Okay, so I've had a major block lately. I haven't written anything in ages! I don't include e-mails as writing because God knows I can ramble on with the best of them. Not always significant content. I could blame it all on it being Dec. and Christmas coming up, but that wouldn't be true. I've just had a block lately. Thanks to Bri, I think the creative juices are flowing again. Or so I hope.... So, without further ado, I give you, Thanksgiving, Funerals and Earthquakes!
THANKSGIVING
Thanksgiving in Ireland... it's kind of a moot concept. No one celebrates Thanksgiving anywhere else in the world, other than in the states. People in Europe are always going on about how overweight Americans are. If they really want to know why, they should partake in Thanksgiving. We gorge ourselves on Thanksgiving, then a month later, we do it all over again for Christmas. Come on, tradition is tradition!
Most Americans even have more than one Thanksgiving dinner in a day. You have the immediate family, then if you are married or dating someone, you have their family's Thanksgiving dinner, and if you or your partner come from a 'broken' home, you have the mom and partner Thanksgiving, then the dad and partner Thanksgiving. Or, like in my family, the dad's side of the family Thanksgiving, then the departed mom's side of the family Thanksgiving a couple days later. It's a science really. You learn to put a little bit of everything on your plate everywhere you go. Because you know you're going to have to hit 3 or 4 places in one day and it would be rude not to eat anything at any one of them. Then you save room somewhere in your stomach for the next place that you know has your favourite pie or your favourite dressing. Thanksgiving is tricky!
I've always kind of hated the holiday season. I'm not sure why? Yet, since moving to Ireland, I found I couldn't stand not celebrating the fourth of July or Thanksgiving. Last year, my mother in law, bless her, made Thanksgiving dinner for me. My contribution, Sweet Potato Casserole, my Uncle Tom's recipe. It was my first time making it, so it didn't quite turn out as nice as his, but it was still nice. The only problem was: I was the only one who would eat it. My in laws didn't seem too impressed with Thanksgiving. Too much food apparently. My husband had already been broken into Thanksgiving when we were still living in the states. He had an idea of what to expect.
I wasn't going to celebrate Thanksgiving this year. Then the thoughts of my family in the states all getting together without me and enjoying great food became too much for me. I decided to invite my friend Celine and her b/f Seamus over for their first Thanksgiving dinner. I kind of cheated, I bought cooked chickens and pies from the store and made the rest myself. But hey, it was still good and there was plenty of food. Celine is still going on about her first Thanksgiving to people weeks after. It makes me feel special that I have introduced four people in Ireland to their first Thanksgiving dinner. Next year, I just may have a theme... I'll dress up like a Native American and they can all dress up like pilgrims!
Funerals
Sadly, last week Trev's aunt Maggie died. She had a massive heart attack on the Sat. and died in the hospital on the Mon. It was all pretty sudden and all very sad. She was mother to 9 grown children, 10 really, but she lost her first child. Maggie seemed to know she was going to go when the time came because she told her daughter Catherine not to let them leave her alone in the church overnight. She said she didn't want to be alone in there. Trev explained to me that when you die in the hospital, they leave your body alone in the hospital's church overnight. Maggie didn't want to be alone in there.
We didn't go to Maggie's wake. Although, I found it interesting that they still observe very old traditions at the wakes here. I have never been to a wake, but I have been reading up on them. My mother in law told me a little bit about Maggie's wake. Apparently, the wake should be at the deceased person's house, but Maggie took in everything, and I mean EVERYTHING. People, animals, stuff. If someone didn't have a place to go, Maggie took them in. If Maggie found a stray animal, she'd take it in. If something was going for nothing or next to nothing, Maggie would take it in! The woman had a heart of gold. Which also meant, there was no room in her house for the coffin. So, they had the wake at her daughter Catherine's house.
The appropriate thing to bring at a wake here is alcohol. So, there was loads of alcohol. The mirrors are to be covered with white sheets. No one could tell me the reason for this, so I tried to look into it. The only reason I could find for this was so that the people couldn't see the pain in their faces. The clocks are supposed to be stopped in respect for the dead, but I don't know if they were at her wake or not. The mourners come and visit and chat with each other after viewing the body, then drink. Apparently the wake isn't the time to cry, just reminisce. Someone has to stay near the body throughout the wake and throughout the night. The body is never left alone. This person was Catherine, Maggie's daughter. The point of this is the tradition's namesake, 'wake', to make sure the person doesn't wake in the night. To make sure they are gone. Then the body goes to the church.
This was second time I had been to a funeral mass, but the first time I hadn't been there for the beginning of it. Everyone waits outside of the church for the body to come. The hearst pulls up and the pallbearers help take the coffin out. The priest blesses the coffin, then the mourners form a queue behind the coffin and they all proceed into the church. The funeral mass is said, then the queue forms again behind the coffin as it is taken out of the church and put back into the hearst to go to the burial. Everyone gets in their cars and follows the hearst to the burial.
This particular graveyard where Maggie was buried, I had been to before. It's where most people from Conary and surrounding areas are buried. The first time I had been there, it was cold, windy and lashing rain. This time was no different. The graveside mass and interring of the body is always short because everyone is freezing and soaked to the knickers! An umbrella never helps much because usually when you open it, the wind is so strong it blows it inside out.
