Filed under: LOVE, Parents, Relationships, Single life, heartache | Tags: alcohol, christmas, death, family, holidays, LOVE
Christmas is like being wrapped up by your friends and family in a big, warm cuddle. It’s about showing the people in your life that you love them by buying them novelty bottle openers and heart-shaped frying pans. It’s a time to bond with people in the pub by singing Christmas carols and relishing the annual free drink from the barman.
We’ve always had wonderful Christmases – two great parents, four excited kids, and a big family gathering in Dublin to celebrate on the day itself. The sad thing about our family gatherings is that the numbers have been dwindling since our childhood. This year is proving to be the most distressing so far – I saw my Grandfather yesterday, and he told me that he wishes he were dead. Wow.
I’ve mentioned my Grandfather before – an incredible, inspirational man who sadly has a tendency to see the worst in everything (and everyone) around him. He’s taught me so much throughout his life, and it pains me that the biggest lesson I’ll ever learn will be from his death. He’s alone. He’s alienated most of the people who care about him, he’s frightened and bullied the nursing staff he’s met over the last few months. He has refused offers of help and mocked the thoughtful efforts of his neighbours.
The lesson is so obvious that I’m not going into it. The message I’d like to spread in my last pre-Christmas post is one I’ve written before:
Love the world – it’ll love you back.
Tonight I’m going out with The Femme, a couple of her friends and… the man. Yes, the Unlikely Valentine is still on the scene. There have been phonecalls, messages, and a couple of rendevous. It’s all getting a bit pedestrian. I’ve made a conscious decision not to touch a drop of the bad stuff over the holidays – let the early mornings, extravagant meals and epic Monopoly games begin!
Happy Christmas
Filed under: LOVE, Relationships, Single life, wisdom | Tags: alcohol, first kiss, hipflask, LOVE, lover, nostalgia, passion, school, valentine
This is a story about a boy. My clearest childhood memory is of him giving me a Valentine’s gift when we were both seven. We were preparing for our communion that year, and although I didn’t know him well I knew him well enough to be suspicious of the gift. He was a boy, and a bad boy at that. I can still feel the terror of that moment; being handed a gift-wrapped present in front of the whole class on my arrival at school that morning. I was sure that it was going to blow up in my face, that it was a horrible trick designed to embarrass me. It was a grey teddy with heart-shaped glasses. Three years later he repeated the gesture.
He was my first Valentine. Years later, my first kiss with tongue. Aged 14, my first encounter with male genitalia. From the age of 17 onwards he was a regular feature on my weekend scene, which mainly involved drinking too much and collecting experiences with men to entertain my friends with during the week.
I don’t think I’m going to be able to find the words to tell this story properly. I wish I could describe the feeling of seeing him on the dancefloor on a Saturday night, after studiously ignoring him all week in school. The strobing lights, 90s music and grinding couples fading into one another as his gaze held me helpless. The agonizing anticipation of those moments, the electric expectation finally giving way to ecstatic relief as he touched me, held me, danced with me and kissed me like nobody else could.
We slept together, once. We’d finished school and I was in town with a friend of mine, enjoying our new-found freedom and testing the rules of the real world to the limit. The night, and the booze, led me to his single bed in a rented apartment crawling distance from the club.
And the years rolled by. I met him again, on another visit to the hometown. Another drunken night, another nightclub. I was obviously going through a responsible phase at the time; I didn’t take him home with me but I did take his hipflask as a souvenir.
And then last night. A familiar voice called out my name across the crowded beer garden of a local pub. And there he was. Older and rounder than the last time we met, but the same indescribable charm. I was defenseless. The evening ended in his house, drinking cans and talking shit into the small hours. This morning I woke up in his bed, cursed myself for my predictability, then made the most of the familiar yet mysterious body lying next to me.
That’s the thing about him. The mystery. All those years when we were in school together, we never spoke about our weekend flings. I never knew if there’d be a next time, and that intensified every touch, every kiss. He’s a lot of things, and leads an interesting life, but to me his biggest redeeming feature is that he’s a little bit dangerous. Because he drinks hard, gambles big, talks straight and lives for himself.
A no-strings relationship might not sound like the key to happiness to a lot of people. But in my 25 years the relationship I’ve had with him has been the most straightforward and possibly the most satisfying. It’s not love, it’s not even friendship, but it’s honest.
The oldest lover I’ve ever had was exactly 19 years, 364 days older than me. “Teach me something.” “The only thing I can tell you, the only thing I’ve learnt, is that it’s all about the passion.” I don’t think it would be possible for me to feel the passion I felt this morning for someone I was in a long-term relationship with. I’m not saying that passion has to fade over time; I’m saying that in most relationships that passion is never given a chance to grow. Distance, uncertainty and anticipation are the elements that make our relationship what it is.
I had to take the morning after pill today. Stupid, stupid, stupid. We had a brief discussion last night, during which we apparently decided that we were ready to start a family. The drunken mind is a truly fascinating, frightening thing.
