Internet Dating

So, I've signed up to another dating website, even though every time I do (I've joined four different ones over the course of the last few years), I get severe buyer's remorse afterwards. Its probably because, of all the things that you can buy that promise a better life (a new dress, a gym  membership, whitening toothpaste), internet dating seems to offer the most. True love! Soulmates! Happily Ever Afters! So, if (when) you fail to find said true love/soul mate/happily ever after, its all the more frustrating and disappointing when you think of how much money you've wasted.
Also, I think the whole internet dating thing offends my default romance setting. The initial set-up, with profiles and pictures and endless lists of things you like and don't like seems to me to be essentially shopping for a boyfriend. 'Oh, well, yes, I like this model, but I wonder if I could get him with blue eyes rather than green?' And then when (if ) you get to the first date its often more like a job interview than a date. 'Yes, I am very close with my family and feel that family life is important. I spend every Christmas with them and speak to my father weekly, which I believe shows my stable and well-adjusted nature, perfect for a long-term relationship and potential marriage.' On some deep level, my brain still believes that the only way you can meet your one true love is when you both reach for the same, red hard-cover, gold-embossed copy of 'Anna Karenina' at the second-hand bookshop. Or, when you happen to sit next to each other at a friend's wedding. Or, when his best friend lets the largest country house in the vicinity and you meet at a dance and he insults you because of your low-class, so then you decide you hate him, but then he falls in love with you because you don't care and he proposes and you refuse and insult him and so then he mends his ways and becomes awesome and you decide you made a mistake, but aren't sure if he still loves you and then his crazy aunt comes and tells you you're not allowed to marry him and then he proposes and you say yes and you have a joint wedding with your sister who happens to marrying your husband's best friend.
Oh. Sorry. Got a bit carried away there.
I also feel there's a bit of a stigma still around internet dating. Like, that it's for old, divorced people or socially stunted people. The amount of men that have said to me, 'So, what's a nice/pretty/confident/outgoing girl like you doing on an internet dating website?' as their first message is too numerous to mention. I know its meant to be a compliment, but it just ends up making me feel even more romantically incompetent. Read in another way the comment could be: 'You look reasonably nice and pretty! And you still couldn't manage to find someone? So, what's wrong with you?'
But, still, I have several good friends who are currently in long-term, happy and stable relationships through their participation in this modern-day form of torture/humiliation that we call internet dating, so I'm once again giving it a go. I figure that, at the very least, I can start to meet some London people and they can take me out to awesome London places and I'll start to get a sense of the city. And that has to be good, right?
However, there are several things that annoy me about the gentlemen I meet online. So, at the risk of sounding like a know-it-all dick (hi there anonymous internet trolls! I look forward to your abuse!) or someone who writes books with annoyingly smug titles ('he's just not that into you' nyah nyah nyah), I wrote a list of the things that are most likely to make me lose interest in a man on an internet dating website (if any of the gentleman online wish to write a similar list about the women online, I'd be glad to read it. I honestly have no idea how best to advertise myself on these websites. Ugh. Just describing the process as 'advertising myself' makes me feel sick to my stomach, but it is sort of true).

1) Photo. If you don't have a photo, I ain't interested. Don't take it personally, boys, I'm the same with recipe books. If a recipe doesn't have an accompanying photo, I'm completely at sea when attempting to choose something to make for dinner. It is the same with your profiles. Its not that I'm superficial and only want to date men with six-packs and jaws you could cut diamonds on, but simply that, as they say, a picture speaks a thousand words. A photo will give a better sense of who you are. Especially when it seems most people these days 'like movies, live music, keeping fit and traveling'.  And, in that spirit, be very careful about which photos you chose as your main profile photo. Don't choose a photo in which you are scowling. You might think girls like dark and brooding, but, there's a fine line between Heathcliffe and deranged axe-murdering stalker. Best to urge on the side of caution and choose a photo that shows you looking reasonably happy, confident and comfortable. I know its a tall ask. I know some people don't feel comfortable with a camera stuck in their face. Maybe try to get a friend to take a photo when you're not expecting it. "In the moment", as they say. Give them a camera and have them jump out at you when you're in the midst of laughing at a hilarious joke your friend just told you. Also, unless it's a photo of you at the beach, please no topless photos. I don't care if you have six-pack. Well, I do care, but its not going to make me want to date you more than somebody else who doesn't have a six-pack. And if you care that much about your six-pack that you need to show it to me before I even know your name, then chances are my desire to date you will dip into the negative digits. Also, you may think that Zoolander-style photos are hilarious, but so do about a thousand other men and, believe me, after a while, the joke gets old. Oh, and, one last thing. Drunk photos? Seriously? Especially drunk photos where you are flanked by scantily-clad, buxom, bronzed women? Are you still drunk when you're choosing them? No-one looks like a good prospect when drunk in the Playboy Mansion. NO-ONE. Not even Hugh Hefner.