Afterward, you go to the pub, to get warm, to get drink, to chat and to get some food. The family invited us all to Fitzgeralds in Avoca. Although a few people went to Finn's in Conary. The sentiments were all the same. How terrible of a day it was, how you weren't even able to stand around at the graveyard and chat with the weather like it was. How 'Happy is the bride the sun shines on and happy is the corpse that the rain rains on.'
Funerals here in Ireland are very different to me, I'm not quite used to all the customs and traditions. Any funeral I had ever been to in the states didn't really seem to have any particular customs or traditions. I love that the Irish have so much respect for tradition, and I love how they know how to celebrate a new life, a marriage, and a life that's passed. God rest your soul Maggie.
Earthquakes
I have a sleep disorder, always have, probably always will. I have the hardest time going to sleep. Usually, I take Melatonin, a natural sleep aid. Our brains produce melatonin to help us sleep, some people's brains, like my own, don't produce enough. Melatonin pills just help me get more melatonin so I can sleep and they aren't addictive at all. Unfortunately, for some reason, they don't have Melatonin in Europe! So, I rely on my sisters to send me melatonin from the states. Currently, I am out of melatonin, the pills and in my brain. I have been for a couple of months now. Stephanie, my sister, wonderful as she is, tried to find melatonin to send to me, but couldn't find it and sent me sleeping pills instead. I try to use them as little as possible so I don't depend on them. When I take the sleeping pills, I have weird dreams and I'm kind of out of it if and when I wake up. Last night I took a sleeping pill. You're all wondering how this is relative to earthquakes... it's all relative baby, it's all relative.
I was sleeping away, dreaming my weird dreams I dream on the sleeping pills when I heard a very loud boom and felt the bedroom shake. I looked at the clock, it was 3:33 am. It really scared and confused me at first. But it didn't wake Trev up, so I figured it wasn't as bad as I thought it was. I hadn't a clue what it was and I was too tired to get up and try to find out. So, I drifted back into sleep again, pondering what the noise could have been. A noise so loud and so close to shake the room. I have always wanted to know what an earthquake felt like and that sleeping pill induced thought had occurred to me... Maybe I had just felt an earthquake, maybe I had finally experienced what an earthquake was like. If I had, it wasn't very big...
I was still wondering about what had happened when I rolled out of bed at 10:30. I did my usual routine, put my contacts in, brushed my teeth, made the bed, pulled the curtains back. Came downstairs, put on deoderant, fed the fish, got the cats food bowls ready, open the curtains, let the cats in and fed them. Nothing too strange, other than the top of the kitty litter box is in the middle of the garden and the plastic in and out flap is a few feet away from the top of it... Weird? Plus, most of the socks that I had on the clothes horse in the garden had fallen off. I figured it was the wind as far as the socks were concerned, but still thought it was a bit odd that the top of the kitty litter box was in the middle of the garden and the plastic flap had come out? I fixed it, but still the mystery baffled me.
I got a text from Trev a few hours ago, it said, 'There was a 2.8 earthquake off the coast of Wicklow, did you feel anything?' Apparently the news didn't say when it had happened and since he's working in Dunboyne in Dublin, he must have assumed it had happened recently since he wouldn't have felt it there. I was going to text him, then decided to phone him. 'Yeah, I did feel that earthquake! It happened this morning while we were in bed. I was wondering what it was! It shook the room and everything, didn't you feel it?' 'No.' I swear that man will sleep through anything!
So, now I can say, I was in an earthquake! A safe small one, but significant enough to shake the house and scare the crap out of me while in a sleeping pill induced sleep! I may take a few sleeping pills tonight if this little earthquake's big brother decides to make himself known. Oh Ireland, you never cease to amaze me!
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Monday, November 14, 2005
Long live Billy Idol and the 80's
I thought I was going to write about my recent Billy Idol concert today. Which, obviously, I will give it a mention. But Billy Idol is not consuming my thoughts today, something else is. Well, Billy Idol is consuming my thoughts a bit today, but only because I had a dream about him last night. He totally led me on in my dream. After promising backstage passes for me and my mum with cute little winks and hair lip snarls. He slammed the door in my face. It sucks to be let down in your own dreams. I am disappointed in Billy, but only in my dreams. He put on a brilliant show at the Point in Dublin on Wed. I was highly impressed. He is still hot as ever!
What is consuming my thoughts today is: SingStar 80's for the PS2. I keep glancing at the PS2 with overwhelming temptation. I don't really like to play video games, but this of course, is not a game as such. SingStar 80's is my fountain of youth! SingStar 80's is my childhood.
Now, you can't have EVERY song of your youth of course. But it's a pretty good selection. Although, I would have loved if they had Love is a Battlefield by Pat Benatar on there. I love most all sides of the 80's. The pop side, rap, punk, the dark side of the 80's. About the only thing I never liked about the 80's was the hair bands (hence my previous Journey post). I won't deny I know all the words to most of Def Leppard's songs, but it doesn't mean I liked them.
