The Media Show

Check out my place of employment. The Media Show did a piece on the role of Graphic Design in Marketing and came to Dcoy (my office) for a visit. The license tender that the segment is discussing precedes me but hey, if you can tolerate all the market-speak, you can see my office and co-workers and yours truly pretending to discuss big-important matters with the sound turned off. ;)

A little Slice of Sweden

IMG_6112
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

Tommy boy and I took a lil trip to Stockholm last weekend and all you get are these stupid photographs... ;)

It wasn't actually as cold as it looks, the temperature hovered around freezing but god love us, it was dry the entire time and unlike Ireland, the buildings were all lovely and warm inside. With hats and gloves and scarves, we were more than happy to spend most of the days outside wandering Stockholm's archipelego...

Sweden may be kinda cold and a bit dark but what a happy place. Gorgeous food, gorgeous architecture, gorgeous interior design, gorgeous people, gorgeous parks, gorgeous waterways and lots of happy healthy looking children running around looking red-cheeked and well, happy. Kind of like the world of the stepford wives if they had better taste (and weren't robots...)

We stayed in a sweet hotel with (of course) super-modern ultra-hipster swedish interior design, lots of Marimeko style textiles, light coloured wood and clean minimalist lines not to mention, big windows, modern art installations and a breakfast to knock you on your ass. I ate homemade waffles with cream and jam, softboiled eggs, Swedish bread, Swedish cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, pickles and a mug of cafe au lait every morning (no, not on the same plate!) kinda like a gourmet version of the college dining hall. Thank god I don't have access to that kind of grub everyday or I would be the size of a house...haha.

Tommy and I walked the city from top to bottom everyday, highlights included touring a 17th century Swedish warship that was perfectly preserved, walking the medieval city (gamla stan) with it's narrow laneways and beautiful squares (very similar to the look of Cadiz in Spain or the old town in Nice, France...) and eating chocolate cake and beer in the middle of the day while looking over the most beautiful view of several of Stockholms major islands.

We started our days visiting our fancy-pants hotel gym and ended them kicking it in the fancy-pants hotel sauna. There were several delicious meals had with equally delicious (and expensive-yikes) bottles of wine. There was much fish to be had and much of it to be had raw. (Had amazing sushi and kick ass tuna carpacio.) There was shopping in ridiculously tasteful "malls" and neighborhoods and there was coffee in a hipster dive of a coffee-shop on a Sunday morning. All Good stuff.

If I could speak Swedish, I might have to relocate... although I just might miss the toothless bartenders and dive bars and dirty streets of Dublin too much. ;)

The Hell of a Thousand Sports

My ex-boyfriend's father used to call my girlfriends and I, "The Hell of a Thousand Mouths" when we got together... but this my friends is something altogether more horrendous and sinister: "The Hell of a Thousand Sports." It's what happens when 2 premiership "football" matches, 1 Six Nations Rugby game, and The Superbowl all happen on the same day. I'm lucky to be here I tell ya.

I managed to avoid active spectatorship of the Manchester United and Celtic games (although I was forced to listen to a bit of Glasgow Celtic on the radio.) I watched the Rugby with Tom and Family in Belfast which was mostly more painful for the players than it was for me since I was comfortably ensconsed on the couch in Tom's parents house and able to periodically doze off when I got bored. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for The Superbowl. My first mistake was going out at all when I already had the beginnings of a cold and two previous nights of partying under my belt. My second mistake was letting Tommy boy talk me into wearing my seriously high-heeled boots out of the house. We started out at a bar on one side of the city centre and after realising that we couldn't reasonably be expected to listen to the faux-American DJ guy marketing various sponsors, we split across town to another bar that we thought *wrongly* would be less crowded and less of a wank-fest.

By the time we arrived at Bar No. 2, my feet were falling off me and the place was absolutely packed. We soon realised that this was because all the Rugby and Soccer fans had been sitting in the place all day long. The first soccer game kicked off at around noon and we arrived at around 11pm so you can imagine the messiness and chaos that ensued. we had to wade into a corner to try and get a square of space near a TV and were surrounded by a charming mix of Extremely Drunk Irish Rugby fans singing and yelling "Chug, Chug, Chug" at the top of their lungs while spilling pints on anyone in the general vicinity and Rowdy Testosterone filled Yanks yelling "U-S-A, U-S-A" and jockeying for any kind of TV Space while messily eating 1 euro Hot Dogs. To add insult to injury, there was a hard-core meat-market vibe to the place and I can't count the number of $hitfaced guys who decided to grace me with their presence by asking inane questions and spilling beer on my shoes. Oh, the joy.

Who would've thought that the Superbowl could actually be worse outside of states. Football + Rugby + Soccer + Drunks + Crowds + Uncomfortable Shoes - Guacamole and comfortable seating arrangements and chicken wings = Hell.

