Reader's Choice #1

A Time Before I Was Old

for B, the cheeky little Longford bollix

Looking back, I am mature enough to recognise that my greatest success during my teenage years was not the 8 As and 2 Bs I got in my Junior Certificate examinations, but the acquisition and retention of a boyfriend.

I was not an early bloomer by any means, so it was quite the unexpected coup when I managed to land myself a fella at 15 and hold on to him for two and a half years. It remains my record, which is something I am both disappointed by and embarrassed about at my now tender age of 27 (I know that I shouldn't be, and that makes it worse).

Our romance began as most do - with a little cack-handed help from a friend. One of his mates told me that he wanted to meet* me around behind the school, so I broke away from the herd and went to wait for him - I had to go first, because he was more popular than I, and couldn't be seen to wait on me (yes, even then I was the submissive). But I was thrilled. Thrilled that anyone liked me, but more particularly him because he was popular, and when you're 15 that's pretty much all that matters. He eventually sauntered around the corner and without so much as a how's-yer-father proceeded to wear the face off me for about 45 minutes straight. It was crap; messily uncomfortable and magnificently exciting. He asked me to "go out with him" about a week later (it was all very formal back in the day) and I became, for the first time, a girlfriend. We broke up after two years, but got back together again for a miserable six months during which I tried desperately to please him, and failed. He had noticed that there was greenish grass on yonder hills and fancied a roll in it, and nothing comes between a sexually confident teenage boy and his egotistical imaginings. I remember the agony of the aftermath, the crushing defeat. I cried for the longest time, sure that my heart was broken beyond repair. I didn't sleep or eat for, oh, two days. I ached physically with gut-wrenching sorrow. I wanted to die, and everything was in italics. SOMETIMES EVEN IN CAPS AND ITALICS.

Such melodrama is mortifying to remember. I was as tempestuous in my love as I was in my loss, and for the longest time I couldn't even think of him (or more specifically of me with him) without wincing. But now that I am contemplatively meandering through my twenties I have come to realise how much that relationship has given me. I was happy through the toughest times of my teens, happy and secure. I felt attractive, confident and occasionally even loved. Sure, I got a knock, but I've managed to carry that self-assurance into my relationships and though my love life may be an unmitigated disaster for the most part, my friendships endure. He was a bit of a gonk, but I have to give him some credit for who I've become.

Because she's not that bad.

*it was Clondalkinite for "shift" back in 1996.

Dangerous Minds

Like most if not all arts graduates, I had an absolute shit attack once I left college. I wasn't qualified to do anything in particular and I had no idea what I'd like to do, so I blundered head-first into teaching. Well, elbow first. I tried a stint as a corporate whore and it didn't really take, so in the spirit of altruism and service to the community I accepted a temporary post in my old alma mater. A nice school with excellent staff, where I would be paid a gazillion euro an hour to babysit teenagers. What could go wrong?

Mid afternoon on day one I had my first class with 6th year foundation level English. 9 boys who already looked like big strong men, and who were fully convinced that they were big strong men. Most had repeated a year during some stage of their academic careers, I'm sure some of them had learning difficulties and I'm very fucking sure that most of them had behavioural problems. We spent a difficult 40 minutes together, but I won.

Day two found them in fine fettle, almost personable in their efforts to impress the new teacher. We were still at the honeymoon getting-to-know-you stage, so I was happy to indulge them in amiable chat. I mooted the idea that we might do some work on day three and asked them what they'd covered in class the previous year, intending on doing some revision. But oh no. English class had been cancelled last year.

I should have known better than to ask, I suppose. They spent 40 minutes telling tales of the three unfortunates who had acted as substitute teachers the previous year. The first of them refused to teach them after flicking paper balls at her had enraged her to breaking point, whereupon one of them threw a metal pencil case at her and hit her in the face. A replacement was brought in, a stern disciplinarian. She had two of them suspended for sexual harassment after they repeatedly complained about being unable to study due to (their) erect nipples - the classroom was freezing because they'd smashed the window with the duster. How this might constitute sexual harassment was beyond them, as they hadn't so much as mentioned her nipples. I stifled a giggle under an immaculately stern poker face, and quietly nodded when they asked me if I'd like to know what happened to the third teacher. I should have said no, but I really did want to know. Turns out they'd started flicking paper balls at him too. Lighted ones. I believe them, because they showed me a video clip. Not to intimidate, but to impress.