2) Proper grammar and spelling in your profile. I may be in the minority here, but if you misuse 'your' and 'you're' or mix-up 'their' and 'there' and 'they're', it will equal an instant rejection from me. if you don't use caps locks, i will start to wonder what's wrong with the left little finger that it cannot stretch to the caps locks or shift keys. If you end every sentence with! I will not think you are enthusiastic! Or, I will think you enthusiastic in the way that my gym instructor is enthusiastic! In my head all your sentences will end on an upward inflection! And this will annoy me! And then I will think you are annoying! And I will not contact you! Similarly... if you use... all the way... through your profile... I will not... think you are thoughtful... I will think... you have written... your profile stoned... and cannot remember your.... words. But the worst thing of all, the absolute worst, is text speak. Dudes, seriously. If you use 'lol' at all, at any point in your profile or messages to me, my instant reaction will be to compare you to a 16 year old girl. I will imagine you flicking your long, blonde hair out or your baby blues and, like, sucking on a strawberry lollipop and, like, checking your glittery nail polish and whilst that probably does it for some people, I promise you, for me it DOES NOT. You may use text speak ironically, in which case, I will smile ruefully to myself, but the danger is, will I know you are using it ironically? Best to avoid it entirely.

'LOL! This is definitely my best angle! The girls won't be able to resist me.' Found at: http://menknowpause.fooyoh.com/menknowpause_lifestyle_living/5209717

3) Don't start your profile with, 'Not sure what to write!' Don't start it with, 'I don't really feel comfortable writing about myself like this...' Don't start it with, 'Never done this internet dating thing before! Thought I'd give it a go...' Don't start it with 'Smart, handsome, friendly (and humble) guy...' Yes, we realise it's uncomfortable and awkward. Chances are, the girls looking at your profile also felt very uncomfortable and awkward when writing about themselves. I promise you, absolutely everyone is uncomfortable and awkward. Pointing it out does not help. Its like the person who says, 'Well! This is awkward!' after an awkward pause. There is no response to this. Its not funny. Its not original. Its just... awkward.

4) So, on match.com, you can 'wink' at people to show that you're interested. If, gentlemen, you have 'winked' at me and I haven't responded, chances are I have read your profile and am not interested in you. I know its a bit rude not to respond, but I actually have a life outside of internet dating and don't really have time to message everyone who has winked at me, so sometimes I don't reply. I apologise. If you wink a second time, or a third time, or a fourth time, I guarantee I have already looked at your profile and am not interested. Look, if you imagine it in a real-life scenario, at a pub or something and you wink at a girl across the bar and she doesn't respond, you take that at face-value. She's not interested. No amount of winking will change her mind. And, I mean, really, after a while its just blinking not winking and that's not alluring that's just confusing. 

5) If you have sent a 'wink' and I 'wink' back, don't make your first message to me, 'you're cute' and nothing else. I will go from thinking you are a potentially fascinating individual who I may have an interesting conversation with to thinking you are a sleaze and most likely masturbating over the pictures and profiles you have open on the dating website. I'm not joking. That's the image my brain immediately jumps to. I won't respond.

6) If you are living in Morocco, I'm sorry, but I'm not interested. Not even if you tell me I'm beautiful and you want to marry me. Actually, especially if you tell me that. Men living in Thailand, Italy, Cyprus and any other country apart from the one I'm living in, please also consider this post relevant to yourselves. I think we should all agree that long-distance is a bitch even in this wondrous modern-age of the internet and Skype and jet-planes. Plus, I don't have UK passport, so there's no point in marrying for that.

7) If you have sent a 'wink' and I 'wink' back, don't make your first message to me be self-pitying, defeatist and pessimistic. For example, heading a message with '...not the greatest match...' Dude, if I've winked at you, I've found something in your profile interesting (even if it is simply your correct use of grammar), so just trust that and run with it. I will either think that you are less than enthusiastic about talking to me (oh, well, no-one else has replied to me, so I suppose I'll have to just talk to this one), or that there is some problem with you. Or, even if there is nothing wrong with you, the fact that you think there is something wrong with you will fill with me dread as I imagine long dates in which I attempt to convince you that you are worthwhile human being (I've got my hands full convincing myself of my own worth as a human being, which is a full-time job, so really, dude, you're on your own).

8) If we have used the vile instant messenger for the swapping of 4 or 5 lines of conversation ('hi' 'how are you' 'what are you up to'), do not then expect me to give your phone number so we can 'text'. I wouldn't have thought this needed explanation, but some gentlemen have been insulted at my lack of enthusiasm for this idea. Sorry, dudes, its called, 'Not-wanting-to-open-myself-up-to-a-stalking-situation'. Conservative, I know, but after many years of having the fear of God put into me regarding strange men and the things they might do to young ladies if they got the chance, its hard to break some habits. But, if we turn it around, exactly why do you need my number so soon, anyway? And, if we're already arguing 5 lines of text into our relationship, is this something that either of us want to pursue, anyway? I thought not. Good day, sir.