Filed under: Literature, Single life, business | Tags: canaries, fuerteventura, holiday, jed rubenfeld, julian barnes, karaoke, laundry, Literature, psychoanalysis, winter sun
The Pirate and I landed in Dublin last night, still friends after our week in the sun together. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on me – the last holiday we took together as a couple was, over all, miserable, whereas our ‘just friends’ trip to the canaries was a resounding success.
Things that made me smile this week:
Grandma Patty, aged 70+, who murdered ‘What a Wonderful World’ at karaoke every night.
The Reptile Show, where I was blindfolded and handed a rather large python. I love reptiles, and my enjoyment of the experience was added to when the Pirate jumped out of his chair and left the building before I could introduce him to my new friend. Girl’s blouse.
A drive to the south of Fuerteventura, Pirate at the wheel, leaving me to admire the bizarre Martian landscape of the island.
‘The Interpretation of Murder’ by Jed Rubenfeld, a murder-mystery set in early 1900s New York with Freud and Jung at the centre of the action. Oedipal theory, dead bodies, and psychoanalysis galore.
‘Arthur and George’ by Julian Barnes, based on a real world miscarriage of justice in Victorian England. Arthur Conan Doyle becomes Sherlock Holmes in this beautifully written, meticulously researched novel. A British Knight with a penchant for disguises, a love affair hidden from a consumptive wife, the clever but remarkably ordinary George Edalji and the author’s droll sense of humour combine to create a book that demands attention.
I’ve designated today as a day off – to recover, unpack, and do laundry. Tomorrow I turn my energies back to the business and the real world. I’ve had a few thoughts this month that will undoubtedly make the New Year our most prosperous so far, but there’s a lot of work to be done between now and then.
I’m off to catch up on the blogs and happenings I’ve missed out on this week. What’s new with you?
Filed under: Uncategorized
I had an interview this morning. I must admit I love sitting around, drinking coffee, and talking about myself. Does that count as a hobby?
After a leisurely lunch with No.3 (my brother, one of four siblings), the Femme and the Vegetarian, I came home to assemble some flatpack furniture. A humble shoerack that took 3 people around 40 minutes to complete. My shoes are deeply appreciative of the gesture, although I had to stack them two pairs deep to accommodate my handbags.
Flatpack furniture makes me nostalgic. The sight of an allan key is evocative of so many memories, all involving men. Kurt and I, during our 3-year cohabitation, developed a loathing of flatpack that was matched only by a conviction that the other person was worse at assembling the awful, laminated chipboard boxes that populated our house. We grew more and more competetive over time. He’d leave the house, I’d almost have a hernia trying to erect a coffee table. I’d pop out to the shop, he’d risk his life by trying to piece together a wardrobe single-handedly.
One of the Aussie males who made an impact (there have been a few) described the experience of constructing those glorified cardboard furnishings as a more frustrating, more dangerous version of ‘pick up sticks’.
What a game. The most popular game a few summers running when I was a kid was simply called ’sticks’. It involved, well, sticks. That was back when kids had imaginations, and we actually got a summer, and Pluto was still a planet.
The Pirate played an important role in the assembly of the shoerack today. I asked if he’d seen my screwdriver – judging by his reaction, he obviously felt as if I was accussing him of indecently assaulting it. ‘What screwdriver?’ Mine. ‘What does it look like?’ A screwdriver. Never mind, do you know of any screwdriver I could use? ‘What kind?’ Philips head. ‘Here.’ He joined me 20 minutes later and told me that he had a better one, which he conceded to give me. Then he mentioned that he had an electric one in the car, which joined the party.
It’s like good cop, bad cop, and he’s both. Insolent, rude, moody. Helpful, generous, smiling. The Femme has a theory. ‘He still loves you.’
My position on unrequited love is very clear: I don’t believe in it. Lust, obsession, admiration, sure. Love? Nope. I don’t think it’s possible to love someone who doesn’t love you back. That love is one of the things that people fall in love with – it’s a dynamic, reciprocal thing. The chemistry that love creates is crucial – without it, you’re just a one-man fanclub.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: argument, boyfriend, cleaning, ex, paul carvel, quotation, reality, relationship, turtle
The Pirate and I had a brief spat yesterday. We were cleaning the oven, I tried to help him with his bit (cleaning the gunk off the wire racks) and he reacted like an insolent fourteen year old.
I hate the person that he thinks I am.
He sees me as a controlling, bossy bitch who gets stroppy when she doesn’t ‘get her own way’. I swear I’m not – I have been described as ‘too laid back’ on occassion. He just sees suggestions as commands and requests as orders. Another example – I recently asked him if he’d help me clean out the turtle’s tank.
Yes, he said.
Really? I asked.
Definitely, he replied.
When?
Right now.
I got started, and when there was no sign of him after ten minutes I went back into him and asked again.
Just tell me if you’re not going to help, I don’t mind doing it alone.
I will.
Ok.
