Join the BEOMC today!

Today, on bus 11 home from Westmoreland Street, I saw something very strange. Such sightings seldom occur on Bus 11. While I've seen my share of scarf-headed old ladies with beards, moms with prams, and kids with skateboards-- today's vision was so rare and so unique that I doubt I'll ever see it again.

There were three old guys, all about 85, all wearing the same style cap in a different color or tweed, each sitting on their own seat with a bag or something propped next to them. And they each had HUGE ears. I'm not talking about big ears, or even impressively big ears, but HUGE ears-- the kind that made me wonder why any of these guys even bothered with a scarf, the lobes hung so low. In a pinch, they might also be used as a napkin; in a fit of anger, as a tool for slapping those who've misbehaved.

For these men, and others like them, I have invented the BEOMC-- The Big-Eared Old Man's Club. Those interested in membership should send a photo of their ears, accurate measurements of the ear-to-head ratio (number for ears must be larger than head circumference), and a short essay on the topic of why your ears deserve to be heard, to my home address in the USA. Membership will be granted based on the chance that you're clever enough to amuse me, and that your ears are indeed so large that even Dumbo would make fun of you. Good luck to all potential members.

And then there were chocolate chips

We put off the present-opening and such until my sister Amy, husband David, and their child-in-utero arrived on 12/26, which is still a proper holiday-- St. Stephen's Day-- in Ireland. No one really knows what St. Stephen's Day is for, but Andrew and I are pretty sure it's so Irish people can recover from their Big Irish Hangovers (these are far larger than any American hangover you or I have ever had, will ever have, or could ever hope to have).

Amy and David toted about a month's worth of diapers, toiletries, and gifts for Christmas and for Evan's birthday (he'll be ONE! on 1/2). Evan's butt will be clean, Andrew and I will be clean, and-- perhaps best of all-- I can bake something with chocolate chips in it to celebrate. 5 pounds of my sister's baggage was Ghirardelli-related, and it was all for ME!

Christmas in Ireland lasts a very long time. The people had Christmas Eve and Day off, 12/26-- St. Stephen's Day, and Bank Holidays on Monday and Tuesday. Some will work today and Thursday, and will be off again on Friday for New Year's Eve. Next week follows a similar pattern, with another Bank Holiday on Monday. What this means, of course, is that it's hard for tourists to see things because of the long duration of the Irish Christmas Season. RTE 1 and 2 are still showing seasonal programming, people are still wishing each other Happy Holiday, and today, I kid you not, someone walked down the street in a Santa hat. Enough already! Don't the Irish have WORK to do?

After this restive, festive, blessed season is over, things better start to change around here. I want the Irish to be entirely focused on customer service: speedy and timely. All paperwork should be date-stamped and filed alphabetically; all emails should be proofread and edited before sent; everything should be on sale for 75% off; no more coffee breaks one hour after arriving at work; measurements should be calculated using the Imperial system. Have a Happy New Year, but wipe that drunken smile off your face when you come back to work next Tuesday.

'Tis the Season

Christmas has arrived, wearing its tinsel-covered, jingle-belled, red-nose dress of glory. Tomorrow evening, like many people, I will go to church in hopes of singing "Come Emmanuel" while the acrid smell of incense burns my nostrils. I'll enjoy exchanging the sign of peace with other smiling Catholics, and saying "Happy Christmas" to them. I'll enjoy my day at home as I make preparations for Amy and David's arrival on 12/26, which is still a proper holiday here-- St. Stephen's Day.

As far as I can tell, in Ireland, Christmas means eating lots of junk and sitting on the couch watching movie after movie on RTE 2. That is, doing nothing at all-- but with family and friends close by; so, a whole bunch of people doing nothing together. The chance to do nothing thrills a lot of people. I'm not one of them.

To have a mind full of nothing, and to have a plate with nothing left on it doesn't seem festive, it seems comatose. That is why, during this Christmas, when I am far away from my friends and family, I will be filling my head with memories of Christmases past and creating dreams of future ones, where I'll be with my husband and kid(s), and my sisters and their spouses and kids at my parent's house.

Christmas makes us all feel a little magical. And yes, I am aware of how hokey that sounds, how un-writerly, and how much like a sorority girl opening a gift from her Secret Santa. However, there's a lot of truth in that as well.