The important thing to remember about SingStar 80's is that you don't have to be a good singer to play it. You can freestyle on the game, where you don't get rated at all for your singing, you just sing. But even when you do play to be rated, all they look for is that you sing high when it's a high note, low when it's a low note and you hold the note when it's a long note. Even better, you can play PONG on the game and you move your paddle up and down by singing high and low notes. This game is hours of fun!
I don't particularly think of myself as a good singer. I sing all the time to the radio and sometimes when I'm alone. It doesn't mean I'm good, it just means that I like singing. When it comes to singing in front of a crowd, I'm a bit shy. People always tell me to get up and sing in pubs and at parties. Not because I'm good, because when I'm drunk enough, I will.
I always thought that it took a special level of drink to get me to sing. Just enough to loosen my courage. Too much, and I'm TOTALLY off key and can't remember the words. I always thought that I didn't sound too bad when I had that special level to loosen my courage... was I ever wrong! You can playback the song you sang on SingStar 80's and let me tell you, it doesn't always sound pretty!
The first night we got it, I sang for hours! I kept telling myself, 'One more song, one more song.' Then I'd look at the menu and see another song I wanted to sing. This went on for hours. Even worse, towards the end of the night, I turned into a bitchy diva. My husband asked me if I was coming to bed and I said, (into the microphone of course) 'NO, I have to sing a couple more songs!'
My husband won't sing with me, but we still have great fun on the microphones.
We use the microphones to tell each other we have to go to the toilet or to get something out of the kitchen. We use the microphones to talk to our kitties and I tell our fish Rocky to get out of the pool for a ten minute break. It's all great fun!
If I actually had many friends here, I'd invite them all over for a SingStar 80's party! Alas, as fun as this game is, I'm going to be singing solo for a while. If you have a PS2 and you are missing your youth, I highly recommend this game! And if Billy Idol is in your area, I highly recommend going to see him. But if he offers you backstage passes in your dreams, you might want to tell him no.
What is consuming my thoughts today is: SingStar 80's for the PS2. I keep glancing at the PS2 with overwhelming temptation. I don't really like to play video games, but this of course, is not a game as such. SingStar 80's is my fountain of youth! SingStar 80's is my childhood.
Now, you can't have EVERY song of your youth of course. But it's a pretty good selection. Although, I would have loved if they had Love is a Battlefield by Pat Benatar on there. I love most all sides of the 80's. The pop side, rap, punk, the dark side of the 80's. About the only thing I never liked about the 80's was the hair bands (hence my previous Journey post). I won't deny I know all the words to most of Def Leppard's songs, but it doesn't mean I liked them.
The important thing to remember about SingStar 80's is that you don't have to be a good singer to play it. You can freestyle on the game, where you don't get rated at all for your singing, you just sing. But even when you do play to be rated, all they look for is that you sing high when it's a high note, low when it's a low note and you hold the note when it's a long note. Even better, you can play PONG on the game and you move your paddle up and down by singing high and low notes. This game is hours of fun!
I don't particularly think of myself as a good singer. I sing all the time to the radio and sometimes when I'm alone. It doesn't mean I'm good, it just means that I like singing. When it comes to singing in front of a crowd, I'm a bit shy. People always tell me to get up and sing in pubs and at parties. Not because I'm good, because when I'm drunk enough, I will.
I always thought that it took a special level of drink to get me to sing. Just enough to loosen my courage. Too much, and I'm TOTALLY off key and can't remember the words. I always thought that I didn't sound too bad when I had that special level to loosen my courage... was I ever wrong! You can playback the song you sang on SingStar 80's and let me tell you, it doesn't always sound pretty!
The first night we got it, I sang for hours! I kept telling myself, 'One more song, one more song.' Then I'd look at the menu and see another song I wanted to sing. This went on for hours. Even worse, towards the end of the night, I turned into a bitchy diva. My husband asked me if I was coming to bed and I said, (into the microphone of course) 'NO, I have to sing a couple more songs!'
My husband won't sing with me, but we still have great fun on the microphones.
We use the microphones to tell each other we have to go to the toilet or to get something out of the kitchen. We use the microphones to talk to our kitties and I tell our fish Rocky to get out of the pool for a ten minute break. It's all great fun!
If I actually had many friends here, I'd invite them all over for a SingStar 80's party! Alas, as fun as this game is, I'm going to be singing solo for a while. If you have a PS2 and you are missing your youth, I highly recommend this game! And if Billy Idol is in your area, I highly recommend going to see him. But if he offers you backstage passes in your dreams, you might want to tell him no.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Memories of an Ass
Do you ever think about all the things you've said or done throughout your life? Most things, you may not be able to remember. I would consider that fortunate if you weren't able to remember. Other things, YOU may not remember, but the person with you at the time may remember. Which they will inevitably remind you at a later date exactly what you did say or do.
Friends are a wonderful people to have in your life. Thankfully, yet unfortunately, most of the friends I have have been my friends for many, many years! Our bonds are deep rooted, we have all known each other since we were children. You know, back in those days when you couldn't blame alcohol for the things you said or did. Well, I suppose depending on your particular childhood anyway.
They say hindsight is 20/20. If I knew then what I know now, I would have chosen friends with short memories. Instead, I have friends that can tell me about things I said and did 20 odd years ago. Things, that I have long forgotten, if I ever remembered them in the first place. Things, that I would never want repeated to me again!
