Visitors and such

Been so, so, busy. Working like mad but finally got myself a holly-jolly holiday. The weather has been amazingly dry and sunny. The fam arrived yesterday and I've been giving them the Dublin grand tour. Today we went to the Powerscourt estate which is a huge and beautiful estate with Italianate and Japanese gardens and a gorgeous old mansion which has been renovated and filled with a lovely cafe and textile stores and galleries. Also took them to Glendalough to see the Wicklow mountains, two clear, clean, glacial lakes and a fourteenth century monastic settlement. From there we headed back to the city and hit up the Italian quarter for some most tasty red wine and crostinis. Am I a kick-ass tour guide or what. Unfortunately, the revolution was not televised as my digital camera shite the bed, so to speak. Damn technology. You will all have to use your imaginations. Tomorrow off to Amsterdam. Talk soon.

EuroVisions

For those of you not familiar with the EuroVision Song contest, let me enlighten you. Every year, Europeans (and Europeans to be) have the opportunity to win the Eurovision title by entering a song which is voted on by all of those europhone and sms text messagers out there in the EU and beyond. The song must not have been commercially released and the performers tend to be the unfamous, wicked-stepsister version of Brittany Spears singing in English or French with an off-key Lithuanian accent. Hit me baby. Yikes. They are notoriously cheesy. No one admits to watching Eurovision at all but I can guarantee that everyone I talk to tomorrow will know who won.

Me. I know who won. Not cuz I saw a single video but because I watched the entire tally of voting which consists of various people wearing too much make-up and too little clothing, reporting from {insert name of country here.} "Hello from the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia..." I switched it on cuz everyone who called me tonight assumed they were interupting me watching said Eurovision and that I would be less than pleased about being disturbed. So, on it went. And here is what I've learned: 1. German men should not dress up as Cowboys and present their votes astride a large plastic horse and 2. Cronyism is alive and well and living in Belarus...okay and everywhere else in the present and future EU... Romania votes for Bulgaria, Estonia votes for Latvia, Sweden votes for Finland, Bosnia Herzogovenia votes for Serbia votes for Croatia votes for the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia... Impartial, objective voting, no doubt. Strangely, Irlanda, land of insider trading if there ever was one votes for.... (drum roll please)... Lithuania?! I knew we had a large Eastern Euro population but who knew...

I know you're all on the edge of your seats now and you just simply must know whose country was graced with the 2006 Eurovision Song of the Year title... I know you wanna know so just admit it. And I know what yer picturing too. Some cute blond thing being backed up by Metro and the Metrosexuelles singing some drippy song about heartbreak with a hip-hop producer keepin' it live in the background... but, no. You would be wrong. The winning country: Finland. Again, you're thinking hot, tall, milk-fed blondies but again, you would be wrong. Think, Ozzy Osborne meets the Phantom of the Opera meets Bzerker from Clerks. Glam-pseudo-pop-metal dudes dressed as monsters singing with a mixture of gravelly basetones mixed with that, "I just grabbed yer balls and squeezed them, " heavy-metal yelp. Go team. Europe does have taste after all... If you happen to like biting the heads off plastic chickens and throwing them into an audience made up entirely of Greek Eurotrash. Now that's entertainment.

Brand Revolutionaries

Hi All,

Sorry for my long blogging absence. I've been ridiculously busy being the all-purpose freelancing bitch of Dublin. Have been booked nearly everday for the last month and I'm finally kind of settling into it instead of walking around in a state of total stress dealing with all sorts of new situations, people and expectations. I'll be a bad-ass businesswoman yet. Maybe I should start renting those 80's wall street movies...you know the ones with American Psycho type business men and woman with heels like daggers and shoulder pads like linebackers... I definitely need a bit of training on the ruthless front as I am owed ridiculous money at the moment and am struggling a bit to collect. Maybe what I really need is a heavy man, built like a brick shithouse, with knuckles dragging on the ground. He can pay a visit to my late / non payers and make them an offer they can't refuse...

