Well. I have secured my job here for another year. Tá mí na meala thart. They dithered about keeping me on. I dunno if I want to stay. I grumbled all the way along the Grand Canal yesterday. Dreading the afternoon's performance, for which I was predictably under if not quite un prepared. Tick fucking tock, two o' clock. Sigh.

I stepped out of the grimy limelight at three, whooshed into the wings by a ripple of applause. "Please" I muttered "don't clap, there's no need". Please, I cringed, shut up with the false modesty. There's no need for that either. Martin let loose with a burst whine from the piano accordion and we breathed out in unison. Later, one of the Germans asks me to dance. I'm not quite sure if he means with him or for his amusement. Either way, I'm flattered, and though I don't dance with him, I twostep the short trip home. Sweet.

My eaten cake was long forgotten by the time Red Wine Hangover, Resentment and I arrived in the Axis this morning. I felt awkward as the only adult there without a troupe to marshal, so went about my business as perfunctorily as possible. Despite the bang of teenager in the air, the palpable excitement had piqued my interest. I delayed the taxi and took a seat by the door. I reddened when the eMCee announced my presence like I'm some kind of honoured guest but it was dark, and the students didn't give a fuck. They were there for the show... which kicked off with Sex On Fire as Gaeilge, belted out by five teenagers with a self-confidence I've only seen in Clearasil ads, followed by an a capella I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker (as Gaeilge, natch) which brought more of tear to my eye than Benjamin the little bollix Button.

I Threw The Telly Out The Window, Just For The Heck Of It

"I'm going to smoke tonight!" I declared. Because that's how rock 'n' roll I am after two glasses of wine and the wost Caipirinha ever made. Rock 'n' roll enough for it not to be rock and roll, but still geeky enough to check the correct punctuation before committing it to my blog. Yeah! Nothing incites rebellion like a jug of fouled cachaça and limes.

I didn't smoke, though. I had wine, white Russians and weissbier before I crashed headlong into the Campari but I didn't have so much as one delicious cigarette. The Jaffa Cake's brother was there, you see, and I desperately want him to like me. I've been doing well so far. "It's like kids with Rock Shandy" he said. "I'm getting used to you. You don't make me so hyper any more."

Aw.

And so, anxious to hold on to his approval, I chewed this compliment like a nicotine gum. Bought an Irish Times instead of 20 slims in the late night Centra, had tea and toast in bed instead of a Brian Cowen meal in Burger King.

Perhaps I am rock and roll after all.

I Wish My Name Was Scroobius Pip

I danced all the way in to work yesterday morning, skipping to the beats of The Beat that my Heart Skipped and laughing along with Tommy Cooper. Right up until I hit Thou Shalt Always Kill, and heard the fateful lyric.

Thou shalt not fall in love so easily.
Thou shalt not use poetry, art or music to get into girls’ pants.
Use it to get into their heads.
Thou shalt not watch Hollyoaks.

Fuck.

Drear, If Not Quite Drudge

Sitting upstairs in the Swan Centre, I look dolefully at the plate of disappointment laid out before me. More of a specimen than a spread. The picture had promised so much, but this is what solitary lunches are made of. Rubbery eggs.

The woman sat behind me is trying to coerce her child into conversation, encouraging her hoots. When the awkward little one constructs a clumsy semblance of a sentence, they both repeat it over. And over. Practice. She's a cute kid, I think. I hope her classmates understand.

There's an elderly lady sat opposite. Coat, scarf, hat; she's struggling with a broadsheet. I'd struggle to read the Independent myself. When she finally folds the creases, it's on to a full-page ad for a furniture shop. I can taste her disappointment in my soggy toast.

Two Americans trail up the spiral stairs, marvelling at the clock that nobody else has so much as noticed. I marvel at them; their temerity. Rathmines feels as far from the beaten tourist track as Timbuktu. "It's a funky little mall" says one.

Quite.

Sometimes lunch out isn't the treat I imagine it to be. I shrug on my coat and leave my wrinkle-skinned tea to settle.

Review: The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button

Brad Pitt is Sexy

As moving a treatise on death, loss, loneliness and love as you'll ever see.

Trite, obvious, and unromantic. It's redeeming feature was that it was very long, and I was very tired and fancied a sit down (with sweeties).