I'm only just recovering now and it's Wednesday. If I see a football I might curl up in the fetal position and start rocking back and forth and drooling.

From Malaysia to Me(h)ico...

What's the connection you ask? Well, for those of you who might not commit every exciting blog entry I post to your eternal memory, let me remind you... I was at a wedding last summer in Belfast when one of the guests asked me if I was Malaysian...

And now, faithful readers, my seemingly ellusive ethnic identity is causing Irish people from Dublin to Belfast a surprising amount of confusion...

So. I found myself in the foyer of a large Irish bank, setting up with a local photographer. We were faced with the fun task of shooting the board of directors for an annual report that I'm in the midst of designing. (with a camera!) The execs were late (of course) and my job as "art director" (!) was pretty much sorted so the photographer and I were just chatting away waiting for a bunch o' middle aged peeps with expensive clothes and bad teeth to show their lovely faces for the camera. American politics and culture came up (as it does) as well as Irish immigration (and my place in it.) The photographer asked me about my Irish ethnic background (or lack there of). "You don't have any Irish background, sure ya don't?" and then the hillariousnesss, "You're Mexican right?" I thought he was joking and had a laugh only to realise that he was completely serious... Amazing. I'm kinda loving this exotic new background I've got... It's as if they've never seen anyone with brown hair and eyes... I'm a Mexican-Malaysian-Italian-American mutt... haha.

Oh, and Irish of course. I found myself at Finnbarr's G.A.A. Club in Cabra last night (at some guys 40th birthday party) where I met a guy with the most amazing (!) tatoo I have ever, ever seen! ;) He had quite a beer belly and around the belly button was written in orange, white and green in a celticy-cartoony font, "Made in" (curving above the navel) "Ireland" (curving below the navel.) When he found out I live in Dublin, he was like, "Ah, yer half Irish then," before asking me to dance with him to the a cappella version of "Living on a Prayer" being belted out by a guy with a Tina Turner wig who was part of a two man "cover band" with a propensity for Tiffany and Abba covers. God, if only I had a camera.

Cheers, from the land of Mexican-Malaysian foreigners mingling with girls in gold, spandex dresses hanging out with guys with bad tatoos eating cocktail sausages and pints of cider in North Dublin on a Saturday night. Viva la difference!

The Pursuit of Happiness

January pretty much sucks doesn't it? Christmas and the holiday mad-rush, drinking like a fish and eating like an elephant days are over but it's still dark and cold and here in Ireland, there's not a bank holiday in sight until April.

Maybe because I'm sitting here listening to "Breathe Me," by Sia (that song that's played at the end of Six Feet Under when Claire is driving cross country and everybody dies... ;) ) or maybe it's because Tommy's away in Manchester and I have the house to myself, but I'm feeling so very January today... Introspective and slightly moody and thinking about where I've come from and where I'm going and all that.

Life is so quiet these days. I get up, I go to work. My job no longer gives me a heart-attack the way that freelancing in different offices all the time did. I chat with the co-workers, eat some toast, drink some tea, do some design... I bike home, turn on the heat, cook up some dinner, watch a little channel four wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, perhaps a fire in the fireplace, read a little bit of whatever I happen to be into at the moment, turn on the 'lectric blanket and hit the hay. It's so lovely and comfortable in some ways, but it's also so repetitive and boring as well and the Januaryness of it all just sends me into myself... It's like no matter how old I get, there is still an angsty teenage girl inside me, walking around smalltown America in combat boots, listening to her walkman, all heart and no head, and wondering, "Where is my life going to take me?"

I moved halfway across the world to see if I could make it work and Damn, it actually works. I have created a life for myself that is what you could call successful, happy, fun, all kinds of good things but as is the way, life is life wherever you choose to live it. You still have to get up and go to work and do the laundry and pay the bills. I wonder if we're all just a bunch of junkies in a way... looking for the next emotional fix. If things get too tumultuous than of course, we look for the rock but it seems to me that the reverse is just as true. When things get too quiet, too routine, too mundane, we're not as greatful as we probably should be for the lull, we're off looking for the next challenge, the next adventure, the next heartbreak. We're all a little bit addicted to the drama... or maybe that's just me. ;) Perhaps, I just need a vacation but I suspect that it's in my nature to walk around the streets of my own mind like a teenager with a walkman, to feel things both good and bad in a pretty intense way. Maybe that's the blessing of January... the yearly question to the self, "Where is my life taking me now?" ...and do I actually want to go there?

I hope that all of your Januarys are full of warm cups of tea and long naps and cuddles (and maybe some good Indian take-away and a DVD)...it's another year coming for us all bringing who knows what, for better or for worse and all the rest of it. The ride's beginning again... I suppose the trick is making sure to enjoy it.