I was walking into one of my many placements the other morning and what should pass me but a large truck advertising a marketing company. This was one of those trucks that is absolutely covered on every surface and the campaign gracing the panels of this one was: Richmond Marketing, BRAND REVOLUTIONARIES. If that wasn't bad enough, the truck was covered with red communist stars, various famous revolutionaries, and those iconic Workers of the World Unite characters with fists in the air. Holy good fuck, What balls. Karl Marx would absolutely turn in his grave at that one. This is, after all, a MARKETING company, as in ADVERTISING, as in, we have no souls and worship the almighty dollar (or euro as the case may be) and could sell Hitler brand petroleum products to Jews if we put our filthy, amoral, cute little minds to it.... hhhhmmmm. I'm sorry. Do I sound bitter. Is it because I am slowly being turned into a brand revolutionary myself. The next thing you know, I am actually going to start to care about whether that milk packaging I created really makes you feel like yer mom is giving you a big hug. It is somewhat ironic that I was attracted to design for its artistic and communicative possibilities, for it's independent, self employment options, for guerilla artists and Barbara Krueger type political message making, and here I am, making the benjamins for the big boys. Is there no escaping it? So glad to know that my life's contribution to this world is so meaningful and important... Just send me that fekking check please.

Lions and Holy-Rollers

Lest you think I'm about to enlighten you with some sort of Morality inducing religious parable, let me put your mind at ease... Read on without fear that Jerry Falwell might pop out of a dark corner to save yer soul (for a price of course.) Anyway, I digress...

The good news is that I have been working like an absolute slave lately. I am a freelancing whore available by the hour, day or week...haha. Got a weeks worth of work last week for a studio, then a logo design project, then more packaging design work for another studio, then a little project for DIT. It is lucrative as hell (or maybe just seems it since I haven't yet paid any taxes on it) but it's also a bit stressful going into new working environments all the time and trying to always be at the top of your game. But really, I'm not complaining. Have to say that I love owning my own time and can make my previous monthly salary at the Spoiltchild in less than two weeks of freelance work. Can't complain about that. I've also joined a softball team which had its first two practices last week so while not chained to my computer, I went out and ran around in the rain and attempted to catch flyballs hit by burly Irish men.

So all this is good stuff no doubt...but I still kind of feel like my head is going to explode. Spent the last three days (including Saturday) working like mad to get this packaging design done for a pitch on Monday. In between time was spent drinking whiskey with temporary co-workers... On Saturday afternoon when I was doing last minute bits and pieces at the studio, the managing director threw me the keys and the alarm code and said he was off and I could just finish up and lock up if I didn't mind. I suppose it's a great compliment that he assumed that I wouldn't abscond with twenty computers or all their secret recipes or what have you but it was a little freaky to have the entire responsibility for a large, kitted-out studio that I had never before attempted to lock up. Yikes. Mostly it went smoothly, I finished up and managed most of the closing up tasks except for one of the security locks which I just couldn't get locked. If they go into work on Monday to find all of their shit stolen, I suppose my freelance career might take a bit of a hit... ;) They already probably think that I'm a religious freak ;). I was in the studio a few days ago sitting at a desk across from this really nice girl (who stole me Cadbury chocolate from the front desk) when she sneezed. I automatically responded, as you do, by saying, "Bless You." One of those moments followed where you imagine that everyone goes quiet and stares and points at you. I guess Irish people don't say, "bless you," when a fellow cohort sneezes. They just ignore it. (Rude Bastards... ;) ) Anyway, given that they might think I'm the next Tammy Faye and they might get their studio ransacked, I'd say it's all gone very well....haha Here's to self-employment.

On the wild beasts front, I was out last night at the Market Bar with Michelle and Bryce telling them my sneezing story and Michelle was telling me her culture-shock tales from when she first moved to Boston. Soon after she arrived in Boston, she was out with a few of her new co-workers and mentioned that she couldn't wait to have a lion this weekend. Everyone was baffled. A lion? huh? She was actually saying that she couldn't wait to have a lie-in meaning that she wanted to sleep in but everyone thought she wanted to go to the zoo ;). Now come Friday, Bryce will say that he can't wait for a tiger or a mountain lion this weekend. Grrrrr. Must say, after my packaging and security related frenetics, I had quite the lie-in this morning. And amazingly enough, it's a beautiful sunny day. Time to run as far away from this computer as possible.

