An Important Lesson Learned On A Wet Wednesday

Don't pick your nose if you've been chopping chillis.

Of Course It's A Test

When you've a seat to yourself on the bus, do you sit by the aisle or the window?

Soshall Netwroking

I have managed to hold fast against FaceBook. Why? Well, what everybody else said. My morbid curiosity would relish a rummage around the lives of the lovelies I've littered in my wake, but common sense reminds me that my life is short, too fucking short. My time would be (and is) better spent in the company of the 'cquaintances I've kept.

Twitter, though.

While FaceBook is all ugly photographs, pervy pokes and jacks wall scribbles, the twaddle on Twitter reads like other people's text messages. It's dirty. I'm afraid to sign up lest I submit to committing my every thought to the internets and eschewing real life altogether. I'm funnier on paper than in person, you see, as I suspect most who keep a blog are. I fancy myself as quite the brevitous wit and have no self control whatsoever - Twitter would allow me to fuel my illusions of an illustrious self, ruining me for real life company. And we can't have that.

Of course, I hate to be left out. So I did as I do with any shiny thing I find online - tried jamming it into my feed reader, like so many slices of buttery toast into a beleaguered VCR. It worked. I can creep voyeuristically through twits' days without befriending them at all. Follow me on Twitter! Fuck off.

Instead, I'll stalk them through the undergrowth.

I Am A Heinous Bitch

So, Andrew wants to know why I don't like blogrolls. I left a comment over at his saying as much,after he tipped his hat at Darragh Doyle's AA style open invite to bloggers to state their name and occupations. Andrew has promised to buy me a Toblerone, so for the moment Andrew gets what Andrew wants. I have a terrible weakness for airport confectionery.

Oftentimes I think that I am not a very good blogger. I've broken a cardinal rule in doing away with my blogroll, after an unsatisfactory attempt to make an honest list of it. I think of those links in terms of endorsements; I read this and I think it's super so you should read it too. But mine inevitably became political and I found myself linking to blogs out of a misplaced sense of obligation, or gratitude, or confused cynicism. Linking to some that I thought would make me look clever. Leaving out others, my guilty pleasures - the blogroll equivalent of a Dido album. I stuffed a couple of the widely-read blogs in there in the hope I might earn a link back. I commented on posts elsewhere just because they would guarantee me a mess of curious traffic. I felt sullied when so few of those who strayed stayed.

So I am trying to be a bit truer to mine own self with my blog, at the expense of staying true to the accepted (if not quite set in stone) principles of blogging. I try to keep external links to a minimum - my blog is not Wikifuckingpedia and you all know how to use your googlemachines. You're well able to look shit up, it would be patronising of me to spoonfeed you with definitions. I try to keep from unnecessarily referencing my own posts; I find it unbecoming. I will not link to other blogs just to draw traffic; if I link it will be out of deference to the author for something they have said, done or written. I will not keep a blogroll because I cannot trust myself to maintain one; I am too concerned with trying not to offend people with my sins of omission, and I am too concerned with my image to keep anything there that I think might show me in a poor light. That's the ugly truth of it - it is a heady mess of manners and ego that has me reluctant to play the game.

I'm the same with dancing. Rhythmically dyslexic, I feeling like a big, uncoordinated, unsexy lump on the dancefloor. But play the right song and I own the motherfucker.

So I think of my Rosie Loves button in the sidebar as my choice choons. I thought about sharing the feeds I subscribe to, but that would be filling the floor with a party mix rather than playing something I think you'd like to dance to. There are blogs in my reader where the content is so inconsistent that I have subscribed and unsubscribed to them umpteen times - I'm not sure if this indicates the patience of Job or ADHD on my part. Rather than test your patience too, I'll link to posts I like. There are other blogs in my reader that I don't care for at all but I feel I should at least skim their surfaces once in a while; whether I like it or not, the Irish blogosphere is a small place and it pays to have some idea of what the neighbours are up to (feed readers make for excellent net curtains). I keep a folder named "Not Dead, Just Sleeping" which I have littered with abandoned blogs. I have an orgy of sex blogs (good, bad and ugly) that I read for research purposes. *cough* I think you're better off for me not sharing all of these with you in the sidebar.