So, this season, I extend my love and thanks to all the family and friends who care enough to look after Evan, Andrew, and myself, even though we are so far away. It means the world to us that we'll have gifts to open underneath our Christmas plant (Po' Bastards don't spring for trees, fake or not), and that we'll get the chance to thank many of you via phone on Christmas Day, or in person when you come to visit (with a sack of toiletries, Tuna Helper, and diapers under your arm).

Ho-ho-ho, we ain't got no snow!

The Case of the Missing 75.00 Euro.... Solved

As my reading public is well-aware, the locus of my social interaction these past few months has been the DCU gym. You will also recall, then, how I bitched and moaned about the membership fee of e75.00 for three months, plus an additional e2.50 per workout. As a materialist, I admire the business sense of whoever invented this pocket-fattening fee scheme; but as a Po' Bastard, I think the DCU gym should give me something for free.

The good news is that Po' Bastard wasn't disappointed. It is now perfectly clear why it costs so GODdamn much to join the gym. It's because I got a Christmas card from them. The card itself must've cost at least e25.00, and the postage another e25.00, the ink for printing out the labels probably cost about e20.00, which leaves e5.00 leftover for the poor desk worker who worked so hard to write personal messages in each card. That desk worker probably has carpal tunnel now.
In America, we could sue for something like that.

I wonder what Valentine's Day, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, and Mother's Day will bring. Hopefully a fat 20 karat three-strand diamond necklace, a check for a million Euro, a martini-glass shaped bathtub filled with gin and olives, and a Cadillac which can morph into a houseboat at the touch of a button.

I don't think it's too much to ask.

The Greatest, Fittest Super-Duo of All Time

Tuesday evening is Long Aerobics Night, something I look forward to each week. The first class is a 45 minute step and cardio class, and the second class is called BodyFlow, which is a mixture of yoga/tai-chi/pilates. The instructor, Aideen, is a short peppy girl with streaks of blond or red in her hair, depending on the week.

This past Saturday, I went to the gym and Aideen happened to be working at the front desk. We talked for awhile, and then she told me about a special thing she had in store. Her boyfriend, Jason, was also coming to class on Tuesday, and they were planning to teach together. It was going to be full cardio and no step. I was planning on going anyway, no matter what workout she had planned. I'm so very glad indeed that I went this evening. It was a great workout, motivational, energetic, and funny as hell.

Jason has a blond faux-hawk, and was wearing tight black shorts and a black tank top. Aideen wore a similar outfit, but with black pants. When they taught together they were totally in sync, and fed off one another's energy. If Aideen jumped higher than Jason, the next round Jason tried to jump higher than Aideen. If she said, "Whooo!" he said, "Hup! Hup! Here we go!" When we jogged in a circle and he said, "Kick those asses!", she said, "Knees up, up, up! Get 'em up!" They were a cross between the Will Farrell and Cheri O'Teri cheerleader skit from Saturday Night Live, and any male/female superduo you can think of, be it AquaMan/Girl, Superman/Woman, Hall and Oates (just checking to see if you're paying attention).

It was really hard not to fall on the floor laughing, though I wouldn't have been laughing at them; I would've been laughing because of them. The key difference here is that I wouldn't be making fun of them, I would be having fun because of them. (Think: Who have you laughed because of?)

After class I told them, "You guys are so cute. In America, you'd be wearing letter sweaters and cheering for the football squad." They laughed in unison. It was soooo cute. And then they went to the lockerroom, maybe to change into their matching tights and capes so they could fly through the air properly, one just a few inches ahead of the other.

PS: In previous post, Po' Bastard forgot to mention that the roll-out cookies were also not rolled-out with a rolling pin per se. Po' Bastard used an empty wine bottle, and because of successful results vows to use it for all eternity.

Hell-iday Season has begun

Christmas is coming! I can tell from the tacky tinsel wreaths on sale for e7.99 at the corner grocery. I can tell because "The Afternoon Show" on RTE 3 has been taste-testing Christmas puddings, champagnes and wines, turkeys, salads, and cheeses; they've modelled holiday clothing for the office party, and for the New Year's Eve out with your mates; and, of course, they've discussed the meaning of Bono's contribution to Band Aid 20 on every single episode. I can tell because I have Christmas cookie ornaments hanging in my windows. Yes, Christmas cookie ornaments.