9) If I have agreed to go on a date with you, do not text to ask me how big my boobs are.

Do I really need to go through an explanation for that?

10) If we have messaged for a bit and, then, for some reason, I have decided that I'm not interested in you, do not want to go on a date with you and have stated why, you need to respect this. No amount of texts and emails are going to change my mind. It shouldn't take me giving my phone to a male friend to answer for you to leave me the hell alone (oh, and for gentlemen who were confused by my refusal to give out my mobile number in point 8, take this as the reason why).

But, hey, really, guys, I'm just a down-to-earth, easy-going girl, looking for someone to share some laughs with.

Really.

Crushes

I've written (rather extensively, really) on my lack of love life in Ireland, and further, the apparent lack of any eligible men (at all) in this country. Or, at least, the lack of eligible men in the places I've been going in this country.
I don't intend to whinge about this anymore, however, I have become aware that this has had a further knock-on effect to my life and daily experience.
I have absolutely no crushes.
Not a one.
On anybody. 
You probably don't see the significance.
One might describe me as 'romantic'. Despite an erstwhile desire that I someday I might be called 'cynical' or 'witty' or 'ass-kicking', I have to admit, 'romantic' is probably accurate. I was a reasonably early developer in terms of my awareness of all things romantic. The stories I wrote as a young 'un usually revolved around girls getting into some sort of sticky situation and then being rescued by male woodcutters or the like. I never read romance books, and yet, somehow, as a 7 year old my creative writing pieces read as the latest Jackie Collins novel.
Not only did I write about romances between fictional characters, but I can remember spending a great deal of time developing fictional romances between myself and real boys. The first slight to my imagined romantic fantasies I can remember receiving was as a 5 year old, when I tried to talk to a boy in my class who I liked. He was sitting on a bean bag listening to a talking book on headphones and was ignoring me. After a good 10 minutes of attempted conversation, my teacher moved me away, pointing out that I was annoying him. I was devastated. In my mind, he was my one true love, if only he would take off his headphones and acknowledge me.
I continued to have crushes on and off for the boys in my primary school for the next few years until around the age of 10, when I developed a serious crush on one very lovely boy in my class. As luck would have it, he turned out to like me a little bit too and on a school excursion to the (romance) capital of Australia, Canberra, we had the audacity to dance together at a little 'disco' in front of the rest of Year 6. The problem with being so far 'advanced' in romantic feelings was that the rest of the children saw this is an opportunity to mock and tease. I was totally mortified and quickly started ignoring the poor boy instead, despite a very sweet attempt by him to make me feel better by giving me a gigantic packet of raspberries (the lollies, not the fruit). Going into adolescence I got the message loud and clear: your emotions and feelings are embarrassing and wrong and must be hidden at all costs.
So, during high school, instead of attempting to figure out how to get into relationships and maintain them, I spent all my time perfecting my crush technique. Crushes are much easier than relationships. They're low-risk and yet provide hours of amusement in terms of fantasies, schemes and plans, days of dealing with unrealistic hopes and, later, devastating disappointments. Particularly if you chose your crush carefully, someone, for example, that is completely unsuitable for you (a teacher, perhaps, or, the most popular boy in school who doesn't even know your name), and is in no ways a realistic prospect for a relationship. In this way, you can ensure that you never have to confront the possibility of an actual romantic entanglement: you make certain that the person you have a crush on will never reciprocate, but also that you are never going to be interested in anybody who might actually be interested in you.
Make sense?
I was very good at crushes. For all of high school, I was in a constant state of unrequited love with someone or other. Some boys I would love for a few weeks, others for months, and one or two for years at a time. My creative energies were caught up in creating imagined hideous deaths for girlfriends or rivals; in envisioning situations where me and my crush became the LAST SURVIVING PEOPLE IN NEWCASTLE or something else similarly ridiculously dramatic; finding ways of accidentally on purpose running into them at the shopping centre or something; analyzing and re-analyzing ad nauseum the actual interactions had by myself and my crush; and finally, creating long mental lists as to why me and my crush were perfectly suited to each other and were clearly DESTINED TO BE TOGETHER FOR ALL ETERNITY. The crush's seeming indifference to myself only added to the wonderful drama of the thing, making it somehow all the more real and true. Didn't Anna Karenina's great love have corresponding pain and devastation? Didn't Romeo and Juliet have to fight against all of their society just to spend a few days together? The fact that I had to love in silence only made it seem all the more obvious that my crush and I would eventually end up looking gorgeous together in a gorgeous house with our gorgeous family and talking gorgeously to some reporter about our gorgeous love for each other (my fantasies were also heavily influenced by my grandmother's Women's Day magazines).
I think many people eventually graduate from crushes. Either they're not as good at choosing and keeping crushes as I was, or the imagined drama was not as satisfying to them as an actual romance, so they move on. I was just so darn good at the crushes: the choosing, the keeping, and definitely the associated fantasies. My teenage self could have kept Mills and Boon in novels for the next hundred years. No lie. 
The other problem with my crushes, was that the scale of my love corresponded to an equivalent loss of social incompetence around said person. I would become like an animal caught in the headlights the minute my crush locked his eyes on me. I wouldn't be able to remember my own name, let alone formulate some kind of witty sentence with which to woo my beloved. Most of my fantasies revolved around the crush stating their undying love for me (and me graciously, and mostly mutely, accepting), so were of no use in actual human conversation. I seemed to think that said declarations of love would follow if I could just managed to put together the right outfit or hairstyle, which would, without words, inspire my crush into realising his true feelings for me. Forget flirting with the crush to get him to notice me, an interaction that lasted longer than 4 sentences would have been an achievement for my 15 year old self. So, even if I might have had a chance with the most popular boy in school, my complete inability to show any sort of interest (in an appealing way) pretty much wiped any chance I would have that a crush would develop into a relationship.
I did eventually manage to fall into some relationships (not without some serious self-sabotage however), and miraculously keep them together. But the last 3 years has just been another long period of dead-end, embarrassing and increasingly frustrating crushes. I realise how pathetic I must sound if you have read this far, but its the honest truth of the matter. Believe me, I ain't proud of it.
'Loving' in silence, or, at least, 'crushing' in silence has been so much a part of my person and my daily life as a 'singleton'. They take up time, energy, emotional strength and self-esteem. Unrequited love may have inspired eloquence from some of the world's greatest poets, but for me its been an endless loop of too much chocolate, 'retail therapy' and bursting into tears when Kristin Scott Thomas finally declares her love for Hugh Grant in 'Four Weddings and a Funeral':