My understanding of blogging's communities, civilities and courtesies is growing. And while I think of myself neither as a bitter cunt or a belligerent contrarian, I didn't like Darragh's post because for me, blogging is not about the readers. I don't like that people feel the need to advertise their blogs, to shout for attention. I went through an unhealthy phase of thinking my blog was valid only if (lots of) people read it, if they commented, if they loved it (for "it" read "me"). I spent more time poring over Statcounter than I did writing posts and I lost sight of why I wanted to keep a blog in the first place. I am happy enough to make some aspects of this blogosphere's etiquette my own, and disregard the rest.

Because that is what I do.

The Unwelcoming Committee

We had a visitor from Japan chez nous this weekend in the flat (perhaps I should refer to it as an aportment? It is in Dublin 2...) I was headed to the wilds of Kildare for a couple of days so being a generous but absentee hostess I picked up all of the dirty knickers off my bedroom floor and made it habitable for him. I was due back on Monday night and was warned that he'd be staying then too, but that the Swede was off to Sweden on Monday morning so he'd be fending for himself. "Don't worry!" I trilled, "I'll mind him!"

My hoop. After a weekend spent studying and trying not to murder the nextdoor neighbour's child, I was in no mood to entertain. The Swede had made more than mention of our guest's not speaking any English - which translated to my ears as "he will be hard work, very hard work". Fuck him, I'd had enough hard work for one weekend. Sometimes I truly am an arsehole, and a selfish and lazy one at that. So I timed my arrival back to the flat with when I knew he'd be out with the German, just in time to watch Lost and then scuttle off to bed. The Leitrim Lady had the same plan and my brother tagged along for the craic, so by the time the German arrived home with our guest we three were lost in Lost and they were made to feel as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit.

Grunts and nods without tearing our eyes from the screen, an absentminded shuffle over on the couch so that he might sit and enjoy the spectacle with us, staccato bursts of conversation during ad breaks and then mumbled reassurance that we'll talk to him in approximately 50 minutes when the programme had finished. Which we did, to be fair; we gave him a plot synopsis so that he might enjoy our further discussion of the episode's events and their relevance to previous episodes. The German made him (and us) some tea and we chatted for a bit, which was when we copped that actually the guy had fluent English and was pretty fucking sound. He was wrecked though so once the German had left, he excused himself and headed off to bed.

"Shite" we mused, "he was nice. We should have made an effort." His name was Naoki but in my study-addled idiocy I got Nokia stuck in my head instead, I had already forgotten it by the time we guiltily returned to the telly and our tired grouches, which was when he arrived back in with his camera to ask if he could get a photo with the three of us. Mortified, we put a shape on ourselves and said cheese. He headed off to bed happy and we sat there feeling like the miserable cunts that we are.

Dear John

Is there an etiquette when it comes to responding to Dear Jane* letters? Or emails, rather, in this modern world we live in. "Hello" in the subject line of an email never bodes well; it heralds (a) unsolicited and misspelled shite from concerned strangers about the size of my penis (is it just me? All of my gmail spam relates to penis enlargement) (b) a bollocking from a flatmate about a recent misdemeanour or (c) a Dear Jane. I knew what was coming but my morbid curiosity would not allow me to delete it, unread. Almost immediately I began to hammer out a response but I checked myself before sending it. I find rejection embarrassing enough without exacerbating it with an ill-considered and hasty reply. And that got me thinking: How should one respond in such circumstances?

One could ignore it, and maintain a dignified silence. My garrulousness generally does not allow for such things.

One could rally back with a stream of invective; berating the Dear Jane's author for choosing an email over a call, for leaving it for too long before sending the email in the first place, for not having the energy or imagination to pursue something more.