Po' Bastard has baked every Christmas since 2000. Each year, Po' Bastard's roll-out cookies have failed to roll out, and Po' Bastard is stuck modeling a large lump of sugar-cookie or gingerbread dough into something edible and festive-looking. Christmas snake, anyone? But this year, the Baby Jesus smiled down into Po' Bastard's mixing bowl, and the roll-out cookies did actually roll out. They are strung with silver and red ribbon, from my windows, the curtain rods, and the kitchen cabinets. And because Po' Bastard believes in the spirit of Christmas, she anonymously hung one ornament on each of her neighbor's doors. That was earlier today, and they've since disappeared-- Po' Bastard believes they've been eaten. For not only did the roll-out cookies roll out, they also tasted pretty good.

So far, the highlight of the holiday season has been the Carols by Candlelight concert I attended last week. It was a fundraiser for St. Vincent de Paul, and for a small donation of e3.00, I helped myself to a mince pie and a glass of mulled wine, and settled in to hear a variety of student groups perform holiday songs. The Most Amusing Award goes to the group of Japanese students who giggled in unison before they began to sing "Jingle Bells." Who I most wanted to kiss under the misteltoe definitely had to be TradSoc: a threesome, a girl on piano (she really doesn't matter in this case), a skinny-legged shaggy-haired fiddler, and oh, heart-of-hearts, a red haired accordion player. They played a series of jigs and reels that had the audience a-clappin' and a-stompin' in their seats.

Apart from the fact that the radio plays the same five Christmas songs over and over, I'm quite glad to be in Dublin over the holidays. The Irish really do seem to grasp the "true" spirit, and are quite keen to spread it.

Tidings of (Southern) Comfort and Joy!

Priceshopping for Toiletries

Have you ever priceshopped for a tootbrush? Ladies, how about Maxi pads? Yesterday, I visited two stores in search of both items, and left empty handed each time.

Yesterday I went to the corner grocery, Spar, and the corner pharmacy, the name of which escapes me. In the former, a tootbrush cost e4.29 (about $5.65), and sanitary pads were about that much for 16. 16 pads! Some women can go through that in ONE day-- apparently Irish women are very light bleeders, unlike their American sisters, who have hemophiliac attacks once a month. In the latter, prices were worse, and the place smelled like mold. There was also no room in store, and with Evan in his front carrier, swinging his legs around like a monkey in a tree, I thought it best to leave while nothing had been knocked off a shelf and crashed to the ground.

Today I visited our local Big Tesco, about a 25 minute walk from our apartment. There, at UniCare Pharmacy, I was able to buy a giant pack of pads-- 24! For only e2.91. Unfortunately, UniCare must have an in-store policy about not pricing toothbrushes, to disguise the fact that a pint down at the local costs less than an Oral-B. After a bit of foraging, I found one that had a tag, and it was still e3.78.

I find myself wishing for SuperDrug, the cheapy drugstore I shopped at in Glasgow. There I could buy shampoo, conditioner, and four bars of soap for 6.00 lb. So my hair felt like straw and my skin like a saggy elephant's, but hey, I was still clean! Shopping in Dublin makes me want to dred my hair, grow my eyebrows and my mustache, and wash myself with Tesco Value Washing-Up Liquid, which is only 37c for a liter.

Tips for Frustrated Photographers

During the holiday season, you are likely to be snapping a lot of photos. Either you will be in them, or else you will be taking them. If you want your subject to smile unnaturally wide, it's all in what you ask them to "say." "Say cheese" is hokey and outdated. "Say ice cream," or any other food, is equally awful.

My paternal grandfather always told us, "Say shit," which produced massive giggles from, well, nearly everyone; and I'm sure his joke is responsible for the fact that the Dunning Christmas Eve photo looks more like a yearbook shot of retarded kids gathered around a tree in the library rather than a proper and sedate family photo.

If you are not a fan of my Grandpa Dunning's option, Andrew and I have compiled the following list for your convenience, general usage, and amusement. Ad lib if necessary.

1. Say "funky butt lovin'!"
2. Say "hairy vag."
3. Say "Tits."
4. Say "Twig and berries."
5. Say "Harry Crackensack."
6. Say "Sardine, Saltine, Dramamine."
7. Say "Superman!"
8. Say "Rummy bum."

Enjoy. The best pictures come to those without taste.

Rhymes with Fame....