So, its been kind of interesting for the past few months to have absolutely no-one that I am crushing on. Crushes need time, and at least the hope of continuity, or they just can't develop. So, if you meet a guy at a bar one night and you have a nice conversation, but you never see him again, you can't develop a crush on him. Even I'm not that good at crushes.
Its been kind of nice to not have to worry about all that romantic shit. Its nice to feel like my personal happiness doesn't hinge on a particular man turning around and declaring his love for me. Its nice to think that my personal happiness lies in something that I might create myself. I feel strangely stronger and more complete than I think I ever have as an individual before. I feel oddly free.
That's not to say that I don't like the idea of being in a relationship. Nor is it saying that I don't sometimes get lonely and wish I could meet someone nice, or that I don't still cry in Richard Curtis movies. But... I feel less emotional about it.
Less emotional about love.
Now, that is a joke.

Irish Slang

Have I told you some of the wonderful things people say over here? I think I may have told you a few, but I've decided to collect them all together in the one place so I don't forget them all. It was inspired by a delightfully themed 'Milk and Cookies' evening in which the title was a fabulous Dublin phrase (which I'm leaving until the end of my list because its the best).

So, here they are. My top Irish slang phrases:

1) Craic. People actually say it (pronounce it 'crack'). It sort of means 'fun'. So you'll hear people described as 'good craic' or a place as 'good craic'. But you might also be asked, 'What's the craic?' which basically means, 'Hey, what's going on?'

2) Deadly. This means something is good. I find this pretty amusing because its actually used by some young Indigenous Australian communities with the same meaning. I don't know how both groups started to use the same slang, but there you have it. In the Irish context, think of anytime you would use the word 'groovy' in a 1970s film and then replace it with 'deadly'. You can now accurately use the Irish term, 'deadly'.

3) Ye. People actually say 'ye'. Not as in hear ye, hear ye, but more like where an Australian would use 'youse'. Its a plural. So, instead of 'youse are so lucky that you got free tickets to the Big Day Out', you would say, 'ye are so lucky that you got free tickets to Oxygen'

4) The poor creature. Same as 'you poor thing'. However, creature is pronounced something similar to 'cray-ture'. I still haven't gotten it quite right.

5) An old one. And old person. But, again, you pronounce old as 'auld'.

6) Your man/your one. That person over there. May or may not actually have any connection or anything to do with you. Can cause confusion if you are not thinking hard about it. 'What do you mean my one is so annoying? My what is so annoying?'

7) Grand. To be sure, to be sure, everything is grand. I'm grand, you're grand, everything's grand. Pretty self-explanatory I would have thought.