Dreams of the forgotten child

I woke up this morning from the strangest dream. I dreamt I was babysitting three kids, two older boys about 3 and 5 and a baby girl of maybe about a year... In the dream, I had sort of had these kids thrust upon me as they were the children of a friend of my parents and my mom had voluneered me for the job. My mom and the three kids drove me into the art college (don't ask me which one) and I jumped out and went inside. She met me inside with the two boys but we both totally and completely forgot about the baby. About an hour later, I suddenly realized, Omigod, the baby is still in the car! I told my mother who seemed less concerned and stopped to chat with a friend on the way back to the car. In the dream, I was running, running, through the underground carpark trying to get back to the car and thinking that I had probably killed my parents friends baby. Everything started to go in slow-motion and then I woke up before I could make it to the car.

Since I'm on my holidays at the moment and didn't have to get up, I promptly fell back asleep and continued the dream. The baby wasn't dead but its parents were due back bery soon when I realized that I had completely forgotten to feed or change the kids diapers. When I gave her a bit of food, she absolutely devoured it. Then the kids parents came back and my mom felt the need to come clean about leaving the kid in the car. I was like, "No, don't tell them, what they don't know won't hurt them.." but she insisted so I pointed out that it was really her fault because she had taken the kids out of the car.

Then the parents took all the kids. (They didn't seem so upset about the car incident) and they left and went and got on a plane. The plane then crashed right into the art college and we all had to run and hide so as not to get hit by bits of exploding plane...

Is this a sign that I'm not ready to procreate????!!!! Maybe you shouldn't let me babysit your kids...haha....

For those of us who don't believe or don't know what to believe...

Poetry is religion for heathens... This poem came (once again) in an email from my lovely mother... author unknown.

Lute Music

The Earth will be going on a long time
Before it finally freezes;
Men will be on it; they will take names,
Give their deeds reasons.
We will be here only
As chemical constituents—
A small franchise indeed.
Right now we have lives,
Corpuscles, Ambitions, Caresses,
Like everybody had once—

Here at the year's end, at the feast
Of birth, let us bring to each other
The gifts brought once west through deserts—
The precious metal of our mingled hair,
The frankincense of enraptured arms and legs,
The myrrh of desperate, invincible kisses—
Let us celebrate the daily
Recurrent nativity of love,
The endless epiphany of our fluent selves,
While the earth rolls away under us
Into unknown snows and summers,
Into the untraveled spaces of the stars.

New uses for Old toys

A strange phenomenon is afoot in the bathroom (loo, jacks, toilet or whatever else you want to call it.) Possibly this 'technology' is sweeping the world but it's so bizarre and ingenious that I kind of doubt anyone else has thought of it yet. The bathrooms of Dublin have turned into a teenage girls bedroom circa 1972 and blacklights have been installed in most of the toilets in pubs and club around the city. These blacklights are not replacing the main overhead lights but have been installed inside each toilet stall blocking out all natural or incandescent light as soon as you close the door. This has the strange effect of making you feel as if you've just landed in your own disco box or as if you should light up a spliff and pull out your Jimmy Hendrix posters. This blacklight trend is popping up all over town and I'm starting to be surprised when I go into a public toilet and the lights aren't there. Why blacklights you might ask? Has the Dublin City Council been watching 'Dazed and Confused' one too many times? Are lava lamps the next natural step? This is where the strange genius comes in (and the sinister side of Dublin comes out.) Apparently, black lights are junkie repellent. Maybe the death of the blacklight was due to all the hippies moving on to hard drugs as it is impossible to find a vein under blacklights. Who figured this out, I don't know, probably some ex-junkie turned city-beaurocrat who used to hang out at psychedelic parties in the 70's... but whoever's selling these bad boys is making a fortune, the junkies are going to have to retire to the alleys and the rest of us are forced to see all the day-glo lint and green freckles on our bodies while squatting over the pub jacks. Unfortunately blacklights seem to block out those wet pee spots on the toilet seat as well. mmmm....

One Great Big Sigh of Relief.

Units of Alcohol: 0, Slices of Pizza: 6, Cups of Tea: 25, Radio Executives: 5, Circus photographs: 180 (edited down from 600), Hours of Overtime: 29.5.

I apologise once again for my blogging neglect but really and truly, I have a good excuse. After I organised a radio station circus (with a little help from an actual circus and one kick ass project manager ;) ) and got over 600 photographs, the hard work of actually putting together the related document kicked in. In case you're all lost, I was working on a licence tender document for a radio station which is basically a request to set up shop in a particular region. There's only one licence on offer at a time and the various radio entities all vie for it trying to out do the other contenders by producing a more amazing tender request.) Since the content for this document only showed up on Monday, it was literally, a circus in my office all week long culminating in a 20 hour work day on Friday that didn't wind down until half three in the morning followed by a 10 hour Saturday in the office getting all the artwork ready for print and designified. There was much stress, a bit of drama (as is the way when yer office is full of execs who have more money than God and know it). There were a few laughs, a few scares, one cartwheel (I was overtired, you can't blame me.) There was extreme overtiredness and tea and bicuits at three am when we finally got sign off on the content and lastly but definitely not leastly, there was 14 hours spent in my bed catching up on sleep last night followed by one extremely long and extremely hot shower.

