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.

Beart Gan Leigheas...

...Foighne Is Fearr Dó.

Pisces

Are you expecting major transformations to happen overnight? It's time to face the fact that it's going to take longer than you thought. Whether you are looking for changes in yourself or in someone else, you have to be more patient and realistic about how quickly things can happen. Let things unfold the way they will, and the results will be better.

What bollocks. Patience is most certainly not one of my virtues and I generally feel like punching anyone who reminds me of the fact on the nose (but to do so would both hurt my knuckles and prove their point). Vegan ascetic Aurelius Clemens Prudentius laid down a list of seven Heavenly Virtues to oppose Pope Gregory The Great's seven deadlies and I am moderately pleased to see that I excel at Liberality and Kindness and am at least at improver's level when it comes to Diligence and Humility, though I'll admit I have some way to go towards Chastity and Temperance.

But Patience...

*sigh*

I have tried to cultivate it, to grow some, as it were. But gardening holds no appeal for me; it takes too fucking long. I did once sow a very successful vegetable patch, but managed it only because I wasn't living there at the time (it was in my parents' garden) so I forgot about it from one month's end to the next. Had I been home to gawk at it every evening I'd likely have kicked my infant pumpkins in impatient annoyance. There are few hobbies that I find so incomprehensibly frustrating - I find it bizarre that folk take such pleasure and comfort in something where you have so little control over the end result .

As a child I would press flowers from our garden, anxious to turn them into beautiful, paper-thin works of art. I was so very anxious to turn them into beautiful, paper-thin works of art that I would check them on a daily basis, which meant that I ended up with a mangled and sticky mess breeding mold in the pages of my books instead. As an adult I have found one or two which were spared my attentions, forgotten under a pile of encyclopedias. They are exquisite, and a vivid illustration of the adage that good things come to those who wait.

I fucking hate waiting to see how things will pan out.

Rí Rá Agus Ruaille Buaille

I rolled over this morning in a desperate search for the cool side of the pillow and found my hangover snuggling up in the bed beside me, waggling his eyebrows and poking me in that soft spot under my ribs. Fuck off, hangover. I'm feeding him apple & beetroot juice (which he loves) and other people's blogs (but only the ones that tickle him; Saturday mornings are no place for seriousness). He'll eventually start whining for breakfast and I'll have to rouse myself and scrub him from my skin with a shower set to "boil wash", because I was in RíRá's last night.

Yesterday was a game of two halves - I spent a pleasant day playing tourist in the Boyne Valley, trying to be sweet, charming and knowledgeable ("well, I do have a degree in archaeology...") but really just prattling at my indulgent audience of one. I wore myself out with all my bullshit and teeth-gnashing every time a guide said "celtic" but a quick nap on the bus home saw me right. My efforts to impress him further saw me whipping up some vegetarian pasta (because I too can be indulgent) but my mad kitchen skillz were slightly hampered by half a bottle of wine, and I set the place on fire. Luckily the Leitrim Lady was paying more attention than I and spotted the melting chopping board which I had placed firmly on the scalding hot hob. She left me this morning to go travel the world until October so if any of you would like to come babysit, I could probably do with being watched.

Having fed my charge with everything green in the fridge (including the Heineken) we tipped off down to Neary's to meet the Jock, the SWF and other assorted odd-balls and end-offs. Neary's has an upstairs, did you know that? A lounge, with tables, chairs, toilets and service. It puts one rightly in the mood for the weekend. On to RíRá then to see The Glitch Mob, but in true Rosie style I was out by a week on the dates, so we got a couch in the corner and hit the Jaegerbombs instead. The barmaid was less than impressed with my bombing technique; it seems that dropping the shot glass into the larger one before you've poured the Red Bull in just smashes the glass all over the bar. I had a second go, just to make sure. She was even less than less than impressed. There was less than impressedness all round when my playdate stood me up for more illustrious company - he eventually showed after they'd shut the doors and then sneakily disarmed me with sincere flattery after I'd snuck him in past the affable bouncer. Cheek. The end of the night saw some Brazilian dude playing the spoons on the bar to a rapt audience in the Globe, and the Jock and I trying to charm our way into the Odessa Club. No dice, and I can't say I blame them; my argument as to why the doorman should propose me as a member was not entirely convincing, and the Jock's insistent "but what time do you serve until?" betrayed our true intentions. Defeated, I headed home to the Leitrim Lady and a drunken Swede ("may I say, your eyelashes are lovely"). She woke me for a hug at 6am before she left, and I woke again at 10am with a vague recollection of it and a warm, fuzzy head.

Knick Knack Paddywhack

I rolled out of bed this morning, dressed myself from head to toe in mismatched shades of green, high-hoed it to Carrolls' Irish Gift Shop to purchase some of those flattering shorts with the fake arse cheeks hanging out the back (póg mo thóin scrawled across them in homage to the Oirish language) had some chugger paint shamrocks on my cheeks and forehead, climbed onto the roof of a phonebox down at College Green, heckled the Americans below as they jostled for a vantage point from which to view the parade and then hightailed it to a packed Temple Bar pub to spill Guinness, sing offensive rebel songs and drink til I fancied Burger King.

Oh no, wait...