8) Hoor. A whore. Can be used for both men or women. However, a 'cute hoor' means someone that is crafty and gets away with things.

9) Langer. An idiot or stupid person. Possibly unattractive. Possibly drunk. Usually heard in context of, 'Oi, get off ah me, ya langer!'

10) He's a dote, he's a right dote, he's so dotey. He's so cute!

11) He's fit. He's gorgeous.

12) Like. I have finished my sentence. I am adding emphasis to what I have just said. I'm not entirely sure how else to fill this silence. For example, 'He's really fit, like.' 'I'm from Cork, like.' 'Its really warm, like.' Usually heard in Cork.

13) Wrecked. Can be used in the way it would be in Australia, as in, 'I'm so tired,' but also, 'I'm so disappointed!' 'I'm so unhappy!' 'Oh, I'm absolutely wrecked I'll miss the last episode of Masterchef Australia!'

14) Decent. Pronounced 'Day-cent'. Normal meaning, but used more regularly than you'd hear back home, and its probably a bit more enthusiastic. 'Ah, sure, she's decent.' Means maybe something like 'True Blue'.

I'm sure there are more and I just can't think of them. I might add more when I do remember. But, the absolute best is the one I heard tonight:

15) Scarleh' yer ma' for havin' ye. Into a neutral accent it reads 'Scarlet your mother for having you.'  By which they mean, 'I'm embarrassed for your mother for giving birth to you.' Most Excellent.

Jerry the Balloon

So, I was walking past Project Arts Centre in Dublin today and I noticed a sign. It said, 'Come in today and pick up a balloon before 4pm'. It was 3:30pm. I took up the invitation and went inside. I selected my balloon with great seriousness - which one had the most air in it? Looked the strongest, the perkiest? I left the centre the proud owner of a giant life-saver shaped silver balloon, which I then proceeded to walk through the streets of Dublin back home. Said balloon is now living in my room. Exhibit A:

Jerry the Balloon

He has a name. It is Jerry, which seemed as good a name as any for a balloon. That hole is big enough to fit my head through.
Some of you may ask why I wanted a silver, doughnut shaped balloon. To which I reply, why wouldn't I want a silver, doughnut shaped balloon, if it is free? Apart from the awesome-ness that is this balloon, it is actually an artistic balloon. It was part of an Australian artist's installation, called Panto-Collapsar, which has been in Project Arts for the past 6 weeks. I'm not normally a huge fan of installation pieces, because I find them confusing, but I was totally on board with at least half of this artwork. The half of the installation I liked was the side of the room that was taken up with a giant sheet of reflective silver material (like the stuff this balloon is made out of), which was suspended in mid-air by a collection of 30 - 40 balloons like my Jerry. I visited the installation at least 3 or 4 times over the course of the 6 weeks, and each time the silver sheet was in a different place, a different formation. It was hyper-sensitive to what was going on around it. It moved when people entered the room. It moved if you waved your arms at it. It moved if you breathed near it. It was the most fabulously hypnotic thing I've ever seen and I would stand in the room next to the suspended sheet of material for minutes on end, grinning like a mad woman, as my breath moved it subtly up and down in the air.
And now I have a piece of the artwork in my bedroom. Sure its not nearly as interesting, but I think the fact that I have a silver doughnut balloon in my room is pretty cool anyway. I was surprised no-one in the street stopped to ask me about my balloon. I was surprised no-one seemed to start at it, not even children. I was severely disappointed. I had grown as attached to my balloon as a person might become attached to their dog, hence why I decided to give it a name.
But, then, as I was walking down my street, a bunch of young hipsters who were about to start raising money for an animal charity came towards me. The majority of them ignored me as the rest of Dublin did. But I noticed one of them at the back, a cute guy with a shaved head, grinning at me as he went past. I consequently feel that, despite this rule never appearing in any dating manual I have ever heard of, whether or not someone finds your silver, doughnut shaped balloon as amusing as you do is as good an indicator of compatibility as anything else.

Jenny's Tiny Play

So, today, because it was so sunny, and because my Literary Manager thought I might like a bit of a change, instead of reading other people's scripts, I got to write my own! What fun! And, taking inspiration from Fishamble's current production of Tiny Plays for Ireland, I wrote a tiny play too. This one was site-specific, meaning I got to go out into the sunshine and write a play somewhere that I liked. So, I went to the park. OF COURSE I went to the park. Where else would I go? What a blissful way to spend an hour. Anyway, here is the second draft of my tiny play, after having been re-drafted with the expert advice of the Fishamble Literary Manager.

They're sitting in front of this. Found at: http://www.awaycity.com/wiki/Statue_Robert_Emmet

(ELAINE and THOMMY are sitting on a park bench in front of the Robert Emmet statue in St. Stephen's Green. They are kissing rather passionately. THOMMY reaches for ELAINE's breast) 

ELAINE: Thommy!