Now that this baddie is out the door and gone to print, I feel like I've just been released from a passionate (yet destructive) love affair ;), a whirlwind romance where we met under auspicious circumstances, we flirted, there was that first kiss, the first fight, there were promises made and promises broken, there were tears, there were triumphs and at the end of the day, we parted, how could it be any other way?! and yet we left the closest of friends... And now. I'm a new woman and god, there's just so much time to not have to think about pagination and colour balance and the negative vs. the positive merits of clown imagery on the marketing intentions of the brand... haha. I'm free. Now I can officially turn my energy towards an upcoming holiday that for me, here, doesn't actually exist. Despite that unalterable fact which means that I will be at work next Thursday like every other ex-pat, I am organising a little 'Giving for the Thankless this Saturday which will involve lots of cooking and cooking of large, meaty birds. Since I've always had my Gourmet parents to turn to for large holiday feasts and I am for all intents and purposes a semi-vegetarian, I have never in my life attempted to cook a turkey... all I know is that you stick it in the oven and baste it sometimes... Well, it can't be harder than putting together a 400 page licence tender document can it?

Bank Holiday Lovelies

Everyone loves a three day weekend (except my liver who looks forward with trepidation and back with horror...)

Work has been crazy busy lately (although I HAD to go to the circus last week to do RESEARCH so I can't really complain...even though it was technically a 16 hour day.) Three days of sleeping, drinking, eating, and other loveliness was well deserved. The party actually started on Thurs. night when one pint turned into last call with a couple of co-workers. The next day included a leaving do for another co-worker and therefore, bottles of wine needed to be drank (?) with lunch. Trying to go back to work and be productive after that was ridiculous, I tell ya.

I went to a "fancy dress party" friday night which is Ireland's strange and oddly innapropriate name for a costume party. (I guess if they called it a costume party everyone would show up with their suntan lotion and their bathing "costumes.") As it was pretty last minute, I just grabbed all my goth gear (fishnets, black clothes, leather bracelets, etc...) and had a friend pickup some white face paint and vampire teeth. Can't say I was very original but at least I wasn't lame and totally uncostumed like soooommmmmeeee people (Tom included.) There was lots of dancing and ghost lollipops and cool costumes to be had (and my liver got a much needed break if you don't count the bottles of wine we all drank with our tasty thai dinner pre-party.) Funny how no matter where you are there is always that one guy at a party who is ridiculously shitfaced, with or without really bad B.O. (with in this case) who runs around talking too loudly and trying to either start shit or vomit in your boots. This time, the guy was also one of those close dancers and the bang off him (as they say here) was worse than three day old feet. He was also strangely obssessed with talking about the 'ra and he wasn't from the North. Maybe that was supposed to be his costume, "disgruntled IRA man." He kept walking by people and saying Up the 'Ra and Tiocfaidh Ar La. (Note: Pronunciation of that bizarre looking alphabet vomit is "Chuckie - are - la," and is a nationalist slogan meaning, "Our day will come." Next time you find yerself hanging with a bunch of Northies talking about Chuckies, you can tell your own personal kneecapping story and they'll all think yer the coolest thing since sliced bread. ;) ) Anyway, other than wierd, smelly, drunk, political-rambling guy, it was a good night out and followed by that most necessary of a good, long, lie-in.

Had a couple people over fer dinner on Saturday night and Sunday was back at it with Tommy as we went to see the Scratch Perverts (Hip-hop / scratch DJs.) They didn't actually go on till 1am making me feel very old as I was already yawning by the time they showed up on stage. Had to drink multiple red-bulls (which I generally hate, btw) to stay awake. More dancing and minimal drinking was had and other than a few hundred smelly men in one smallish room, it was good times. We left round quarter to 3 and given that it was a bank holiday Sunday combined with Halloween, the streets were absolutely mental. It was like Dublin's 3am version of Times Square at rush hour. Hundreds of people everywhere in every state of "fancy dress" and every state of drunken debaucherousness. Temple bar is gross at the best of times at 3am on a weekend but this time, superman and his sexy nurse were the ones puking on their shoes. The excess of a drunken Dublin weekend is truly something to behold. It's filthy (read: dodge the growing pool of piss on the sidewalk coming from drunko in the corner; dodge the pile of puke and unidentifiable chunks of someone's stomach.) It's rowdy: ("You lookin' at me?") And yet, it's festive somehow. It picks you up and carries you along with all the allure of a train wreck. You just have to have one more look at the stumbling girl with a skirt so short that you can see her belly button. You have to see if that guy really is going to blow his hand off with that sparkler. It's like one big, dirty, drunken carnival... Watch yer step, like.