Today Andrew, Evan, and I headed downtown to complete a number of tasks: 1) get my copy of Nigella Lawson's Feast signed by the Domestic Goddess Herself at the Dublin Bookshop in Grafton Street, 2) exchange a Celtic ring I bought for Andrew's Xmas gift, it was too large, and 3) select some Christmas gifts for Evan. I am glad to say we completed our tasks, the first two without much joy, which I will explain below.

Nigella Lawson is as beautiful in person as she is in her books and on TV. She wasn't very smiley and wasn't very chatty, but she travelled without a ton of assistants-- just her publicist, and two guys who sort of helped usher the crowd in and out. The bookstore only blocked off one hour for the signing. I got there 1/2 an hour early-- Andrew and Evan safely stowed at Burger King next door, got my ticket (like at a deli counter-- I was #39), and waited. I was one of the last people to get inside the store, they handed out more tickets after, and people had to wait outside. The bookstore managers came around with post-it notes and pens, saying, "It will just save time if you write your name, or whatever you want Nigella to write inside your book on this paper, that way she can just copy it down." That way she can copy it down, and pretty much avoid all interaction with you whatsoever, is what they meant.

#38 in line was a 16 year old kid, who was a surprisingly entertaining conversationalist. His father, who died in 2000, was a well-known Irish journalist who'd interviewed Nigella and John Diamond, her late husband. Apparently, it was a very touching article that made a big impression on John Diamond, who died a few months later from cancer. This young man didn't have a book for Nigella to sign, but he did have a candy bracelet for her. He approached the table, and after a long time trying to make Nigella guess who he was, finally introduced himself as this deceased journalist's son. Nigella said something to him like, "Oh, wow, I'm very pleased to meet you. Your dad was so great..." and then the kid scored her publicist's card, and promised to get in touch with them on Monday.

I said hello-I'm-a-big-fan-have-all-your-stuff-in-hardback. Nigella's publicist said, "Thanks so much. We're so glad."

So, while it was interesting to see Nigella Lawson in person, and while I will always buy her books and continue to cook from them, I also learned a lesson for my own future book signings: make eye contact, smile, love the people who love you. I could've become great friends with her, but #38 ruined it for me with the story about his dad! Some people have no concern for others' feelings.

My three most memorable brushes with fame: 1) seeing Anita Baker as Detroit's Thanksgiving Day Parade Marshal, sometime in the 1980's-- I was about 10 and after that became huge Anita Baker fan, 2) waiting on the steps at Graceland, and 3) having Nigella Lawson sign my beloved copy of Feast. There are a few others: I did have dinner with Robert Creeley during graduate school; and one time, in New York, I think I saw Toni Collette of Muriel's Wedding at the MoMa. I also did get backstage at a few small punk shows in my late teens. But, to be honest, not one of these experiences tops seeing my own face in the mirror every day, knowing that I am the next great American novelist.... but no one's figured it out yet.

Hobnobbing in Maynooth

Apparently Andrew has left it to me to describe our Thanksgiving jaunt to Maynooth, a small town 1/2 hour's InterCity Rail ride from Dublin. I'm rather glad Andrew left this duty to me, because I'm a big fan of describing things.

Maynooth the town isn't much. We covered the main street in about an hour and a half, including a cafe stop for a trough of soup and a roll the size of a crescent moon, and another to buy Marcie's Christmas gift. But, NUI (National University of Ireland) at Maynooth is a perfect vision of 18th-19th century university, its main buildings forming a quad around a rose garden where I'm sure posh men wearing short pants and long socks once wandered with their walking sticks. The university also houses a seminary, St. Patrick's (gee, what an original name), and the halls are lined with portraits of cardinals, bishops, archbishops, etc.

There was a mulled wine reception at 7:00, in a long dining hall where the table was set for about 80. Fulbright alumni, board members, and current scholars and grantees were there, and Andrew and I mingled with people who study things like industrial psychology and the effects of tourism on rural islanders. I talked with the people who had kids, and tried to pump them for information about how they found sitters, who cost infinitely more here than they do in the US.

Dinner itself was excellent: salad with olives (YES!) and parmesan, pumpkin and tomato soup, a plate of turkey with sage and onion stuffing rolled up inside a thin piece of ham, traditional side dishes, TWO desserts-- pecan pie and apple pie. There was wine the entire time, and coffee after. Gorgeous.

Andrew and I slept very soundly, in a room with high ceilings and heavy curtains.