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button vs. Forrest Gump says it all, really.

From The Archives #1

I've been rummaging around the knicker drawer of my drafts folder, looking to see how much of it still fits. I'm not sure if this one's grannypants or thong.

I Am Uspet

Because my i-pox has died and I am becoming a chattering shambles without music. Because I have failed one of my college assignments and don't know if I can compensate. Because The Happening was the worst film I have ever seen, and I've seen The Notebook and Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot! Because I don't know if there should be a full stop after that last exclamation mark. And because my brother is upset and I sometimes feel like Elliot to his E.T.
17 Meitheamh 2008

The Apologist

I have the most passive aggressive of bad habits: a penchant for apology. I am constantly sorrying out of me. Would that I wore a cap! I could wring it remorsefully.

It's not that I've an awful lot to atone for. Well, I do, but that's beside the point. I've plenty of cause for contrition that I don't necessarily admit to. Breakages, and the like. Hearts, wind and crockery. But I dole out my sorries like sweeties for the stupidest of reasons. I do it because I want some in return. The slightest of slights sees me falling over myself, fawning over whoever has caused me to smart. It doesn't have to be much. I'm a sensitive soul. I go out on a limb for folk, sometimes all four limbs. Three points of contact? Pah. I'm poised for a fall. An idiot optimist, I am constantly dismayed when people don't always respond in kind. People are kind, I find, just not always thoughtful.

And so I apologise to them. My ego convinces me that I am leading by example, that this is a surefire way to elicit some reciprocal remorse. It's not a tactic that has served me well. I'm an insistent idiot optimist, you see, so inevitably (for peace and pity's sake) my apology will be accepted.

Which is not what I wanted at all.

So passive am I in my apologetic aggression that I work myself into right snots. For one who prides herself on her emotional intelligence, it's a spectacularly stupid habit. I can't even claim to have been clever enough to have self-diagnosed this dickheadery, it was instead pointed out to me by my admirably brave boyfriend.

What a frustrating pleasure, to have met my match in a man who has my measure.

Siúcra Agus Salann

He leaves a trail in his wake. A tie, indecent on the bedroom floor. A toothpick on the bookshelf. Peanut brittle, sucked, stuck like chewing gum to the desk. A scrawled draft of weird, of wonder, on a scrap of paper. Three novels by the bed, all unread, pages marked with cocktail sticks and a clip from my hair. A faint scent on my sheets, a damp toothbrush by the sink, knots in my curls and a bloom in my cheeks.

Too Many Tuesday Mornings

Níor chodail mé go rómhaith arú aréir - i mo dhúiseacht roimh bhreacadh an lae agus cantal orm faoin am gur mhúscail mo leannán. Ní raibh oíche rómhaith aige féin agus bhí sé le mbraistint ina bharróg, corp lán teannais agus é ag déanamh ceann croí liom. Ní fheadar cén bhrionglóidí a bhagair orainn bheirt i rith na hoíche.

Cith breá the leis an ruaig a chur ar an gcolg, ach níor éirigh liom an coimhthíos a ní dom' chraiceann. Thug mé bricfeasta dó, an coimhthíos seo; shuíomar chun bord lena chéile agus bhriseamar cornflakes, mé ag súil le teacht ar chomhréiteach eadrainn.

Shuigh mé liom féin ag an tórramh. Ag seasamh is ag suí leis an slua, lámha i mo phócaí. Níor chur mé mo shíocháin in iúl d'éinne. Beannaithe idir strainséirí.

Chaitheas an tráthnóna ag fútamáil go mífhoighneach. Bhí aiféala orm go dtáinig mé ar ais chun na hoibre ar chor ar bith, b'fhearr i bhfad go mbeadh leithscéal déanta agam. Tinneas cinn, b'fhéidir, breoiteacht an bhróin. Ach coinním orm. Snarkleton mímhúinte, míshásta, míchompordach, mídheas. It's all me, me, me, me, me. Stompleton crosta i mbuataisí buachalla bó. Cuirim cúpla uair díom ar an gcaoi seo roimh go ngreadaim na cosa céanna i dtreo an bhaile, sála á sracadh faoin am a bhainimse Lána na Suiríoch amach.