Hope you're all well.

Tramp Co

Ok, so it's actually Tram Co and is the name of a cheesy as shite bar in the student ghetto of Dublin but I've been thinking it's a suitable name for my local post office as well. By tramps, I mean not only women with ten children and make-up that would make a transvestite cringe but also the trainspotters-in-training in their dirty jeans looking like they might keel over and die any second. Not to mention the young disinfranchised males travelling in packs and the neighborhood busibodies who loudly complain about anything and everything. God, I love my neighborhood.

Today was tax day. Unfortunately, even moving out of the entire USofA does not exempt one from paying Uncle Sam his due. Since I am a woman of forsight and organisation, I was, of course, running off to the post office today with my Massatucky state taxes in hand desperately seeking an April 18th postmark. I arrive to find what appears to be a large crowd of the aforementioned demographic watching an older man trying to break into the Post Office. Somehow, the lock jammed and the post office had to hire some guy to literally crow-bar the door open. After a half hour wait in between a young blondie and an old lady with a crutch who literally tried to run me down to get a better spot in line, the lock was broken and like Metallica fans trying to get an autograph, we all squeezed in the door. Waiting in the que, I had in front of me one group of young rough-and-ready guys trying to cash their dole checks without proper ID, several screaming children picking up pieces of the crowbarred door and getting yelled at by their mother, and a good dose of cranky old ladies stepping on my heels to get their stamps. Oh joy. I did finally get my stamps and proceeded to put a stamp on the wrong side of the only envelope I could find in my apartment to hold my nearly overdue taxes because I was busy hating all humanity. Bastards. Maybe I should just give in, shoot some heroin, pop out a few sprogs, and draw my eyebrows on. At least I would fit in.

What do I know about Basketball? I'm Scottish!

Spoken in a loud pub in the financial district of Dublin by a slightly tipsy scotchy bemoaning his loss in the fantasy basketball pool. Ah well, maybe ya had to be there. Well, it's been too long my fine friends, but here are a few more linguistic gems for your coffers...

Rapperbait: Hoodlum, Hooligan, Skanger, Skiprat. There are so many words for these little scoundrels...I do wonder why??

Wingnut: Someone with ears like our old friend Steve-o of auto-defenestration fame. Ears like satelite dishes. Ears like this wierd guy on the North American Sports Network whose ears are not only huge but also pointed oddly forward as if they've been ripped off Reservoir Dogs style and sewn back on. yum.

The Jacks: Les Toillettes of course. Don't ask me why.

Giz us a...: Used in many a northy sentence as in, "Giz us a fag." Translation: I'd like a cigarette please (not a gay man thank you very much.) In case yer still confused, it's Give us a fag. The royal we in effect. Me and my imaginary friends.

Manky: Something that's icky, bad-tasting, slimy or otherwise gross. Like Irish cooking...haha.

Yous: What would seem to be grammatically incorrect English is widely used and I fear, like all the rest, slowly sneaking into my vocabulary. Usage: "Would yous two ever shut up. Yer doin' my head in," or "What would yous'uns like for yer dinner?"

Fierce: Used mostly in the South I think. Usage: "That man is fierce tall" or, "I've a fierce thirst on me." (For what, you might ask? But really you should already know.) Up north it would be a powerful thirst instead of a fierce one. Buncha parched lads in these parts.

Pong / Pongy: Smelly, smelly. Usage: That lad has a pong on him...he's a pongy fecker.

Poxy: Little, insignificant, shite.

There are so many but I hear them, tell myself to write them down for future blogging and then have another whiskey and forget. Alas, that's all yous get today.