Still no sign. I asked a third time and he angrily joined me, stomping, slamming doors and creating drama any way possible. Ok, maybe I shouldn’t have kept asking – but surely he should have just told me he didn’t want to help? He’s afraid of the word ‘no’. Terrified. Which leads to situations like the above on a regular basis.
This is possibly the dullest post I’ve ever written, but I do find it fascinating the way people twist reality to fit in with their own illusions. As far as he’s concerned, I demanded that he help straight away and got angry because he didn’t. As far as I’m concerned, he said he’d do something then didn’t do it, which led to me reacting reasonably distressed. Which one of us is right?
The operative word in the opening line above is ‘brief’. We got over it in record time. Because I know I don’t have to put up with this forever, that I’m not going to live with him for long, that we’re not going to have kids, because his issues have nothing to do with me anymore. Phew.
In other news, we’re going on a last minute sun holiday together. Yep. I’m packing a suitcase full of books I’ve been looking forward to reading, and leaving my phone at home. Heaven. And I think we’ll get along fine – there might be a disagreement or two, but that’s why we broke up, right?!
Ever been on holidays with your ex? Ever realised how incompatible you were because you had different methods of oven cleaning, or something equally ridiculous? I broke up with someone because I hated his shoes, and someone else because he was so tall that I could always see up his nose. As far as I’m concerned, if little things like that bother you there’s no point in pretending it’s ever going to work.
(The title is a quote from Paul Carvel.)
Filed under: LOVE, Parents, Relationships, Single life | Tags: chemistry, christmas, death, ex-boyfriend, guilty pleasure, lie-in, morris dance, multiverse, nocturnal, reaper man, shopping, sleeping in, terry pratchett, tk maxx
I’ve tried to start this post four times already, and the words just aren’t working today. I’ll just get to the point, shall I? Guilty pleasures. I touched on the subject in my last post and I feel like I need to take it a little further today – here are five things that make me go mmmmm:
5. Sleeping in
I’m not a morning person. That sounds so negative in itself – why can’t we simply say ‘I’m semi-nocturnal’ instead? A good lie-in brings me right through to lunchtime. Please don’t call me before 10am. I love to wake up early, safe in the knowledge that I can roll over and go back to sleep again, which I regularly do. I don’t know what causes the guilt – I work strange hours and am certainly as productive during my week as all the 9-5ers out there. But I automatically find myself answering “10am” to the “What time did you get up at?” question. Nobody buys it.
4. House
I’m working my way through the box-set. I’m getting a little anxious as I’m on Season 3 and the end is looming nearer than I’d like. Generally speaking, I hate TV. DVDs don’t count.
3. Terry Pratchett
I’m actually re-reading ‘Reaper Man’ right now. It was lurking on the back of my bookshelf behind all the intelligent, highbrow things I usually read. (!) What’s not to love about the idea that Death is a nice guy who ends up reaping the harvest on a small farm in a no-horse town? The opening line: “The Morris dance is common to all inhabited worlds in the multiverse” tickles me, even though I’m not sure that I know what Morris dancing is.
2. TK Maxx
Yesterday I indulged my Christmas spending craving with a juicer, a casserole and a present for my Mam:
Obviously, it’s a Crumb Pet. A teeny tiny hoover that picks up the crumbs from your kitchen table. She’ll love it.
TK Maxx is where I got my gorgeous Filofax for €12.99, a beautiful stone elephant for my office for around €4, and the afore-mentioned casserole and juicer were €12.00 and €10.00 respectively.
Why does shopping make me feel guilty?
1. My ex.
My ex is the person who inspired the ‘harbouring guilty thoughts’ theme. Even my sister sighs on occassion, looks off into the distance, and announces that he could have been a model. Still could, I guess, but I think it’s safer for me to think of him in the past tense. He idolised Kurt Cobain, and built his music, his wardrobe and his hairstlye around him, so it’s apt to call him Kurt.
Kurt and I met when we were 16/17. I was going through one of those horrible, painful, heartbreaking teenage dramas and he arrived just on time. He was a talker, a listener, and a comedian. We got together, and I broke up with him two weeks later. He was way too serious about ‘us’ – he was, and remains, a serial monogamist, and had jumped from one long-term relationship straight into ours. Long-term felt like a jail sentence to me at the time, and that was that.
We kept in touch, for years, until it reached a point in our lives where we were both single and interested once again. I had been living in Holland, but after a magical Christmas with him I quit my job, packed my stuff and headed home to the Emerald Isle. There followed three years of intense passion, immature promises, stupid mistakes, and an inevitable breakup. I left once again, this time to Australia, and we stayed in touch.
The funny thing about Kurt is that I honestly don’t find him attractive anymore. When I see him, I know that he’s not the person I lived with and loved for so long. We’ve both moved on, moved apart, and that’s healthy. The guilt in this instance is caused by the memories. I have so many beautiful memories of him, of us, that nobody else has been able to compare to since we broke up. It’s been two years, and nobody has made me laugh as much, made me cry as much, or turned me on as much as he did.
Chemistry. We had bucketloads of the stuff.