I dreaded my classes with them. They took a serious shine to me though and soon proclaimed me their favourite teacher, getting more than a little upset that I wasn't planning on speaking for them at the parent-teacher meetings. We spent most days watching Strictly Ballroom (it's on the curriculum) where they pushed the tables back and waltzed one another around the room, while the guy with ADD coloured the blackboard in from corner to corner with chalk (cleaning it off before the bell went, out of consideration for me). We had tears one day when one of them regaled me with a tale of an injured pigeon he'd filled with bangers and blown to feathers, thinking I would be impressed by his ingenuity when it came to putting the creature out of its misery. I was not, and this upset him. Two of them asked me to be their date for the debutante ball and threatened to batter the shite out of each other in a row over which one had asked me first. I politely declined both. But we got along. I told my friends at home about them and I got voicemail messages with Coolio's Gangster's Paradise playing in the background. Because my friends are very, very funny.

Then one day I arrived in to find them sitting at their desks, with poetry textbooks. I had left them in the care of another young substitute teacher the previous day, as I had an interview for a lecturing job. They had decided on an early lunch, she had refused to let them leave and had threatened to call the principal. So they backed her into a corner and tried to grope her breasts.

I could never be a teacher.

In The Company Of Men

I went for dinner in Kitty's with two schoolfriends last night and over the pleasantly bloody steaks we got to talking about age. Turns out that the eldest of us thought he was a year younger than he is (cue a fleeting look of dismay), the second guy pretends to be a year older than he is because then people aren't so surprised at him being married and bald (he's 27 - I think both the acquisition of a wife and the loss of his hair suit him immensely) and that I pretend to be two years younger than I am, because then people tell me I've "plenty of time yet!" rather than sucking their teeth when I say I'm 27 and telling me that I'd want to get a move on.

Childhood Trauma #73

Davey's helpful comment yesterday that "learning is for sissies" got me thinking generally about sissydom and what a complete and utter sissy I was as a kid. I'm still a bit of a sissy these days, but now I think it suits me. Back then it didn't, but I was such a fucking sissy that I hadn't a clue what to do about it. Then I read Felix's #5 this morning and the true extent of my sissyness as a kid washed over me again in a wave.

There is incident from 1988 that haunts me yet, a public humiliation from my time in rang a haon with Múinteoir Ciara where the memory of the burning in my cheeks is still so vivid that I have to lay a hand to my face to check that I'm not blushing again. It was the year of our first Holy Communion, that rite of passage that signified, well, I'm not too sure on the whole Catholic side of things but it was significant for me in that I bought a set of swings for the garden with my communion money. Before we could get stuck into a bit of Holy Jesus, however, there was the ritual of the First Confession.

The process was explained to us in detail, the priest introduced, we were reassured that our confessions would be heard on the altar rather than in the confessional boxes lest the claustrophobic amongst us have a shit attack on the big day. We then had a quickfire Q&A as a prelude to the practice confession we were going to make to our teacher. Which is when it all went horribly wrong. My friend Martha put her hand up, the picture of genuine, worried sincerity, and asked what would happen if you hadn't got anything to tell the priest, because, she reasoned, "Rosie doesn't have any sins!"

Cue silence while the 32 eight year olds and their teacher ponder this hitherto unforeseen snag caused by the innocence of the class Goody-Poxy-Two-Shoes. That's right, I thought miserably, as the lot of them stared at me and my already red cheeks turned puce. I don't. I'm 8. I could make one up, but that would be a lie, and a sin on the altar.

I went home that day mortified at having been singled out from the crowd because of my virtue. I gave my brother a thump, muttered a bad word under my breath at my mam and thought about dipping her purse for tenpence (a step too far - but thinking about it was a good start). I resolved once and for all to rid myself of the nickname the class clown had bestowed upon me - "The Walking Talking Statue".