French Drivers = NYC Cabbies on Crack

Yes, it's true. They drive like absolute maniacs. After realizing that the cars would swerve between lanes like they drank beer for breakfast, that mopeds and motorbikes would appear out of nowhere like loud flying hairdryers and that noone seems to know what their indicator it for, I gave up the driving to Tommy. Once the stresses of driving were firmly on Tom's shoulders (poor lad) we had a grand time. The southern coast of France is kind of like a southern Spanish mountain town, a tropical island and South Beach, Florida all rolled into one. There is money, money and more money everywhere...giant yachts the size of small oceanliners dot the coast. Cannes' main boulevard is a who's who of high-end retail, omega, fendi, prada, louis vuitton etc... etc... But if that can be overlooked (cuz I'm not particularly moved or awed by riches) the natural surroundings are amazing, the people are much friendlier than Parisians and the geographic proximity of Italy means that the food is divine. In the spirit of South Beach, Art Deco is also alive and well on the French coast...from typography to architecture to landscaping, it is Art Deco heaven (if yer into that which I am.) And all of this Deco-ness was interspersed with timeless French architecture with it's wide wooden shuttered buildings with ornate wrought-iron balconies. Add to the mix, the mediterreanean influence of the red tiled roofing, the tropical plants in terracotta pots, ornate mosaic tiling and marble sidewalks and you have the South of France. A melting pot of loveliness. My only compaint is my own gluttony. When it comes to cheese, I have no brakes...There were thin crust pizzas covered with gooey mozzerella and fresh vegetables. There were salads with thick slices of goat's cheese. There were cheese plates with melting triangles of brie (and a whole baguette to spread it on.) There was creme caramel and creme brulee with a perfectly caramalized, crunchy, sugared crust. There was fish with creamy sauce and fresh herbs. There was gelato, hazelnut flavored and honey and pine nut flavored and plain old chocolate flavored. And it was all love and all good. In addition to the olive oil, and pistacho nougat, and apricot jam, and ceramics and sunglasses that I brought home to Ireland, I also brought home the world's worst dairy induced stomach ache ever...I may have to go on a vegan detox now ;) but hell, it was worth it.

One of Many Artists on the Square - Cannes, France

Saturday Market in Cannes
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

Click the pic to see Cannes, Saint Tropez, Nice and Monaco. All stunning.

Bon Jour Provence!

A mini-break has been scheduled at last. Can't wait. Tommy and I are headed off to the French Riviera this week. We fly into Nice and are staying in a hotel in Cannes. I'm planning to eat my face off, rent a bike and tour around the coast, drink lots of regional red wine, and check out a few sites including the Matisse and Chagall Museums in Nice. Good stuff. Needless to say, I'll be coming back with lots of pics for the blog. If anyone has been to Provence / Cote d'azur / French Riviera and has any tips for us, they would be well appreciated. If not, Au Revoir pour Maintenant... Talk soon.

(Do) Good things come in Threes?

Three months and counting...until the big three-oh (30). I'd like to pretend that this doesn't concern me, that it's just a number and I can cope perfectly well with change of all sorts...but obviously, that would be a big fat lie. There's something symbolic about thirty... as if it's the final hurdle to true adulthood and once past it, you can no longer consider quitting your job and backpacking through India, piercing your tongue, or wearing your hair in pigtails. Might as well just give up, sit back in my Ikea kitted out apartment, work late nights to further my, "career," and add to my wine rack. Except that I don't have an Ikea kitted out apartment, my career appears to be, "on-hold" and my commitment to it tenuous at best, and any wine that enters my house gets consumed before it could form any semblence of a collection. ...And therein lies the problem. I think I assumed that I would have it all figured out by now, that I would have published a novel, become the new basquiat or Beth Orton, won a gold medal in the Olympics, or at least turned into a jaded but successful corporate whore with a plasma screen TV and open-plan flat. Thirty always seemed both so old and so far away... and here it is. And I'm still broke, still renting, still trying to sort out a viable career that doesn't make me want to rip my hair out, and still waiting to be able to go into some yuppie wine-bar and drink expensive bottles of French wine without looking at the price tag.