THOMMY: Wha'?

ELAINE: We're in a park.

THOMMY: So?

ELAINE: So, they're are people around.

THOMMY: I don't mind.

ELAINE: Well, I do! (silence) Lovely day.

THOMMY: Jesus.

ELAINE: What?

THOMMY: Didn't cut school to chat about the weather.

ELAINE: Told you already, Mum's at home today. (beat) We could go to yours?

THOMMY: Me ma's at home too!

ELAINE: Oh. Right. (beat) Who's that over there?

THOMMY: Who?

ELAINE: That statue.

THOMMY: Dunno. Some writer?

ELAINE: (she stands up to look) Robert Emmet.

THOMMY: Who?

ELAINE: Robert Emmet.

THOMMY: Never heard of him.

ELAINE: "Presented to the People of Ireland by the Robert Emmet Statue Committee of the United States of America, April 13 1966."

THOMMY: Great.

ELAINE: He looks kind of sad. Don't you think?

THOMMY: I guess.

ELAINE: 1778 - 1803... he was only 25 years old when he died. That is really sad. Isn't that really sad?

THOMMY: Wha'? Oh, yeah, sure.

ELAINE: That's young. Imagine dying that young. You wouldn't have time to do anything, would you?

THOMMY: Like what?

ELAINE: Get married, have kids.

THOMMY: Kids are stupid.

ELAINE: You don't want kids.

THOMMY: Nah. (beat) Do you?

ELAINE: Dunno. But, like, at 25, you wouldn't even have the chance. You know, after university...

THOMMY: (laughing) University???

ELAINE: Don't you want to go to University? 

THOMMY: Studying's stupid.

ELAINE: But, to get a job, like!

THOMMY: Always reckoned I'd get a job fixing things. You know, cars and that.

ELAINE: You just want to fix cars?  That's your life's ambition?

THOMMY: Me life's ambition? Nah, me life's ambition is to get a Honda Civic.

ELAINE: A what?

THOMMY: Its only the best car around.

ELAINE: Your life's ambition is to get a car?

THOMMY: Yeah, and pimp it out, like.

ELAINE: You know what? If you died at 25, it wouldn't be sad at all.

THOMMY: (genuinely hurt) Hey! (beat) What do you want to do before you're 25 then?

ELAINE: Something... impressive.

THOMMY: That's your plan?

ELAINE: Like Robert Emmet!

THOMMY: You don't even know what he did!

ELAINE: You've got to do something impressive for the USA to dedicate a statue to you when you're only 25!

THOMMY: You're mad.

ELAINE: Least its better than a car.

THOMMY: Least I'll be happy. Elaine, no-one's gonna erect a statue to you before you're 25. No-one's gonna erect a statue to you at all. You'd have to... save loads of people, or win a war, or start a country, or something.

ELAINE: Well, maybe I'll go to Africa then! And... save all the starving babies or something.

THOMMY: Nobody's gonna erect a statue to you even if you save all the starving babies and fix Africa and died before you're 25. Its just not gonna happen.

ELAINE: Why not?

THOMMY: 'Cause that's not something that happens to people like us.

ELAINE: And what are we like?

THOMMY: Ordinary. We're just... ordinary. (beat) 

ELAINE: I think that's probably the worst thing anyone's ever said to me. (beat) You're horrible.


It used to have a very different ending - 5 more lines that gave it a real, 'wah-wah-wah' finish, as if it were in some sort of bad 1970's TV comedy. But, Gavin thought this was a better ending. It took me a while to agree, and I still feel like taking the very tragic ending and twisting it into something funnier, but, I am trying to sit comfortably with the pain and the angst and the 'very-serious-message' and not try to throw it away.