For a change of scenery, I woke up "early" this morning after staying out till 4am and went to meet up with a couple of people to watch another friend run the Dublin Marathon... From complete debachery to complete self-denial in a few hours. The Dublin of 11am is a far cry from the Dublin of 3am. I watched serious athletes looking like death warmed over as they crossed the 26 mile mark... and then I went home and took a nap.

Well, back to the grind tomorrow. If any of you plan to be in the Dublin area next Friday and want free tickets to the circus (so I can run around getting photos of ya...) give a holler. ;) If only I could beam you all over... Till then, Be good, be happy, and don't run any marathons or puke in any gutters.

I know why you really read this...

Don't worry, I'd have to live her for 30 years before I would run out of new Irish slang for the blog. I'll take a break from discussing the meaning of life to bring you more of what you really want... Working in an office is an endless source of new slang... I practically have enough to write a book so here's a few of my new favorites:

Nosebag: Heard this one the other day while eating lunch with the co-workers and no, it doesn't have anything to do with white powder or American Psycho. One of the co's leaned over to the other and asked him, "Good nosebag?" In the great tradition of animal feed...I guess, she was asking him if his food was nice.

On the batter: There are so many ways to describe being on the piss in this place, it's truly amazing. Not sure where this one comes from unless it's a reference to the battering your head takes after a night of hard drinking.

A cuppa / A Rosie / Scald: In the words of Death Cab for Cutie, they're all, "different names for the same thing," that most important and ubiquitous drink, tea. Everyone in my office drinks at least three cups a day (and some as many as seven) so it's no surprise that there should be so many monikers for it. Several times a day I'm asked, "Anyone for a cuppa?" The less used cup of Rosie is one of those cockney rhyming things...A cup of Rosie Lee / Tea. I have absolutely no clue who she is and so far no one in the office does either...It's a mystery. A cup of scald is my favorite...so rough and ready and given how many times I burn the shite out of my mouth everyday, it's well apt.

Hummin: This one came up when we were trying to brainstorm a campaign for a bank at work and I found out that someone who's humming isn't necessarily singing in the rain. Said hummer is in fact just a smelly b*stard. Can be applied equally well to people or things... "That bathroom is hummin' since you've been in there." Quite a good one I think, especially for things that smell so bad, they're practically vibrating. I can think of a few people who fit the description but I suppose I won't name and shame you, ya smelly feckers.

Well, the list goes on but my lunch break doesn't so the rest will have to wait. Happy Tuesday, hope yer all enjoying yer nosebag and a cuppa.

The Grim Reaper at the Door

I don't mean to be morbid but I've been thinking a lot lately about mortality. I found out yesterday that my English Professor from Hampshire College recently died at the age of 40 from Leukemia leaving behind a wife and children and a life only half lived. Looking through the Hampshire memorial section, I found three women ex-hampshire grads who all died last September in freak traffic accidents within 5 days of eachother. All we're young, recent grads, 21 or 22 years old and apparently well loved (although not known by me). I'm currently waiting for news on another person, a family friend to find out the extent of the Cancer eating into him (and the Dr's seem to be stringing him along - but that's another story all together.) Heard an anecdote at work the other day about a woman from Donegal, 32 years old, who felt ill a few weeks ago and died of Leukemia within a few days, again leaving small children behind.

We try to fool ourselves. I suppose we have to in order to function. We have to tell ourselves it won't happen to us. But who's to say. I sometimes wake up in the morning and think, today could be the last day of my life and I just don't know it yet. I was reading the blog of a friend this morning who was talking about the nature of fear and how sleeping outside in the pitch dark with nature's sounds all around made her think about the rise of religion and superstition and all the rest of it. We need to think that we're not alone in the dark. We need to think that our teddybear nightlight is powered by more than just electricity and that our mother will protect us from anything that might be lurking under the bed.

It would be so much easier to believe in a god in the sky, to really believe in that old lady phrase, "It was just her time," to be able to look up and think that there is a master plan, a method to the madness but I can't help thinking, when I lie in bed at night that shit just happens, randomly and for no good reason. Children are left without parents, Parents are left without children, grave injustices are perpetuated all over the world by the hands of other humans or the hands of fate or just plain bad luck.