Cinnim ar dul a luí ag a leath i ndiaidh a naoi. Táim tuirseach, agus tuirseach de. Mo dhóthain agam den droch spin seo. Leagtha amach ar an leaba, buidéal fíona agus litir chumainn. Níl na focail aige, a deir sé.

Ach tá.

Pob Lwc

"Adapt your expectations to what you're capable of producing" said ruddy Ray Mears, his chubby cheeks all aglow with childlike enthusiasm. I nodded sagely.

Fools rush in; I offered to cook dinner. No getting the lay of the land, for me, oh no. I just bumbled straight on in there, full of piss and vinegar, making out like I was the next Nigella. I'm not. She has diddies and flair. I have an overdeveloped sense of curiosity and a monstrous appetite.

The others looked a little surprised when my offer was graciously accepted. My ego and I assumed that this was because not all guests are as wonderfully talented and thoughtful as we. But my ego and I think only of ourselves. Most other guests would be sensitive enough to suss out the lay of the land. Most other guests would be perceptive enough to realise that a man who keeps special pans for special purposes - say, roasting horse chestnuts and grilling asparagus - is king of his kitchen. Most other guests would offer to wash dishes, or the king's feet. They would not paw at his crown.

Too late, I realised my mistake.The village squirmed with a sing-song of hushed, incredulous whispers. Bruce is letting you in his kitchen? Nothing quells the queasies like an afternoon supping prosecco with the folk above on the hill. Nothing impairs judgement and ability like an early evening spent chasing that prosecco with red wine and improvised white russians in the local pub. Now, you'll have to make do with whatever they have in the shop, Mary had warned. No problem, I thought. It'll be like an episode of Ready, Steady, Cook! The shop owner sat with us for a pint in the pub, and I explained my predicament. "What are you going to cook?" he asked. "I don't know," I said, "what have you got?" "Red onions" he said. "I have some lovely red onions".

Ray Mears also gave some good advice on how to trap squirrels and fight bears. Not strictly necessary for a weekend in Dolwyddelan, but it would do you no harm to know.

Patent Pending

I bit the top off my Cadbury's Caramel egg. With a determined tongue, I delved deep and removed most of the filling. Most, but not all. Then, using a small spoon, I carefully filled the shell with tea. Waited for a melting moment, then drank deep.

It's been that kind of day.

Fall Into Those Single File Lines

Not A Sea Monkey

The BGF, unable to contain his excitement any longer, blurted it out. I got you an ant farm for Christmas! I fairly jiggled with excitement myself. I don't really know what ant farm is (though I doubt very much that it's what I picture in my head) but he so rarely uses exclamation marks that I reckon it must be pretty fucking exciting. I have decided not to google it, to preserve the element of surprise.

He got sea monkeys for my sister (though he called them something else that I can't remember, spell or pronounce) and I looked them up - they certainly don't look anything like I had imagined. Rather disappointing. I don't know what he's gotten for my brother (last year it was a volcano) but I'm gunning for something furred.

He had mentioned something about posting the second part of my present, cause for even greater excitement. I love getting things in the post. Was I getting an ant farm and a surprise? Yes and no. It turns out they post the live ants to you. Mam's going to be chuffed. What do they eat? we wondered. Lettuce, hopefully. Each other, more likely. And people (if those ants in my Choose Your Own Adventure books were anything to go by). Then he mentioned the note of caution on the website he'd ordered from. Do not order ants from different colonies for your ant farm as they may go to war.

Let the games begin.

I found the photo above on Found Shit, aptly enough. I also found this shit there.
My Day = Made.

Review: Slumdog Millionaire

The Three Musketeers

You know the bit in the Usual Suspects where Sgt. Rabin sees Verbal's tall tale tacked to his office wall? It's a little like that.

Unfettered By Complex Sweets

High heels and handbags as big as their hair, they smell like mothballs and sweet perfume. I smell like milk. Perfectly straight teeth and sculpted noses, the only wobble is in their walk.

Their nails, though, were chewed and chipped. Their veneer betrayed by dark polish and scraggy quicks.

When I was their age, I was still being mistaken for a boy. Girl or boy? a waiter asked once, as I sat quietly at the table with my family. Three words to devastate a teenage girl's self confidence. He laughed and shrugged - it's so hard to tell, these days. There is no danger of these girls ever suffering similar slight. They'd be indignant in the face of such indignity. They wouldn't feel ashamed.