They should feel fortunate to have me as a friend. My memory is very random and selective, kind of like a politicians. I never forget a birthday or anniversary because I write it down. My memories are associated with events, places, feelings, etc. Sensory memories. I don't remember things I or other people have said. I forget what my husband has said to me two seconds after he's said it. If I was even listening in the first place! Seriously, I have asked him and he has told me at LEAST 10 times who a particular couple is. He tells me I ask him every time we see them. But I still don't remember their names and I couldn't tell you what they look like. Yet I could still rattle off Jabberwocky to you, piss drunk, even though I memorised it over 10 years ago.
I think we should be able to subject our friends and spouses to selective labotomies. Wipe out all of their memories of your most embarrassing moments and the stupidest things you've ever said. Then the slate is clean for you give them new embarrassing moments and stupid comments to fill their 'You' file with. So then they'll have new things to remind you of at a later date.
As that is not going to happen, I guess I'm just stuck being the eternal ass in everyone's mind.
Friends are a wonderful people to have in your life. Thankfully, yet unfortunately, most of the friends I have have been my friends for many, many years! Our bonds are deep rooted, we have all known each other since we were children. You know, back in those days when you couldn't blame alcohol for the things you said or did. Well, I suppose depending on your particular childhood anyway.
They say hindsight is 20/20. If I knew then what I know now, I would have chosen friends with short memories. Instead, I have friends that can tell me about things I said and did 20 odd years ago. Things, that I have long forgotten, if I ever remembered them in the first place. Things, that I would never want repeated to me again!
They should feel fortunate to have me as a friend. My memory is very random and selective, kind of like a politicians. I never forget a birthday or anniversary because I write it down. My memories are associated with events, places, feelings, etc. Sensory memories. I don't remember things I or other people have said. I forget what my husband has said to me two seconds after he's said it. If I was even listening in the first place! Seriously, I have asked him and he has told me at LEAST 10 times who a particular couple is. He tells me I ask him every time we see them. But I still don't remember their names and I couldn't tell you what they look like. Yet I could still rattle off Jabberwocky to you, piss drunk, even though I memorised it over 10 years ago.
I think we should be able to subject our friends and spouses to selective labotomies. Wipe out all of their memories of your most embarrassing moments and the stupidest things you've ever said. Then the slate is clean for you give them new embarrassing moments and stupid comments to fill their 'You' file with. So then they'll have new things to remind you of at a later date.
As that is not going to happen, I guess I'm just stuck being the eternal ass in everyone's mind.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Preaching to the Masses
While visiting the brother in law and his family this weekend in Ballymore, I was witness to an unusual scene. Now, before I describe this scene, let me first tell you what it is like in Ballymore. Ballymore, is just outside of Mullingar. While I am generally unimpressed with the terrain of the midlands, turf bogs, boreens, fields as far as the eye can see... Mullingar is a fair sized, thriving town. There are plenty of shops, pubs, and restaurants in Mullingar. About 20 minutes outside of Mullingar, lies Ballymore. Ballymore, a place where the local shop is appropriately called 'The Store' simply because there is no other shop to contest that. A place where the boreens and turf bogs are plentiful. A place where a whole new meaning is given to the comical 'Traffic Jam in Ireland' postcards with loads of sheep in the road; Because this actually happens in a place like Ballymore.
Regardless of the surrounds of Ballymore, we always have a lovely visit with the brother in law and the family. As was custom this weekend. Good food, good company, play with the nieces and nephew, have a drink, a chat and a laugh in the evenings. The one comment I always seem to make half way through the two and a half hour journey is, 'Oh, we should have brought the camera.' Was I ever sorry I forgot the camera on this journey. Alas, I can only try to describe the ethereal vision that I beheld.
Being banished to the colder climes to enjoy my morning fag, I was taking in the scenery while I sat on the stoop out back. A low lying fog covered the cow filled fields. While imbibing my first nicotine of day, I enjoyed the relative stillness and quiet of the morning. With the occasional, 'moooo' from my dim witted companions. Suddenly, I thought I could hear someone talking in the distance, yet it seemed to be coming closer. I still couldn't see anyone, but laughed to myself thinking if my dim witted companions could really talk, would they have Irish accents? A figure started to emerge from the fog and came to stand on a hill in the middle of the cow filled field. I laughed again to myself, thinking of technology in a sense, and what farmers of days of old what have thought of mobile phones. Especially this particular farmer, in the middle of his field of cows, moving to higher ground so he could talk on his mobile. I even pondered what the person the farmer was talking to, thought of the occasional, yet loud, mooing in the background. All of these things, kept me amused, but did not prepare me for what happened next.
Now I know cows are nosy. When I used to hang the laundry out at the mother and father in law's house, I would moo to the cows across the ditch at the bottom of the garden. I would get about 5-10 cows that would come up to that clearing in the trees where they could see me and they would all just stand and stare at me. I would antagonise them further by continually saying, 'Hi moo cows.' I suppose I needed to feel like I had a pet. Cows don't make good pets, but they were better than my other option... rats. I digress....