My question is this, How do you live with this knowledge? How do you go about the mundane details of your day knowing how fragile and precious your life really is? How do you let the people you love walk out the door, knowing the world is out there for better or worse? I've always been a sensitive, ruminating type person but I can't possibly be the only person who thinks about these things and millions of people get out of bed every morning without a god to hold their hand, myself included. For those of us who don't prescribe to a religion with a big pappa in the clouds, who live without that teddy bear nightlight, where do you find your meaning, comfort and solace? How do you make sense of the monsters under the bed who are so much worse than you ever thought they were as a child?

A Softer, Silkier Rain with half the fat and twice the fibre?

I should credit the following poem but to be honest, I'm not sure who wrote it. It came to me from my most fabulous mother who still manages to be the hippest 60something I know.

Hard Rain

After I heard It's a Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall
played softly by an accordion quartet
through the ceiling speakers at the Springdale Shopping Mall,
I understood there's nothing
we can't pluck the stinger from,

nothing we can't turn into a soft drink flavor or a t-shirt.
Even serenity can become something horrible
if you make a commercial about it
using smiling, white-haired people

quoting Thoreau to sell retirement homes
in the Everglades, where the swamp has been
drained and bulldozed into a nineteen-hole golf course
with electrified alligator barriers.

You can't keep beating yourself up, Billy
I heard the therapist say on television
to the teenage murderer,
About all those people you killed—
You just have to be the best person you can be,

one day at a time—

and everybody in the audience claps and weeps a little,
because the level of deep feeling has been touched,
and they want to believe that
the power of Forgiveness is greater
than the power of Consequence, or History.

Dear Abby:
My father is a businessman who travels.
Each time he returns from one of his trips,
his shoes and trousers
are covered with blood-
but he never forgets to bring me a nice present;
Should I say something?
Signed, America.

I used to think I was not part of this,
that I could mind my own business and get along,

but that was just another song
that had been taught to me since birth—

whose words I was humming under my breath,
as I was walking through the Springdale Mall.



Too bad I spent my day creating posters for a building society so that it can more effectively peddle its personal loans to entrepreneurs and suckers alike... "I'm only a pawn in their game..."

How Now Brown Cow

Okay so I did have a tan (a fairly dark one) and I did ask a question about Malaysia, but still...

I was at a wedding, less than 24 hours after landing in Ireland from Boston, I found myself in Belfast at said wedding schmoozing with people I sort of knew and plenty of people that I knew not at all. Tom's cousin had been showing off his Malaysian made suit earlier in the evening and pointing out how finely crafted it was. I saw another guy who had a similar looking suit (and a similar looking face - probably a brother or cousin of the Malaysian suit wearer) and I asked him if he also had his suits made in Malaysia...His wife (I think) looked at me in response and asked if I was Malaysian... Huh. I've been mistaken for many ethnicities...Spanish, Jewish, French but never in my whole life has anyone looked at me and thought, small Asian Island chain... To make matters even stranger, I was asked earlier in the evening by another wedding guest if I was from Belfast. An easy mistake, you might say, except this woman had heard me speaking more than a few sentences and unless she was asking me if I was from Belfast, ME, I really don't know how my Yank accent could have been missed...

So now I'm not sure if I'm exotic, ethnicity unknown in the eyes of the Irish or one of the locals...talk about Identity crisis. Tom's granny refers to me as the dark one (when she remembers me at all) but I think this is meant as a compliment or at least a simple descriptor to help her failing memory. How strange and somewhat wonderful to be exotic...except when I'm not... I think I better go research my family tree now... maybe I am actually Malaysian and just don't know it. I'd say cheerio in Malaysian except I don't speak it. So, uh, see ya all later.

a long holiday...

It just doesn't seem right to jump back into ex-pat blogging without some explanation of where I've been for the last five weeks and why I've been away for so long... Most of you already know that I flew back to Boston for September to get married (again - second time, same man.) Wedding planning is first and foremost, ALOT of work so my poor wee blog was deprived. Apologies to all who were waiting with baited breath for the next installment ;).

To make a very long story a little shorter, here are some of the highlights of the month and season o' the wedding:

The shower: A Barbecue where it didn't rain and we managed to eat dinner for 40 (even though there were less than twenty of us there.) Tom called on the telly and somehow managed to talk shit to Marina about her new voiture and didn't get his teeth handed to him (he was 5,000 miles away afterall.) Lorraine coined the term vagiterian...don't ask... and I found myself the new owner of red silk lingerie and a pepper grinder with multiple settings (among other lovelies...) I also ate my face off...did I mention that. Culinary deliciousness by mom and the ladies. You go.

The Hen: Margarita's and Mexican food. The introduction of long-distance friends and family into my local calling area...heaven. The Cantab lounge where it was the Chicken Slacks (Soul Revival) anniversary gig and involved amazing soul music, a wierd R&B belly dancer, a circus act, and more booze than you can shake a stick at.