I've been moderately successful.

Stupid MEME

Fucking Terence broke my record of no MEMEs on the blog and tagged me with one the other day. I'm the girl who can't say no, so I'll humour him on the condition that he (a) doesn't do it again and (b) removes the word verification from his blog as promised because it drives me mental. Oh, and maybe (c) too - that he buys me a pint should I ever happen to be in Cavan again.

So... The rules. Link to the idiot that tagged you (see above). Post 7 random facts about yourself and then lumber 7 other poor shites with the same MEME by naming them and leaving a comment on each of their blogs. I won't be doing that because I don't want to nominate some grumpyhole who'll verbally abuse me like I did poor Terence. A new game though - I'd like you, dear readers, to add to my list of 7 by posting in the comments any other random facts about me that you know to be true (should you be fortunate enough to know me in the flesh) or that you suspect to be true, if all you have to go on is the blog. The most accurate will win a prize (yet to be decided but it will be an actual prize, I promise you).

1. The first CD I ever bought was The Spin Doctors' Pocket Full Of Kryptonite, which I bought in a little record shop in Chester. I still love it. The first album I ever bought with my own money was Nirvana's In Utero, on tape. A bit of a departure for me - I was mainly into Neil Diamond at the time.
2. When I was 25 I had a fling with a man 9 years older than me, and then another with a man who was 7 years younger. I regretted both but for very different reasons.
3. I vomit instantly if I drink shots, though in my teens I was very very good at it.
4. I write a sex column.
5. My first kiss was with my first boyfriend, and wasn't until I was 15 years old. We ended up together for 2 1/2 years, and I think that first kiss lasted for about 2 1/2 days.
6. I suspect I have dyscalculia (numerical dyslexia). Apparently that's just Irish for "shit at maths".
7. The first concert I ever went to was Chris de Burgh. On the same night, my brother had his very first Big Mac (as compensation for being too young to go to the gig). Only one of those love affairs has stood the test of time.

So, is there anything else you think I might like the world to know about me?

The Answer To All Of My Prayers?

There is much talk these days of how difficult it is to meet someone - romantically speaking - in this, the modern era. Indeed I have done a lot of such shitetalking myself after a few drinks. It is hard (I'm still single) and though theoretically teh internehts makes even dating easy, it hasn't done much for me, I tell you. The 'net may be changing the game elsewhere but online dating still has quite a stigma attached to it in Ireland. The accepted method for acquiring a future life partner here is to (a) meet them through a friend (an excellent option as this can often mean that they come with a recommendation and/or a returns policy) or (b) to take your chances in the last chance saloon of the pub and hope that the complete stranger you've brought home will not look like the Elephant Man/your boss/his sister once you take your beer goggles off. Online dating is (somewhat bizarrely, when you consider the risks associated with option (b) above) thought to be unsafe; dating websites are presumed to be populated by psychopathically lonely losers and blind dates are considered a form of social suicide. So what are modern Irish singletons who have run out of patience with these paltry options to do? Why - return to those hallowed times! When men were men and women wore shoulder-pads. When love was a slow-dance, all left feet and hard-ons. To quote Mr. Calvin Harris, it was acceptable in the eightees.

I was shuffling and shuftying along through the city this morning when I noticed a new horror nested on the corner of Nassau St. and Kildare St. The unattractive sign outside promises pessimistically safe times: No Drugs, No Drunks, No Problems. But for the singleton who's tired of flailing around pathetically to dance tunes, trying in vain to impress the object of their tequila-fulled affections with pop-n-lock(ed) robot dancing, the sign also offers a glimmer of hope. For the club is GR80s (geddit?) and their USP* is their slow sets.