So, here we are, a low lying fog on a cow filled field, with a lone figure, standing on a hill, talking on his mobile. The cows made a clearing around the hill the farmer was standing on and all gathered round in a circle to stare at the farmer. I kid you not! They stood like perfect statues, all staring at the man on top of the hill. He paced around a bit while he talked, but their eyes never left him and they never shifted their poses. With it being a Sunday and all, the thought occurred to me that I was witnessing an ethereal vision of cows in church. As I couldn't actually see the man's mobile, it looked like he was talking to the cows. They were listening intently too, every once in a while, a cow would let out a big moo, as if agreeing with what was being said. I think I was as captivated as the cows were at what I was witnessing. I was so sorry that I didn't have a camera to capture this strange moment forever.
I knew I needed a witness. I quietly went into the house to get my husband so he could see this strange apparition as well to confirm I wasn't dreaming. When my husband came out with me, the farmer was gone. But the cows were still in the exact same position, all standing motionless, in a circle, staring at the now empty hill.
I've never liked going to church. I've always found it to be very early on a Sunday, which is supposed to be a day of rest. That's what I tend to do when I go to church, rest. It's like someone reading me a story to lull me to sleep. Yet I find myself having a newfound reverance. I think I'm going to buy me some wellies. Come next Sunday, I'm going to find me a perfect cow filled field, complete with low lying fog and a nice little hill. Watch out moo cows, here I come, I think you'll be interested in what I have to say!
Regardless of the surrounds of Ballymore, we always have a lovely visit with the brother in law and the family. As was custom this weekend. Good food, good company, play with the nieces and nephew, have a drink, a chat and a laugh in the evenings. The one comment I always seem to make half way through the two and a half hour journey is, 'Oh, we should have brought the camera.' Was I ever sorry I forgot the camera on this journey. Alas, I can only try to describe the ethereal vision that I beheld.
Being banished to the colder climes to enjoy my morning fag, I was taking in the scenery while I sat on the stoop out back. A low lying fog covered the cow filled fields. While imbibing my first nicotine of day, I enjoyed the relative stillness and quiet of the morning. With the occasional, 'moooo' from my dim witted companions. Suddenly, I thought I could hear someone talking in the distance, yet it seemed to be coming closer. I still couldn't see anyone, but laughed to myself thinking if my dim witted companions could really talk, would they have Irish accents? A figure started to emerge from the fog and came to stand on a hill in the middle of the cow filled field. I laughed again to myself, thinking of technology in a sense, and what farmers of days of old what have thought of mobile phones. Especially this particular farmer, in the middle of his field of cows, moving to higher ground so he could talk on his mobile. I even pondered what the person the farmer was talking to, thought of the occasional, yet loud, mooing in the background. All of these things, kept me amused, but did not prepare me for what happened next.
Now I know cows are nosy. When I used to hang the laundry out at the mother and father in law's house, I would moo to the cows across the ditch at the bottom of the garden. I would get about 5-10 cows that would come up to that clearing in the trees where they could see me and they would all just stand and stare at me. I would antagonise them further by continually saying, 'Hi moo cows.' I suppose I needed to feel like I had a pet. Cows don't make good pets, but they were better than my other option... rats. I digress....
So, here we are, a low lying fog on a cow filled field, with a lone figure, standing on a hill, talking on his mobile. The cows made a clearing around the hill the farmer was standing on and all gathered round in a circle to stare at the farmer. I kid you not! They stood like perfect statues, all staring at the man on top of the hill. He paced around a bit while he talked, but their eyes never left him and they never shifted their poses. With it being a Sunday and all, the thought occurred to me that I was witnessing an ethereal vision of cows in church. As I couldn't actually see the man's mobile, it looked like he was talking to the cows. They were listening intently too, every once in a while, a cow would let out a big moo, as if agreeing with what was being said. I think I was as captivated as the cows were at what I was witnessing. I was so sorry that I didn't have a camera to capture this strange moment forever.
I knew I needed a witness. I quietly went into the house to get my husband so he could see this strange apparition as well to confirm I wasn't dreaming. When my husband came out with me, the farmer was gone. But the cows were still in the exact same position, all standing motionless, in a circle, staring at the now empty hill.
I've never liked going to church. I've always found it to be very early on a Sunday, which is supposed to be a day of rest. That's what I tend to do when I go to church, rest. It's like someone reading me a story to lull me to sleep. Yet I find myself having a newfound reverance. I think I'm going to buy me some wellies. Come next Sunday, I'm going to find me a perfect cow filled field, complete with low lying fog and a nice little hill. Watch out moo cows, here I come, I think you'll be interested in what I have to say!
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Mensa
Let us all ponder Mensa. Mensa, means 'table' in Latin, therefore, it's members consider themselves a kind of 'knights of the round table' I suppose. They consider themselves a society where race, colour, creed, national origin, age, politics, educational or social background are irrelevent (this, all taken straight from the Mensa website)... BUT, you have to take IQ tests to join, and your IQ has to fall within the top 2% of the population. So, riddle me this, how is that not a stigma on the utopian like society of so called intellectuals?
You are free to discuss what you like in forums, go to lectures, blah, blah, blah...