The rehearsal dinner: Afternoon mani-pedi's with the ladies, my cuz, my bro's g.f. Between the hair, nails and skin, I've never been so groomed in my life. Grooming follow by Upscale Chinese food (Damn, I really did a lot of eating, no wonder my pants don't fit...) All the Irishies and all the Yanks in one place. Once again, more food than I even thought possible. Beautiful tall vases of flowers, a surprise champagne toast, c/o a most thoughtful and ever generous friend, cosmopolitans, and general good will going on between all present. This month was just a love fest. Seriously. The night was ended with more candle-lit drinks and a swap of family for friends... wine and good conversation and the first time my bro and his friends met up with some of my friends... A crazy mixing of worlds all round. V. Nice.

The wedding: A little breakfast with Tommy boy at our B&B and then more mad grooming, exfoliating, shaving, hair, make-up, and a mad dash from the cosmetics counter back home to don the dress, and all the rest of it...By the time the wedding day actually came, I was much calmer and the pre-wedding preparations were a (mostly) happy chaos which involved running around my crowded house in a bustier and knickers yelling, "just pretend I'm wearing a bathing suit." Thanks to extreme helpfullness on the part of my friend/photographer and M.O.H/Cousin, it all came together pretty damn well and we made it to the venue on-time and in Beamer style. I was well nervous about the ceremony but managed not to trip over myself on the way down the aisle and while I was more fancy-pants looking than ever before, I still felt like myself, no long trainy bullshit or veil over my face or drag-queen make-up. I had always imagined that I would be completely stressed out during my own wedding but I have to say, I had a fukking blast. It really was a stellar, stellar, day. Beautiful tall orchids in black pots, that dappled autumn light everywhere, people handing me delicious things to eat and drink and most importantly, the company of almost all of my favorite people in one place all looking relaxed and happy. I could go on and on and tell you about the Irish musicians, or the mojitos or the giant vase of lemons and sprays of yellow and green flowers but I'll save the details for my journal and not bore you all with them. Needless to say, it was a peak experience for me, and all the more so for being mostly unexepectedly wonderful. I was never one of those little girls who played bride or imagined my wedding day. I never really gave it much thought at all... but it is definitely something I'll look back at more fondly than I ever looked forward to it. It really rocked.

Post-Wedding: More eating (of course). A brunch the next day...something like a mini-wedding part two (or three?) with bagels and quiches and casual clothes. One last hurrah before people started catching flights back from whence they came. The day ended with a drive to the end of the Cape (Cod that is...) and a search in the dark for our holiday house. The week on the Cape was a very, "This is your life," moment where people came and went, Irish and Americans, family and friends, and we had leisurely dinners, and gorgeous bike-rides, swims in the crisp atlantic, sunbathing, picnics, walks through provincetown admiring art galleries and drag queens, raw oysters on the pier, barbecues, afternoon naps... I had forgotten how much I love New England, how much I love warm, sunny, weather and wild atlantic beaches and quirky New Englanders who are everything from whiskery, reticent, fishermen, to half-dressed flamboyant hippies, to sunburned tourists with melting icecream cones... I love it all. Really I do.

In the interest of not writing a novel and completely intimidating any potential readers, I leave it here, the hole in my blog writing sufficiently filled. I'm back in Dublin and attempting to get back into the routine of my life here... Alas, the party's officially over, time to jump back into life as a stranger in a strange land. I'll keep y'all posted.

-D.

The hardwork of being a girl

Fuuuuuuuuukkkkkkkkkk. I have been spray tanned, had my face prepped and primed and cleaned and coloured, had my hair coloured and sprayed and pinned and teased, had my boobs stuck into a madonna style bra that goes from my armpits to my waist in order to fit into a dress with a 27 inch waist. I've been moisturized and exfoliated and moisturized some more. The make-up artist at mac reccommended a 300 dollar facial to get rid of the "dead skin" and "fine lines and wrinkles" on my face (as if! 300 feckin dollars. They better fill my fine lines with gold leaf for that price.)

I guess there's a reason why celebrities look so good. It's a fulltime job and requires a bigtime pocketbook to look that sparkly. I feel like a mastercard ad: cut and highlight $200, wedding make-up done by goth guy wearing rainbow eyeshadow, $45. Nervous breakdown caused by wedding planning overload... priceless.

Why wasn't I born a boy? Shit, shower and shave sounds pretty fukin fabulous to me right now.