Dress Rehearsal

There's something magical about a dress rehearsal. Yesterday, I was invited to Fishamble's dress rehearsal of 'Tiny Plays for Ireland'. At the end of last year, Fishamble asked for scripts of no more than 3 minutes from the general public that spoke to the contemporary situation of Ireland. Originally, Fishamble was going to write or commission a new play about the banking crisis themselves (they were going to write a play about Anglo-Irish bank, which in 2007, I think, was described by some important people - great with the facts, Jen - as 'the best bank in the world'. Its estimated, from a hugely reputable source... oh, ok, just another web page, that Anglo-Irish will cost the Irish taxpayer 90 billion Euro over the next 20 years due to its debts that the Irish nation took over. Hence, Fishamble would call the play, highly ironically,'The Best Bank in the World', which I think is the BEST NAME EVER for a play). However, they decided that put a bit too much pressure on one playwright (sum up the whole crisis! In two hours! And give us all the details! And make it entertaining! And give it a message! And make it speak to all the different people in the nation! And give us a sense of closure! And give us our voices back! etc.) So, instead, they decided to do this 'Tiny Play', which allowed a variety of people to express how they feel about contemporary Ireland in general. They got 1700 scripts (!!!!), which the Literary Manager likened to reading War and Peace. From that, they culled it down to 44 scripts. They were originally only going to do one season of 22 scripts, but there were so many, they're doing two seasons. The first one is on now, the second will be on later in the year.
Anyway, that's all the background to the dress rehearsal yesterday. Not that any of it really matters, its just for your interest. The real wonderful thing was just being in a proper theatre again, experiencing a dress rehearsal. I'm all for site-specific and using different spaces in unique ways etc. etc. but I can't deny how much I love a traditional theatre space. And there's something really magic about a dress rehearsal in a traditional theatre space. Of course, its very exciting when you're an actor, and its the first time you get to wear your costume for the first time (probably my favourite thing about acting is getting a costume. I could lie and tell you all sorts of noble reasons why one should act, but, honestly, that was the thing that really always excited me about acting. 'You mean, I get to play dress-ups even though I'm no longer a kid? How can I get involved with this??'), and the set is there, and the lights are on, and you finally get to go through the whole show and see how many of those lines you actually remember. But, I think it might even be more exciting to be on the outside. Well, it certainly was yesterday. I didn't have anything to do. I was just a spectator, so that was relaxing. I could sit and watch all the excitement that was going on around me. So many people are involved in a professional theatre production. There was the stage manager, the lighting designer, the set designer, the costume desigers, the lighting assistant, the sound designer, the director, the production manager from the office, the man taking promotional photos, the man making a promotional video and all the writers whose work was chosen. All of them, sitting in the audience, watching intently. Some taking notes on things that had to change, some of them following the script, 'on the cans'. Everyone focused so intently on the stage, on the actors, making sure everything goes to plan. There's a buzz in the room, a slight edge, or tension, because its the first time everything is coming together, its the first time you get to see if its all going to work. The first time you see what show you have. By the time the audience is in a few days later, the edge is usually gone. There's still a buzz, but, by this time, most problems should be ironed out, there's a routine, people have settled into the show. The designers aren't around, they've finalised their designs, the writers have gone as well, or they're hidden amongst the rest of the 'usual' audience.
Apart from that, attending the dress rehearsal always feels like a privilege, because you would have been chosen as a friendly audience member, someone who won't mind if things go wrong, or who would be interested in seeing the behind-the-scenes process, or who may be able to give valuable feedback. For all of those reasons, going to the dress makes you feel special, makes you feel like you belong.
I think also, the dress reminds me of all those years in Young People's Theatre, all those happy hours of sitting in the theatre in Hamilton, of knowing everyone involved in the show, from them lighting designer to the front of house volunteer, from the stage manger to the littlest munchkins. Of considering most of those people as my friends. The dress rehearsal for a show at YPT was usually the start of the school holidays and took most of the weekend. We'd wander down to Hamilton in between runs and get lunch or dinner, pides, Subway, Chinese, chocolate, lollies, whatever. Come back to the theatre singing and dancing and generally annoying the rest of the neighbourhood (though considering we were teenagers and could have been drunked/drugged hooligans if we felt like it, they probably got off easily). Going to a dress reminds me of that happy anticipation: of the school holidays, the start of a show, of spending two weeks in a theatre with friends. There's nothing like it.
Yes, there's something really magical about the dress. 

Found at http://dsata.blogspot.com/2011/02/actresses-and-looking-glass-2.html

I Warned You This Would Happen...

Well, I did say I might end up doing this. But, in my defense, I'm sick again, so I don't have much to say, and these pictures are really pretty.

Not much else to report. Have spotted a few inconsistences between Harry Potter 2 and 4. I'm considering writing to JK Rowling.

Except, that would make me into a person I'm not sure I want to be.

So, without further ado, look at the lovely sunset we had yesterday!