Although, you have to have an IQ that falls within the top 2% of the population to enjoy such discussions, forums, lectures, etc. Apparently stupid people aren't allowed to enjoy such things because they are all politically mad, racist, social deviants! Mind you, I do feel it takes a special level of ignorance to be a racist in any sense of the word. Although, I don't feel I'm being racist against Mensa, I am just bothered that they would put themselves at so lofty a height above others. Forget the whole, 'Mensa means 'table' in Latin,' I think Mensa means, Many Egoists Needing Superlative Affirmation. What makes them so much better than everyone else?
Maybe I'm just bitter because I can't join Mensa. Seriously, I have an IQ of like 70, the free online IQ tests told me as much! The average IQ is 100. That makes me below average. Sure, I can read and write, but that's about it!
I'm going to start my own sub par intellectual group. Who's with me? We can have discussions, forums, and lectures about things like: Kitty cats, purple leopard printed pajama bottoms, the extensive collection of dust bunnies under our beds... whatever our little brains desire!
I'll let it be an open forum as to what we will call ourselves. I have a cold beer in the fridge with my name on it, many cigarettes to smoke yet, and Jerry Springer to watch on the telly!
You are free to discuss what you like in forums, go to lectures, blah, blah, blah...
Although, you have to have an IQ that falls within the top 2% of the population to enjoy such discussions, forums, lectures, etc. Apparently stupid people aren't allowed to enjoy such things because they are all politically mad, racist, social deviants! Mind you, I do feel it takes a special level of ignorance to be a racist in any sense of the word. Although, I don't feel I'm being racist against Mensa, I am just bothered that they would put themselves at so lofty a height above others. Forget the whole, 'Mensa means 'table' in Latin,' I think Mensa means, Many Egoists Needing Superlative Affirmation. What makes them so much better than everyone else?
Maybe I'm just bitter because I can't join Mensa. Seriously, I have an IQ of like 70, the free online IQ tests told me as much! The average IQ is 100. That makes me below average. Sure, I can read and write, but that's about it!
I'm going to start my own sub par intellectual group. Who's with me? We can have discussions, forums, and lectures about things like: Kitty cats, purple leopard printed pajama bottoms, the extensive collection of dust bunnies under our beds... whatever our little brains desire!
I'll let it be an open forum as to what we will call ourselves. I have a cold beer in the fridge with my name on it, many cigarettes to smoke yet, and Jerry Springer to watch on the telly!
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Ta Se's
While watching An American Werewolf in London for the umpteenth time the other night, I was reminded of a pub here in Ireland. Not so dissimilar to The Slaughtered Lamb in the film. Of course, there were no underlying secrets of werewolves to speak of (at least not that I know of). I think the only underlying secret you'll find in Ta Se's, which really isn't much of a secret, is that the patrons are all regulars and all most likely chronic drunks.
When you walk into Ta Se's, there is a sort of antechamber before you actually enter the pub. It's almost like you walk into a closet before you can actually enter the bar area. Shrouded in mystery you say? Like a Shriner's convention? Well, this was my first (and only) encounter with Ta Se's, it was a bit of a mystery to me anyway. I asked my husband what the little room was for. Trev, usually being the eternal tour guide and explaining such mysteries to me. But even Trev didn't know. Normally, I'm not shy about asking questions about all things mysterious or baffling. Although, upon entering the bar from the closet (reminding me of something straight out of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe), all the questions in my head made a great cacophony then were silenced. It was quite like the scene of the two foreign travellers entering The Slaughtered Lamb in An American Werewolf in London. All conversation ceased and they all just stared at us. I would have half expected to see a pentagram on the wall with two candles lit on either side of it. There was music playing on a jukebox. I waited for the music to scratch to a halt as well. Although, if it had, I might have turned around and walked right back out into the closet I came from right then and there.
It is no unnatural occurrence for everyone to take a moment to look up and stare at you upon entering any pub here. It's unsettling at first, but you tend to get used to it. The difference in Ta Se's, they never stopped looking at us. Daggers, that's how I would tend to explain it, they were all giving us daggers. That is to say, they could have killed us with their stares.
Now I must stop to explain the company I was in at the time. Trev, my husband, a true Irishman, medium height, slight build, gorgeous, with freckles. Trev's brother in law, Will, English, a Londoner, very tall, medium build. Then myself, an American, short and pudgy. I won't deny that we were probably and odd looking trio, with the obvious distinction in differing accents. In fact, every time the three of us went out, I always felt like we were the epitome of some bad joke in ourselves: So, there's an Irishman, an Englishman, and an American girl.... Right, back to the story.
So, this is the kind of pub where you just stick to the usual, nothing fancy. Guinness, Cider, grand... You don't start asking them if they have things like white wine spritzers, cosmopolitans, women's toilets, water, etc. You know the answer is going to be, ' We don't have no fancy lark like that.' Followed by a dirty, judgemental look that resembles someone examining a piece of poo on their shoe. Trev and Will ascertain the bartender to be of sound standing before they even order. This is based on the fact that he is donning a Liverpool jersey. Any fellow Liverpool supporter is a friend of theirs, or so they think. They also know him for whatever particular trade he does aside from pulling pints at mysterious Ta Se's. So, Trev, with his Irish accent, orders a pint of Guinness. Me, with my American accent, orders a pint of cider. Will, with his London accent, tests the boundaries and orders a pint of Heineken (he got the dirty, 'poo on my shoe' look). No Heineken. So, he gets a pint of Foster's instead. Meanwhile, the daggers haven't abated in the slightest.