One could be cheery and nonchalant; thanks, but I didn't care too much anyway.

Or one could be honest, disappointed, and a little relieved.

In the end I replied with the words I had rattled off upon reading the email. It's the only way I know how.

*The source of all knowledge informs me that In more recent times, women have come to be subjected to such impersonal break-up letters as well. These are refered (sic) to as "Dear Jane" letters.

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.

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.

No-Fun Friday

Myself and the BGF went to see Atonement on Friday night. I'm not one for crying over films but I had to take a minute to compose myself before leaving to wipe the tears from my face and the snots in my sleeve. The BGF sniggered, he's not used to seeing me come undone. I don't think I'd have been as upset had I not read the book; I still remember the kick in the teeth I felt when I reached the final chapter and realised that she'd accidentally married her brother and that the man she thought was her father was really her aunt I shouldn't spoil the plot for anyone who may not have read it. Anyone who's read McEwan will know not to expect a happy ending, but though I've read the book twice the film's finale still felt like an emotional betrayal.

I went to the bathroom on the way out of the cinema to let the conspicuously dry-eyed crowd disperse so that I could leave with some dignity, and I got rightly pinkied. There I was, still snuffling and wincing at my red eyes in the mirror when the lady next to me smiled and said "Rosie! I thought it was you!" Em... who the fuck are you? It took me a moment to realise that she was a mature student who'd been in my class in college. "Guess who I'm hear with?" My brain did a shuffle, came up with the worst-case-scenario. Right on cue, there was an excited squeal and a flush from one of the toilet cubicles. Out she bounced, full of the joys. "Wow! Look at you! I'm thrilled, someone who looks as horrible and sweaty as I do after that cinema!"

I didn't. By any stretch of the imagination.

Being caught unawares and teary-eyed by someone who had relentlessly sucked the self-confidence out of me when we were in college together the last thing I needed. Honestly, I'd rather have been caught with my knickers down. So I smiled, tight-lipped, made my polite excuses, and left.

Did I fuck. Eejit.

I reddened, tripped into her recently vacated cubicle, tried to wee soundlessly and then forced myself to go out again, where they were waiting for me. "It's great to see you" I heard myself say. "Let's go for a cup of tea!". Shithead. We trooped outside to meet the waiting BGF, who noted the look of barely contained panic on my face and made a hasty exit. For the next hour I sat there swapping stories and being polite, wishing I was anywhere but there. They're both lovely people, don't get me wrong. The confidence-destroying comments are a manifestation of the blonde's own inadequacy complex, there's no malice in them, but the way she identifies herself with me (when I see us as polar opposites) horrifies me.

Meeting people like that (nice people, genuine people, people who really were delighted to have run into me) should be a pleasant experience and should leave me with a warm fuzzy feeling going home. Instead I felt lonely and mean.

Umbrella Etiquette

Carrying an umbrella does not make you invisible. Stop picking your nose. And eating it.

Got a golf umbrella? About to walk under some hoarding that the builders have kindly erected to keep you from being run over? Take the umbrella down. You won't fit. Trust me, I've seen some other retard do it every day this week.

Carrying an umbrella that's just a bouquet of broken wires and torn canvas will not keep you dry. It will, however, take someone's eye out at the traffic lights.


Allow for the fact that your umbrella means you occupy at least twice the space you normally do on the footpath. Move the fuck over, and don't knock me into the canal.

Share. Don't just let your umbrella dribble onto the poor umbrellaless unfortunate keeping pace with you.

Tilt your brolly to one side when you're passing someone on a narrow path, or -better still- have some fucking manners and step aside. Don't hide your face behind it and plough on remorselessly. Chances are, they're doing the same.

If the rain should ease off, follow Sherri's instruction.

And finally: Do tilt your brolly back and give a big beaming smile to someone if you like the look of them from the brolly down. It'll cost you nothing and it'll brighten up their shitty wet morning. Especially if you're a handsome suit, and the someone is me. (Cheers, mister!)