I know, I know...poor me with my oh-so difficult life. I do realise that I've got it really, really, good in comparison to many and I honestly do appreciate that. But Thirty does give one pause and I really can't help but take stock and ask myself if my life is living up to my expectations (which admittedly are a little high.) I think I will raise my kids to be happy janitors. ;) When I was a kid, I really thought that I was special, that I would grow up to be an exemplary adult and I would change the world in some way or accomplish something really notable. Remember those books about Harriet Tubman, or Thomas Edison or the guy who invented penicillin that you used to read in school... and your teachers would give you that schpiel about how these people believed in themselves and distinguished themselves from the pack and all that cult of individuality stuff. Maybe they should have just told us straight up: You guys are not that special and most likely you will grow up to be middle managers or sell car stereos, or work in a toothpaste factory and the sooner you get used to that idea, the better. Oh and while we're at it, there's no Santa Claus and no Easter Bunny and someday a long way in the future, you will probably have no teeth and need to wear adult diapers. Maybe they should just get it all out of the way early and spare us the disappointment. ;)

On a more positive note, I suppose turning thirty makes me realise that, in the words of the prophetic, John "Cougar" Mellencamp, "your life is now." There's no putting off your dreams... so I guess I had better start writing my novel now. ;)

Happy Paddy's!

Hey All,

Hope that wherever you are in the world that the weather is better than it is here in Dublin. Lots to do but it is as they say here, "a duvet day". Open fire and a copy of The Quiet Man would be more appropriate that going outside.

Tom and I had a late night last night and so are getting a late start this morning. We decided to celebrate Paddy's Eve with Italian food and Russian Vodka...haha. Actually, we had a great, great night out. Went to Dublin's Italian quarter (very small but very authentic.) We went to an Italian Wine Bar called Enotecha Delle Langhe and oh, the deliciousness. Lovely, spicy, glasses of Italian Red Wine in big-bowled delicate wine glasses. We also had a board of crostinis: toasted italian bread with, pesto, or sweet roasted peppers, or tomatoes, or courgettes in a tasty, slightly garlicy mash. Yum. After that, we murdered a Caprese, made with the most luscious mozzerella, fresh tomatoes, greens, and garnished with proper olive oil and balsamic. Absolute Heaven, I'm telling you. The atmosphere in the place was great too. We sat at the bar but the place is small and packed with rustic wooden tables and even a sofa or two. Left feeling more satisfied than I have in a long time. Post-prandial, we went into Pravda, the Russian themed bar (like the People's Republic on a grand scale.) I had been there a few times but never noticed that they had a sizable Stoli collection behind the bar. Oh Stoli, how I have missed you. Nursed a Stoli vanilla and Coke in the upstairs bar and looked down into the main bar where they where showing the cheesiest leprachaun film I have ever seen. Top o' the mornin' to ya and all that fiddle-dee. Bryce and Michelle came out and met us and we found a table and just kicked it for a while. Good food, good drink, good company. Good Stuff huh?

Well, get out yer leprachaun hat and your plastic ass cheeks with pog mo ghoin (sp?) written on them. Yikes. Every other sad bastard in Dublin will be donning their pseudo-leprachaun gear and if you can't beat 'em, join 'em...haha. Have a lovely Paddy's and try not to drink any green beer.

A Very Long Engagement

the ring, the rose, the champers in a plastic cup
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

...or a very short one as the case may be. We may have been married for months but the engagement has just begun. haha. The ring we designed was finished last week and Tom and I took a hike up the Cave Hill in Belfast where I got my first look at it (along with a rose and some champers.) He even remembered the plastic cups. What a doll.

Better late than Never

red leaves
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

Click the pic for more Botanic Garden shots (which I know you have all been anxiously awaiting ;) ). You'd never believe this place is in the middle of north inner city dublin. Definitely voted the best place to bring a book and a snack and find some little corner to plunk yourself for an afternoon. Gotta love the life of leisure. (If only I could spend everyday this way.)

All Left Feet

Rioters like shoes. At least, this is what I have to conclude after seeing the destruction wreaked upon Foot Locker and Schuh during the Love Ulster Riots last week. The Irish Daily Mail (not the pinnacle of journalistic integrity but good for a few down and dirty pics) ran front page photos of rioters strolling out of Foot Locker, with armfuls of Adidas bags and Puma trainers. The shoe stores were more wrecked than anything else I saw in all the destruction.