Why I hate Aer Lingus - Part II

I should have titled this entry, why I love the Shannon Airport - Part I but since I like to complain, I'll just gloss over the fact that the Shannon airport has free wifi which does actually rock when you find that your flights been delayed for an hour and you've already been waiting an hour for said connecting flight. Bast*rds. So, here I am in Shannon, been here since around 2pm and my flight was supposed to leave 15 minutes ago. Argh. So close and yet so far... I am actually dreaming of homemade pesto and tomatoes from my parents garden and yet... am surrounded by rambunctious American children, giant bags of tayto and cadbury vending machines, all conspiring to make me a) cranky and b) fat. I will do my best to love the wifi and stave off a desire to eat ten bags of crisps and someday, gawdwilling, I'll see you all in Boston. At least, I've managed to escape from the mid-western jesus-geeks student group I was traveling with from Dublin. The best shirt yet: GAP (in giant letters, not unlike the ubiquitous clothing brand of sweatshop fame). Underneath the words GAP, the phrase: God Answers Prayers. Well, jesus, if yer up there, can you get me to Boston sometime this century??? Onwards and upwards.

From A to Zed

Here's another batch of Irishisms for the foreign ear. I never get tired of this.

Naf - Usage: "That club sounds completely naf with its lads in track suits dancing to white boy hip-hop." Have to say I love this one... almost as good as manky, naf is used to describe something supremely cheesy, tacky or otherwise lame.

Gaff - Today is rhyming day. Don't ask me why I decided that naf has one f but gaff has two... but it's my blog so I get to do the spelling. The plaid carpeting in my gaff is completely naf so it is. I really do have green and orange plaid carpeting in my apartment and it is quite eye-catching - in a bad way. For those of you who've seen it, I apologize, for those of you who haven't, come visit. You can sleep in the spare bedroom with it's equally naf, nautical wallpaper.

In case you haven't copped on to the definition of gaff, mine is clearly a wonder of modern interior design. So much better than calling it an apartment or a flaaaaatttt.

Holliers - Just as I had embraced calling them, "holidays" and dispensed with the yankophile, "vacation," I find that I'm still out -o- the loop. Holliers, baby. The beautiful thing is that I'm actually on my "holliers" starting tomorrow when I fly off to warmer climates and an office-free lifestyle. I'm all for it.

Half-inch - More fun with rhyming. To "half-inch" is to pinch. As in, I'm going to half-inch Tom's suncream tomorrow when I fly off on my holliers to warmer climates and leave him to the cool Irish shores. In case you're incredibly thick, to "pinch" something is to steal / gank / obscond with items that are not rightfully yours.

Buck your ideas up - This one only really works if you have a strong Northy accent and an air of righteous indignation about you. It basically means, "Get it together... sort yourself out... catch yourself on." Example, if Tom thinks I'm doing the dishes after I cooked him the loveliest meal of the century he will be bucking said ideas up...

I didn't just lick that off a stamp - This one implies that the speaker can back up his facts, that it came from a reputable source. Heard spoken during a meeting by the most bad-ass, tattooed web developer while dropping f-bombs left and right and telling us wild stories of corporate conspiracies. This guy went on, no holds barred in a room full of suits throughout the wankiest marketing meeting ever. Fair play... or in American, you go. I'll take a geek over a marketing exec any day.

So there ya go. Pretty soon I'll be playing on the other side of the pond. Hopefully, you've learned your lessons well and when I half-inch the last piece of cake at our next dinner pahty, you can tell me to buck my ideas up.

cheers. see you all on the flipside.

It's a small world afterall...

Have had many six (or fewer) degrees of separation moments lately... the strangest being that I met one of my present co-workers over a year ago and we only recently figured this out. We were being being tortured by having to attend one of those ubiquitous "networking," events. From Ireland to California, these things are the same load of sh*te. Fingers foods and fake smiles and handshaking and self-promotion. Gross. I was being introduced to many by my companion (who it must be said was trying to be helpful) and I met my current co-worker in her previous job in another design agency. We were both pretty uncomfortable and immediately escaped to the snacks and wine table and set upon the mini-quiches and the glasses of wine and agreed that except for the mini-quiche, this shindig was indeed horrible. A few weeks into my current job, this networking debacle came up and a few minutes later, it all became clear. Stranger still, we never would have pieced this together had my current company not been doing work with my original companion who invited me to the networking whoredom. Confused? So am I. Dublin is a tangled web of people who all know someone's brother's sister's nephew and it's even more magnified in the little world that is design.

The other night, I was out for a few pints. I arrived with my current co-worker and met up with his girlfriend who I had met before since she is close mates with someone who dates someone who works at another company I used to do work for. Other people from this other company were also there as was a coworker of my coworker's girlfriend (ha. Try sorting that one out.) This person turned out to be the sister of someone I worked with at yet another design studio and I had met her once before at a design lecture. It's a small island afterall.

more euros please

Sitting here in the office (have actually been working in one all summer) and just heard on the radio that Dublin is the 8th most expensive city in the world to live in... that's IN THE WORLD... shit. As I was going off to the bathroom to slit my wrists, the radio announcer said that this fact doesn't particularly matter as Dubliners are paid relatively more than people living in other cities... I dunno if I'm convinced. I think I should get a raise.