I watched them tottle off the bus, trailing their scent and chatter, and I felt a pang for the teenage me. I remembered how I cut my own hair because I didn't have the confidence or the vocabulary to ask the hairdresser for layers. I lied about it and hid the curls under eaves in the attic; hairy little tell-tale hearts. I feigned disinterest in makeup because I didn't know how to put it on, I dressed in shapeless, lumpen clothes to hide what I thought was a shapeless, lumpen carriage. I tiptoed apologetically through my early teens (gaeilgeoirí turn teenage two years earlier, at aon bhliain déag d'aois) a self-critical and self-conscious child. Thankfully never a diarist, as anxious words on paper were made flesh - you think I'm maudlin and self-indulgent at 27? Imagine me at 12.

This was supposed to be a post about Riker but (as usual) my selfish nostalgia has gotten the better of me. I was planning to write about her confident poise as she lounged in the armchair in front of Zoey 101, dissecting the characters' love lives for me with a disdain beyond her almost 10 years. About her dancing a hula for me at the dinnertable, all excited chatter and clumsy waggles, with the innocent confidence that every almost 10 year old should have. I felt no envy for the polished girls on the 84 bus, but this kid had me breaking out in sighs.

Riker has her chronicler; Gimme will doubtless give a minute by minute account of his daughter's bloom. My dad doesn't blog, so I'll chronicle my own blooming. And push the young apologist in me out to play. It's about time she made some friends.

Review: Dean Spanley

A sweet, dry film about reincarnation and redemption, stoicism and spaniels. I cried with Horatio Fisk, in sympathy and empathy for all that we had lost.

I did it quietly, though. The BGF hates when I pull that shit.

Grand Canal Dock

They've replaced the seats. I used to like the high benches; I'd perch and swing my feet. These shiny new seats have long backs and rounded bums, with armrests like elbows delineating personal space. I was never sure how many bums the benches were made for. I suppose they were made for four, but I'd mind the gap, wary in case someone thought I was soliciting snuggles.

I think how forlorn I must look, with my little borrowed backpack and my red coat, when the DART pulls into the station. I feel a little forlorn this morning, a little left behind. I am the only one on the platform. The driver acknowledges as much with a nod of his head.

Turns out, I'm the only one on the train. When the tinny tannoy voice announces the stops, she does it just for me.

Dublin is quiet today. The sky is a beautiful pinkish grey, a shade it seems to reserve for early morning. It jars at this time of day. I wonder if it is the absence of life on her streets that lends the city her hue - a matter of mood, not meridian. It's a lovely thought, if a lonely one.

After Three Days In The Valley

I sat up in the bed, a eureka moment. "I've just realised that Ann and Annie have the same name!"

I fear that my bubbling idiocy may well be frothing over.

10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2! 1!

You know that bit in mass where the priest says "Let us offer one another a sign of peace"? I hate that bit. I spend every massy minute up to it consumed by dread. The awkward handshakes. The awkwardier hugs. I always seem to offer my sign of peace to the wrong people at the wrong time; I'm left with my hand outstretched, waiting for my turn. Feeling diminished, and a little ashamed, I turn puce.

I don't know why. I'm affectionate. I like handshakes. I love hugs.

Last night I stood wobbly-lipped in the Jaffa Cake's kitchen, trying to explain to him why I hate New Year's Eve. It's because it's just like that handshakey bit at mass, only with kisses and a countdown. It makes me want to hide behind the couch. It's a difficult point to make without sounding like a mentler, especially when you're the sort who gets uppity about Wicklonians not even saying hello to you when they pass you on the beach.

So I sat there with my cheeks reddening in dire anticipation. Acutely aware of their rougeness, of the rash creeping across my collarbone. Hideous in my irrational emotional discomfort. My icy hands betrayed me; I pleaded tiredness to excuse my heat-radiating face. When his sister checked the time to make sure that we wouldn't miss the countdown, I bit back my blind panic. When I couldn't (wouldn't? Or just plain didn't?) get up from the couch as the clock struck midnight, she hugged me warmly and wished me a Happy New Year.

I hugged her in return, and I meant it. Fading to pale, I retired to bed, grateful for the generosity and patience she (and he) affords me.