Some of this shoe related bootie included 99 special edition Nikes (retailing for 100 euro a pair). Amazingly, instead of pairs of shoes, the stolen footwear consisted of all left feet which begs the question of what one does with a whole bunch of left feet. Maybe, someone is planning to use them to create a sculptural ode to Nike, or will it be a performance art piece on the Troubles in NI? "We're all left feet up here." Or maybe, someone is planning to start a shoe company for amputees? It is a mystery.

Pancake Tuesday

Okay so it's not as good as Mardi Gras but Pancake Tuesday is what we get around here and it's better than nothin'. Yup, so I bet you non catholics out there didn't realise that today is the day you have the freedom (and one could even say obligation) to eat lots and lots of fried, bready circles...flapjacks, crepes, pancakes... If it's got flour, eggs and butter than get to it.

This tradition apparently started because during lent yer supposed to give up all the good stuff (good stuff being, butter, eggs, milk and other yumminess) so on Pancake Tuesday (really called Shrove Tuesday) you're suppose to use up all the leftover dairy products in the house and feed everyone pancakes. It's also kind of a last hurrah. Eat up cuz lent is long(ish) and you won't be seeing anymore of this stuff until Easter (when you can once again, gorge yourself on chocolate eggs, chocolate bunnies, and other easter basket lovelies.)

It seems slightly odd how religion so often involves food rituals...whether it's fasting, not eating pork or shellfish, not mixing your meat and dairy or eating fish on Friday... Worship the food, or lack there of it. Is it a pagan thing? Is it that some of these things were practical at some point in history? (It just wouldn't do to have your congregation getting poisoned eating bad meat now would it?)

Well, I'm happy to join in and worship the food (just not the rules) and god knows, my pseudo-vegeterian self can easily live without the meat. (Shellfish on the other hand. Not a chance. A life without oysters is not worth living.)

In my foodie world, an appreciation of glorious culinary delight is enough of a religious experience for me. No one who's tasted a homemade warm piece of banana bread with butter or fresh pasta covered in bright green pesto can tell me that that is not communing with the gods. Thank you to the powers that be (if they be at all) for basil and bananas.

Well, since I'm not a Catholic (at least not a practicing one) I will not be embracing lent and saying goodbye to the eggs and butter but I'm happy to eat some pancakes. Bon appetit.

Up the 'Ra

Well, well, well... arrived back in Dublin today from a lovely but whirlwind trip to the homeland. Came back to find that the city has been rioting in my absence. God Dublin, Can I not leave you alone for 10 days without you wrecking the place?! ;)

The Orangies tried to march down O'Connell Street on Saturday (The Love Ulster Parade) and the hardcore Republicans (and some dodgy apolitical skiprats looking for a piece of the action) didn't take kindly to that...to say the least. In fact, they responded by blocking off the whole parade, throwing halfers at the garda, breaking windows, starting fires, looting, burning out cars and other such proactive and productive behavior designed to facillitate further peace and understanding between these two perpetually warring factions. Oh joy.

Amazingly, the Gardai didn't see this coming and decided not to move all the bricks, curb stones, pebbles, bits of cement and other debris which were piled up all along O'Connell street since the city is in the middle of doing some major road renovations. And yes, hindsight is twenty-twenty and all that but even my foreign ass could have figured out that leaving a whole bunch of potential weapons all over the road and scheduling a politically fraught march down said street might not be a good idea. And now the city is faced with a street full of smashed windows and debris.

Sinn Fein proper is distancing itself from all this debauchery and issued a statement before the parade instructing its constituents to ignore this, "Sectarian parade," and to essentially not take the bait and wreck the place... but like everything in Irish politics, there is Proper Sinn Fein and then there are break off extremist factions (criminals in disguise - in my opinion) like the Continuity IRA who refuse to participate in a cease fire or political negotiations of any kind... and apparently these are the peeps who encouraged skangerville to come out and stop this march by any means possible. But I can't for the life of me, understand how there can be a connection between shouting, "Up the 'Ra," and smashing in the windows to the Kilkenny Design Centre and Nassau Street Cafe... Do they have something against arts and crafts and drinking espresso? "Ah, for the love of the 'Ra, let's go loot Topshop and get ourselves a few new jumpers and while we're at it, what the fuck, lets burn out a few cars cuz ya know, that'll really piss off the brits." It is a mystery.