I nearly puked. I cannot imagine anything worse than revisiting the slow set horrors of my teenage years (which were in the 90s, incidentally, but we were a little behind the times. Besides, GR90s just doesn't have the same zing! to it). The way the dancefloor cleared as soon as the first bars of a Mariah Carey/Whitney Houston/Bryan Fucking Adams song kicked in, except for one drunken lunatic who'd been dancing alone and had simply not noticed. The way the floor gradually filled with groping couples, usually comprised of your friends and boys they knew you fancied. The way the drunken lunatic would ricochet off them until he was eventually expelled from the floor, at which point he'd lurch in your direction, go straight for your tits and then try to ask you to dance but be unable to pronounce "want", "to" or "dance". The way your sober, well-meaning and well-mannered but unattractive friend would step in to save you - resulting in an awkward once-around-the-floor where you try to hold him at arms' length to avoid his erection before feigning thirst and/or incontinence and rushing off to the bar and/or bathroom. It took me years of hard work and costly drugs to repair the damage that school discos and nightclub slow sets did to my teenage self-confidence. I suspect that one night in GR80s would see all of my efforts undone. I shall be avoiding that one like the plague.

*Unique Selling Point - apparently it's a dating thing?

You Know When You've Been Tangoed

Being naturally pasty of face, I've often looked wistfully at sallow-skinned lovelies and wished for a more Mediterranean complexion. Only twice have I succumbed to the lure of fake tan; most recently about 3 years ago when I was heading for a week to Barcelona. I had learned (through experience) how people there would stare openly at me for being almost translucently pale, so I reckoned a tan might help me to avoid unwanted leering on the metro. I decided to go pro -no streaky home application for me- and went to the beautician to get a spray tan. They don't warn you how humiliating it is, to have to stand wearing nothing but a paper thong while you're power hosed in cold sticky paint. Nor do they warn you that you can't wear underwear until it dries, so you'll need to go commando back to your respectable desk job, knickerless and with nipples that could cut glass visible through your blouse (my bras are -unfortunately- more for insulation than support). Above all, they don't warn you about the smell. I'd noticed it before, on people's clothes and in nightclubs, vaguely unpleasant but nothing I could clearly identify. Like old, wet socks.

They did warn me that it would darken over time and not to panic, to have a shower the following morning and it would be fine. I did, and it was. For a day. Subsequent showers saw the tan peeling off me in strips which meant that I attracted that unwanted attention on the metro anyway, but this time people were moving away and wondering if the peeling skin and the musty smell were symptoms of something catching. Still, at least it came off, albeit in patches. The first time I experimented with fake tan, I wasn't quite so fortunate.

In primary school, our Sports day was always a major event. Not because of any interest in sport but because you got to wear something other than your uniform. School uniforms are a great leveller; pretty girls look plain, plain girls look plain too, risible fashion decisions are avoided. So the opportunity to distinguish yourself on Sports Day was eagerly anticipated. Or fucking dreaded, if you were me, and paranoid about your pasty legs.

A friend of my mother's used to mind my brother and I for a bit after school, and the week before the Big Day I was in her bathroom, idly rifling through her cupboards looking for interesting things to pocket (I was at that klepto stage that all 10 year olds go through) when I found a bottle labelled "False Tan". That'll do! Up the jumper it went.

The following Thursday night I slathered it over my legs in the bathroom at home, paying particular attention to my knees. Off to bed I went, secure in the knowledge that I'd have sexy pins for the egg and spoon race the following day. Imagine my dismay upon waking up to see that my legs looked like they'd been smeared with treacle, and that my knees were a peculiar shade of scutter brown, as were the palms of my hands. Efforts to hide the damage (and the smell) from my mother failed, as shorts were mandatory and gloves were not. I'll talk to you about this when you get home. Fuck.

I spent the bus journey to school with my sleeves pulled over my mahogany palms and my mahogany palms covering my scutter coloured knees, panicking about how I'd hide them once I got to school and how my mam would punish me if I ever made it home. In the end the best I could come up with was to take a fall, literally, and graze the shit out of both hands and knees in the hope that the grass, gravel and blood would provide passable camouflage. The idea was genius. I staged a tumble off the bus and duly flayed myself, which got me out of having to do any sports, covered up my silky tan and scored me some sympathy with mam when I got home.

I call these tales to mind as a caution to myself. I saw a photo today of me standing beside a friend in the pub. She's standard Essex-girl orange, and I am see-through. I caught myself thinking hey, a little bronzer might do no harm...