We sat very near to the door of the closet/entrance. It was subconscious I suppose. But I think it had a bit to do with the intimidation of walking any further into the daggers. We all quickly gulped our pints in a rather uncharacteristic silence. I had burning questions on my tongue that I was highly tempted to ask the bartender: What's with the cloakroom and daggers? Is there actually a women's toilet in here? Is there really poo on the bottom of your shoe? I tried not to look around at all the people still staring at us, but I couldn't help it. I humbly looked back at my pint, then at Trev, with a glint in my eye, like a dog waiting for you to throw the ball. I knew he knew that I was dying to start asking anyone questions about these enigmas we beheld. He halted my silent struggle when he said, 'I've never felt like a tourist in my own town before... until now.' He then made it a point to remind Will and myself that it was our idea to come Ta Se's, that we'd never been here before and we just HAD to come and see what it was like, are we satisfied now.. Blah, blah, blah.
We downed the rest of our pints. I had to pee really bad and there was no women's toilet in sight. I wasn't about to ask the bartender if one existed, and if it did, where it was located. I was full sure that everyone would start laughing at me or that he'd point me in the direction of a patch of nettles outside or something. Instead, I looked at Trev and Will and said, 'Let's go, NOW, before the daggers kill us and before I pee my pants.'
I later found out the answers to the mysteries of Ta Se's, by our coal man. Our coal man is a very nice man. He always has a chat with me when he delivers the coal. Apparently, his brothers own Ta Se's. The closet, when you walk in, is still there from the days when that's the only further women could go into a pub. It was the only section women could be served in. He also informed me that the former owner (Ta Se's namesake) knew English, but would only speak to people in Irish. He refused to serve women as well, whether they were in the closet or not. His nickname was Ta, his surname was Shea, hence the name, Ta Se's (the Se is pronounced, Shea). Our coal man also told me that they are a 'good' bunch in Ta Se's. He reckons the only reason they all stared at us was to see if they knew us. All I know is this: If a real pub too closely resembles a fictional pub in a film, called The Slaughtered Lamb, it's best to stay out of it. Most importantly, I don't have to worry about it anymore, because I'm never going to Ta Se's again!
When you walk into Ta Se's, there is a sort of antechamber before you actually enter the pub. It's almost like you walk into a closet before you can actually enter the bar area. Shrouded in mystery you say? Like a Shriner's convention? Well, this was my first (and only) encounter with Ta Se's, it was a bit of a mystery to me anyway. I asked my husband what the little room was for. Trev, usually being the eternal tour guide and explaining such mysteries to me. But even Trev didn't know. Normally, I'm not shy about asking questions about all things mysterious or baffling. Although, upon entering the bar from the closet (reminding me of something straight out of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe), all the questions in my head made a great cacophony then were silenced. It was quite like the scene of the two foreign travellers entering The Slaughtered Lamb in An American Werewolf in London. All conversation ceased and they all just stared at us. I would have half expected to see a pentagram on the wall with two candles lit on either side of it. There was music playing on a jukebox. I waited for the music to scratch to a halt as well. Although, if it had, I might have turned around and walked right back out into the closet I came from right then and there.
It is no unnatural occurrence for everyone to take a moment to look up and stare at you upon entering any pub here. It's unsettling at first, but you tend to get used to it. The difference in Ta Se's, they never stopped looking at us. Daggers, that's how I would tend to explain it, they were all giving us daggers. That is to say, they could have killed us with their stares.
Now I must stop to explain the company I was in at the time. Trev, my husband, a true Irishman, medium height, slight build, gorgeous, with freckles. Trev's brother in law, Will, English, a Londoner, very tall, medium build. Then myself, an American, short and pudgy. I won't deny that we were probably and odd looking trio, with the obvious distinction in differing accents. In fact, every time the three of us went out, I always felt like we were the epitome of some bad joke in ourselves: So, there's an Irishman, an Englishman, and an American girl.... Right, back to the story.
So, this is the kind of pub where you just stick to the usual, nothing fancy. Guinness, Cider, grand... You don't start asking them if they have things like white wine spritzers, cosmopolitans, women's toilets, water, etc. You know the answer is going to be, ' We don't have no fancy lark like that.' Followed by a dirty, judgemental look that resembles someone examining a piece of poo on their shoe. Trev and Will ascertain the bartender to be of sound standing before they even order. This is based on the fact that he is donning a Liverpool jersey. Any fellow Liverpool supporter is a friend of theirs, or so they think. They also know him for whatever particular trade he does aside from pulling pints at mysterious Ta Se's. So, Trev, with his Irish accent, orders a pint of Guinness. Me, with my American accent, orders a pint of cider. Will, with his London accent, tests the boundaries and orders a pint of Heineken (he got the dirty, 'poo on my shoe' look). No Heineken. So, he gets a pint of Foster's instead. Meanwhile, the daggers haven't abated in the slightest.