I got up, met my brother, strolled into town to marvel at the efforts that everyone else had gone to to celebrate our national holiday and then headed to Da Pino's for a pizza (the remains of which are reheating in the oven as I type - aubergines, broccoli, pepperoni, chillies, sweet peppers and cheese). The weather was beautiful so we walked then from Dame St. out to Ringsend, following the Liffey and taking a few photographs along the way, talking through some of the things that have been going on for us over the last couple of weeks. They've been a difficult few weeks.

Back to my flat then for tea and a DVD (28 Weeks Later - terrifying, brilliant) and then another stroll, this time to Parnell St via George's Dock, where we picked up the Hurler and headed to the cinema to see Be Kind, Rewind (which was very charming, Mos Def more than making up for the annoyance that is Jack Black). We walked home again via Scruffy Murphys, where the lads had a Guinness each and I had an orange juice. I'm bursting with virtue and pizza now, and am going straight to bed before my halo slips.

Cathair na dTreabh

I'm just back from a chaotic weekend in Galway. Any weekend I spend in Galway seems to end in chaos; bananas, hilarious, dirty, giddy chaos. I had planned on crawling to the 12 pubs of Christmas and made it to 4. I had booked a bed in a hostel but forgot to check in, decided to stay with a friend instead and ended up checking into a hotel at 4am. I'm absolutely shattered. I'm smiling from ear to ear though.

The Art Of Conversation

Another quiet weekend for me, still trying to get assignments out of the way. I got my drinking out of the way midweek and have instead spent my Saturday going goggle-eyed over grammar and repenting Thursday night's shitetalk at my leisure. Man, I come out with some dorky and downright embarrassing drivel when I'm jarred. Prattling on about how I count my shoes when I need to curb my spending (current count: 28 pairs, and 9 pairs of boots. Not including wellies. Or any of the ones I've left in my parents' house). Confessing to being a secret redhead (which, incidentally, does not mean that I dye my hair). Admitting that the new skirt I was wearing was unflatteringly short and that I hadn't noticed til I got to the venue and sat down, and that I'd only bought it because the lady in the shoe shop the other day had told me I have nice legs (see why I have 9 pairs of boots? I'm a sucker for salesfolk). I just don't know when to shut up.

I don't do it with everyone, just those who already know and love me (and are duty bound to listen to me). Gingerbeard and the New Daddy got the brunt of it the other night (and I do mean the brunt of it; I was stressed out before the gig in case people didn't show and once the place had filled up, I kinda let loose...) but they're both still talking to me.

I hope.

For AJ, Because He's Nosy*

So yeah, Friday night. A mate of mine from college had called me the week before, he was to go to someone's 30th in Naas on the Friday and wanted me to come along. Always happy to oblige a friend by crashing a stranger's birthday party, I packed a bag and high-hoed to my country abode to reprise my role as the hostess with the mostess.

I decided that a few scoops might be in order before crashing the party so I roped my brother, the Hurler and the Bogman into coming for a few pints with me, knowing that if I got enough Smithwicks into them they'd be all on for coming to the shitey nightclub. Vital to my plan, you see, because had I gone with just the college mate he'd have made me dance, and nobody wants to see that. So, plied with Smithwicks and oiled with Smirnoff we headed up to the town's answer to purgatory; The Naas Court Hotel.

The college mate boogied his white Gaeltacht socks off while us cynical locals hung out by the door, keeping as much distance between us and the dancefloor and as little distance between us and both the bar and the emergency exit as possible. 3am came and it was time to go home to Abrakebabra and then begin the long walk home, arms outstretched in case a taxi might pass. We made it home, the college mate and I, him swinging two bags of Abra's finest cuisine and me brandishing the front door key triumphantly like it was some sort of prize. The brother was hot on our heels and only fucking delighted to be presented with a quarter pounder and garlic cheese fries (being a connoisseur of drunkards cuisine, he'd invented a snack the previous week; Ham Lollipops. Sesame seed grissoni - breadsticks to you and me - wrapped in sliced ham. Patent pending...). Belly full, he tottled off to bed and I set about making up a bed for the college mate on the snazzy fold-out couch, but I got sidetracked. It's true we've had the occasional sneaky smooch over the years, but not in a long time and I don't think either of us have been even remotely tempted for a long time. So I felt a bit funny about it the next day. Not excited, but not disappointed either. No regrets, just um. I haven't done that in a while.

*Joking, AJ, joking. I was planning to spill anyway but I've been busy til now.

Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night

It's rained all day. My housemates are out. I'm home, sober, having spent the day studying. It's times like these I'd love someone to curl up to and stay in with.

It's unlikely he's hiding behind the couch though.

Dilemma

I was walking into work this morning, fuzzy headed with sleep, apple cheeked with cold and smiley faced with David Holmes on my headphones when I saw That One* across the road. I spent the rest of the walk anxiously pacing myself, keeping a distance between us and determinedly looking nonchalantly the other way lest he should catch sight of me.

Now that I've been at my desk for a few hours, calm and as normal as I get, I'm itching to text him. I haven't seen him in over a year and haven't spoken to him since last Christmas. Just a friendly text to say hiya, saw you this morning, hope you're well...

I know that I shouldn't.

*When it comes to failed (or indeed non-) relationships, there's always one. One who makes you act like a crazy bitch for no good reason. He's That One. Not devilishly handsome, not fiendishly clever, a bit of a lily-livered shite, truth be told. But still there's something.

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.