Don't get me wrong, I'm in no way supporting the Loyalist attempt to walk through the capitol city of the Republic of Ireland (which is notably NOT part of the UK). Bunch of inflammatory w*nkers in my opinion but free speech is free speech and the Nationalist / Republican front have unfortunately made themselves look like a bunch of thugs (which some of them no doubt are) with their destructive response. Sometimes you gotta wonder of it's in our nature as humans to try as hard as we can to destroy eachother and any semblance of civilisation. Feel the love huh?

Inside Out

"And so it happened again, the daily miracle whereby interiority opens out and brings to bloom the million-petalled flower of being here, in the world, with other people. Neither as hard as she had thought it might be nor as easy as it appeared." - Zadie Smith On Beauty

Been doing a lot of reading lately, Zadie Smith, Jeanette Winterson, even some extremely depressing short stories about India which I put down after about 10 pages. As you can probably tell, I've got a lot of time to myself at the moment. Read the passage above and I thought it seemed so fitting of my situation right now. As difficult as it may be to imagine, I am naturally a bit shy. (My old co-worker called me a chatterbox...haha...I was just talking to try and cover up the vast expanses of awkward silences in that job...) Don't get me wrong. I really enjoy being social and being with other people. I actually really need and desire it but before I go out to spend time with people I don't know that well, I always get a little nervous and have to make a conscious effort to reach out and make friends. Maybe I just got too comfortable with the ones I already have. It's nice not to have to explain yourself, not to have to earn intimacy and trust, to be able to show up at someone's house and pull off your shoes and sit on the floor and drink a glass of wine in your socks. That said, once I've made the leap and met up with people it is, like most things, not as hard as I anticipated and usually a pretty good time.

Spending this time by myself can be nice. I've caught up on household chores, done a ton of cooking, taken long walks, went to the lovely Botanic Gardens, read all the novels that were piling up on my bedside table... but it also gives me a lot of time to think which isn't always a completely good thing. Quite easy to get wrapped up in yourself, to start thinking alot about your life, the past, the future... This last week has been quiet and mostly calm but right now, I'm really craving some noise... a room full of ladies drinking wine, eating snacks and shooting the shit. I could really use a good, cynical bitching session about someone's day, their crazy boss or mad mother-in-law or that Newbury Street / D4-head Biatch who stole their parking space. Maybe I just need a little humor / humour interjected into my situation. So many things in this life are made bearable by the fact that they can be made really funny. Maybe the problem is really that I need more people to tell my stories to. Or more stories to listen to. I suppose that's the point of the blog eh? But it is a little cyberspace impersonal and there's no laugh track, not yet anyway.

Well better to be in flux, between jobs, between countries, between cultures, between weddings (?!) than to be stuck in a really unsatisfying routine as had been the case for a while. Would be nice to have a little more expendable cash so I could fly me over some entertainment ;) but I guess it's up to me to make it happen.

Yay to Friday which means that there is human contact on the horizon. I'm off to meet Michelle for lunch (a fellow self-(un)employed-person) and later will be meeting up with Helen and Co. for some (what else) drinks and hopefully a bit-a-craic will be had. I need to get my bookworm ass out of this house.

Will give you all the job low-down shortly but that's a whole other blog entry for another day.

Lotsa-love to me faithful readers.
D.

Shiny Peppers in Clifton, Bristol

Shiny Peppers in Clifton, Bristol
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

...and lots more photographic loveliness. Bristol has the largest concentration of beautiful architecture that I've ever seen in one place...not to mention indoor and outdoor markets, picturesque neighborhoods, seriously old-skool English Pubs and the world's oldest suspension bridge. Pretty damn sweet.

Squids and Yo-Yos

Yes, it's that time...another installation of the foreign language that is Irish-English...and these really take the biscuit:

Slow Coach / Too Big for your Boots / Takes the biscuit: So close and yet so far...They're almost like our expressions but just a little bit different. Makes us look like a bunch of cake eating rednecks...Too big for our britches??? Slow Pokes??? Straight outta that gay cowboy movie...Ye-Haw.