We sat very near to the door of the closet/entrance. It was subconscious I suppose. But I think it had a bit to do with the intimidation of walking any further into the daggers. We all quickly gulped our pints in a rather uncharacteristic silence. I had burning questions on my tongue that I was highly tempted to ask the bartender: What's with the cloakroom and daggers? Is there actually a women's toilet in here? Is there really poo on the bottom of your shoe? I tried not to look around at all the people still staring at us, but I couldn't help it. I humbly looked back at my pint, then at Trev, with a glint in my eye, like a dog waiting for you to throw the ball. I knew he knew that I was dying to start asking anyone questions about these enigmas we beheld. He halted my silent struggle when he said, 'I've never felt like a tourist in my own town before... until now.' He then made it a point to remind Will and myself that it was our idea to come Ta Se's, that we'd never been here before and we just HAD to come and see what it was like, are we satisfied now.. Blah, blah, blah.
We downed the rest of our pints. I had to pee really bad and there was no women's toilet in sight. I wasn't about to ask the bartender if one existed, and if it did, where it was located. I was full sure that everyone would start laughing at me or that he'd point me in the direction of a patch of nettles outside or something. Instead, I looked at Trev and Will and said, 'Let's go, NOW, before the daggers kill us and before I pee my pants.'
I later found out the answers to the mysteries of Ta Se's, by our coal man. Our coal man is a very nice man. He always has a chat with me when he delivers the coal. Apparently, his brothers own Ta Se's. The closet, when you walk in, is still there from the days when that's the only further women could go into a pub. It was the only section women could be served in. He also informed me that the former owner (Ta Se's namesake) knew English, but would only speak to people in Irish. He refused to serve women as well, whether they were in the closet or not. His nickname was Ta, his surname was Shea, hence the name, Ta Se's (the Se is pronounced, Shea). Our coal man also told me that they are a 'good' bunch in Ta Se's. He reckons the only reason they all stared at us was to see if they knew us. All I know is this: If a real pub too closely resembles a fictional pub in a film, called The Slaughtered Lamb, it's best to stay out of it. Most importantly, I don't have to worry about it anymore, because I'm never going to Ta Se's again!
Monday, October 17, 2005
Misspelled Jornies
I once heard a story about a woman who loved the band Journey. In fact, she loved Journey so much, she went to a lad that did home tattoos and asked him to tattoo Journey down her leg in big black letters. He actually did the tattoo for her!
She was all excited to get the tattoo because she was going out on the raz this night. She couldn't wait to show off her new Journey tattoo. So, she goes out this evening, wearing a skirt, so she can show off her new tattoo. I bet it was a cold night too. I'm sure she suffered the cold just so she could wear a skirt and show everyone her tattoo, declaring her love and devotion to Journey.
I'm sure she thought she was the dog's bullocks with her new tattoo. That was, until someone points it out to her that Journey, is spelled JOURNEY, not JORNEY.
There are so many things wrong with this story on so many levels.... where does one start? 1. There has to be serious questions asked about anyone who loves Journey. 2. There are some serious issues going on if someone not only loves Journey, but loves them so much that they want to get their name tattooed in big black letters down their leg. Then, actually WANT other people to see it. 3. Make sure the person giving you a home tattoo knows how to spell!!! You can't go around for the rest of your life with a misspelled word in big black letters down your leg. How cool would you really look with JORNEY ( or JOURNEY, if the man actually knew how to spell) tattooed down your leg. Let alone, JO little arrow pointing down,U, RNEY.
Maybe he realised the error of her ways and just didn't want to refuse the money... Maybe he did it on purpose. Just to show her how much of an ass she was for not only loving Journey, but for wanting it tattooed in big black letters down her leg, with the intentions of showing it off to everyone she could. Maybe he had the last laugh there?
The moral of the story: Journey sucks!
She was all excited to get the tattoo because she was going out on the raz this night. She couldn't wait to show off her new Journey tattoo. So, she goes out this evening, wearing a skirt, so she can show off her new tattoo. I bet it was a cold night too. I'm sure she suffered the cold just so she could wear a skirt and show everyone her tattoo, declaring her love and devotion to Journey.
I'm sure she thought she was the dog's bullocks with her new tattoo. That was, until someone points it out to her that Journey, is spelled JOURNEY, not JORNEY.
There are so many things wrong with this story on so many levels.... where does one start? 1. There has to be serious questions asked about anyone who loves Journey. 2. There are some serious issues going on if someone not only loves Journey, but loves them so much that they want to get their name tattooed in big black letters down their leg. Then, actually WANT other people to see it. 3. Make sure the person giving you a home tattoo knows how to spell!!! You can't go around for the rest of your life with a misspelled word in big black letters down your leg. How cool would you really look with JORNEY ( or JOURNEY, if the man actually knew how to spell) tattooed down your leg. Let alone, JO little arrow pointing down,U, RNEY.
Maybe he realised the error of her ways and just didn't want to refuse the money... Maybe he did it on purpose. Just to show her how much of an ass she was for not only loving Journey, but for wanting it tattooed in big black letters down her leg, with the intentions of showing it off to everyone she could. Maybe he had the last laugh there?
The moral of the story: Journey sucks!
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