On the Lash / On the Piss / On the tear: It wouldn't be right not to include a few new ways to discuss self-inflicted alcohol poisoning.

A few Scoops / A few jars: If one is on the lash they would be consuming these...well more than a few but you get the idea.

Well-Chuffed: Well pleased. Grand so.

Ah sure it'll be grand: Example: How 'bout that hike up Mt. Everest in our skivvies? Answer: Ah sure it'll be grand.

That's Us / Is that us?: Not a philisophical questioning of the nature of self but in fact just a statement replacing my coveted and much missed, We're all set. Thanks.

A bit o' rough: Heard it used on the radio by a northy guy, "Those English girls are posh and all they want is a bit of rough...and I realised that I am a bit of rough." mmmmmmm. The sexy builder with three days of stubble and a pair of dirty work boots on...also seen on Diet Coke ads circa the 1980s.

How's the form? Yet another way to say, What's the craic?

Not too Bad: This is the Irish "fine thanks." As in: "How's t(h)ings?" Answer: "Not too bad." As if things are always shit but you know, today they're not actually as bad as they usually are... A nation with low expectations????

Heart Scared: Scared shitless, completely freaked out... Boo!

Have ye no homes to go to??: As in: It's 3am and the pub is closed but no one's making a move to go anywhere...The nice way of saying...Get the feck outta here and go home to your beds.

Crackin': term to describe a hottie

HCH: Abreviation for a "High Class Hooker." There's been a two day debate going on on the radio about whether Dublin girls are a buncha HCH's. Or as Kanye would say, "Golddiggaz."

Come on to fuck / Shut up to fuck: Not as bad as it sounds... Just used for emphasis as in: Will you hurry the fuck up? or Shut the fuck up. Not a good one to use when speaking to foreign children...haha (good advice from the creative Ireland forums...)

And last but not least...

Squids and Yo-Yos: More slang for the coveted cash...Quid and Euros being twisted in new and creative ways as in: Give us a few squids will ye? or Why can't I win yoyo millions? (or if Tom is the one talking: Maybe we won yoyo milly's!)

If yer scundered by all these strange and startling uses of the English language...just keep tuning in for more expert translation from yours truly... ;)

Cheers.

Ze Darkness

I was dreading the winter weather this year, imagining lashing down rain every morning but I have to say that it's really not been that bad. There have only been a few mornings where I've had to bring the 'brolly. And stranger still, it has yet to dip below 40 degrees. I'm gonna be in for a serious shock when I visit Boston in February. The hardest thing about Irish winter is something I hadn't anticipated at all and that's the dark. During the shortest days - the sun doesn't even rise until 8:30am and it's pitch black again by 4:30pm. Thankfully, I've noticed that the sky is a lighter, brighter shade of blue in the mornings than it has been which gives me hope. I can't wait for Spring. I guess I'm in the mood for a new beginning. Although I've lived here nearly a year now, I really haven't settled in as much as I'd like. I've heard it said that it takes a year to really get comfortable in a place so I guess I'm looking forward to finding my stride here. Hopefully my next employment will be more well considered than my current one. I really made a balls of that one. The next time I'm about to make a really bad decision like that, can someone please talk me out of it!

On a good note, I'm going to join a casual softball team this spring and the cliquey North Dublin Ladies in my yoga class are actually starting to talk to me now that I've come back for a second semester. Assuming I find a job with less of a commute and more of a social atmosphere, maybe I'll even make a few friends of my own...Imagine that. ;)

I went to a leadership training this week that stressed how important it was to have a bit of craic at work...you know, banter, going out for a pint now and then, eating lunch with someone other than your computer, a bit of goofiness, a christmas party...whatever works. And it is so true. I realised that the jobs I've loved most all had great people and a somewhat social, positive atmosphere.

Well, Here's Hopin'. Please send out good vibes (or sumthin') that I won't become the chronically unemployed, broke as a joke, hermit in this town and that my luck is about to change...