Children's Literature

I've read a lot of children's books over the year. Some of them are very good, and I add them to the mental list of books I keep of titles I would like to read to my own future kids/nieces and nephews/next-door-neighbours/random children down at the library. At the top of this list comes things like 'New Tricks that I Can Do', 'We're Going on a Bear Hunt' (which I've read and recited so many times now I don't actually need the book anymore) and 'The Gruffalo' (whose characters, in my mind now, all have distinct voices, personalities and back stories). However, there are also a lot of books out there which were clearly fished out of the bargain bucket at the local cut-price supermarket as stocking fillers or when you're about to arrive at the house of a 2 year old on their birthday and you've forgotten to get a present. In this last category, I include books where even I can't understand the plot, let alone my 3 year old charge; books which are written in verse, but the author is so bad at poetry you have to re-read every second line three times over because all the emphases are in the wrong places and the grammar is so poor; and books which are meant to be about familiar characters ('Thomas the Tank Engine', 'Winnie the Pooh') but are clearly cheap rip-offs as the drawings are so bad that the little one you're reading to is constantly pointing at the yellow bear character and asking, 'Who's that?' when they specifically asked for a book about Winnie-the-Pooh in the first place.
This evening, I came across another category, which is 'books-with-strange-underlying-messages-that-the-authors-possibly-didnt-intend.' The book in question is called 'If You Give a Mouse a Cookie'. It has a picture of a happy little mouse on the front cover, holding a choc-chip cookie and looking delighted with himself. I saw this picture and thought, 'Ah, yes. Delightful. Cute animals and cookies. Just what I feel like reading.' I imagined that the book was about how, if you gave a mouse a cookie, he would give you a hug (as the mouse on the cover seemed to be wanting to do). And, then, if, perhaps, you gave a horse a sugar cube, he'd do a jig. And, if you gave a polar bear a blanket, he'd, I don't know, catch you a rainbow, or something else ridiculously cute and saccharine. You know, a story in that slightly whimsical, slightly absurdly sweet vein, where all things in the world are good and kind, where polar bears don't tear you to shreds and eat your innards because of over-fishing and the disappearance of their natural habitat, a book which basically hints to kids that, if you're a nice person, and you do things for other people, you will get good things in return and nothing bad will ever happen to you, tra-la-la-la-la.
But, I was mistaken.
If I were slightly more paranoid than I actually am, if I were more serious about life and social equality and the evils of Big Business and all the rest, if, I were, in short, Naomi Klein, I could quite easily claim that this book was clearly written by and for members of the conservative right-wing. Members of the privileged elite, the 1%, the Rupert Murdochs of this world. I'm not even joking.
So, the basic storyline goes, if you give a mouse a cookie, he'll want a glass of milk to go with it. Then he'll want a straw, then he'll want to check a mirror to make sure he doesn't have a milk moustache, then he'll want to trim his hair, then he'll want a variety of other things, including a broom to clean up your house with, a piece of paper to do you a drawing with, and eventually, of course (and here's the joke), he'll wind up asking you for another cookie. 
Essentially, the underlying message of this book is, don't ever give anything to anyone, because if you do, they're just going to ask for more. This book is actually a critique of social democracy and the so-called 'hand-out' of social welfare. I mean, the author doesn't even comment on the fact that, actually, the mouse wanting to sweep your house is an extremely kind thing to do, nor does she mention that the painting the mouse creates is really quite beautiful and remarkable. No, no, its just all a really big pain in the ass for the kid who only wanted to give the mouse a cookie, and then have him go on his way.
But, really, is it the mouse's fault? I mean, the kid makes a seemingly friendly gesture, the mouse takes it at face-value, thinks they're friends, and wants to pay the boy back by cleaning his house, painting him a masterpiece. OF COURSE, the mouse then needs to take some time out for a nap, because he's just painted the mouse equivalent of the Mona Lisa and the spoiled kid, who probably has no real friends and spends all his time indoors eating Doritos, and was actually giving the mouse the cookie only because he didn't like it himself is all like, 'Oh, Jeez, this is taking up all my afternoon, when all I wanted to do was play my Nintendo Playstation, and now I have to go and get the broom out of the closet for this annoying, clean-freak mouse.' 
Actually, now that I'm thinking SERIOUSLY about it, the mouse cleaning the house is essentially like the work for the dole program, and the masterpiece? Is that meant to be some sort of comment on artists who sit around and get hand outs and don't contribute anything to the real economy? I THINK IT MIGHT BE. And the kid is all, 'Well, that's great, Mouse, but I gave you a cookie, could you not have, I don't know, created a business out of that? Maybe you should have analysed the ingredients of that cookie, like they do in Masterchief, and then made your own cookie proto-type, designed a fancy advertising and marketing plan and sold it on to all the other mice, instead of sitting around here in my house all day, decorating the walls with crappy self-portraits, because if you had done that, you'd definitely be a mouse millionaire by now, someone who could easily run their own mouse version of The Apprentice, if they wanted, and then you know, you really would have made it.'
It was the last book I read to Little Man tonight, and I ended up finishing it completely, even though he fell asleep half-way through, because I kept thinking there must be some twist at the end. That, eventually the complaining kid would get his comeuppance, or that eventually they would show the good side of giving a mouse a cookie (he won't make a nest in your chest of drawers? He'll leave your bread box alone? He'll paint you a portrait of himself and his family that you could probably sell for millions of dollars, because, hey, it was a freakin' mouse that painted it??). But, there was none. The mouse just ends up wanting another cookie. Because mice are selfish that way.
Putting on my, 'I have a BA with a minor in English from the University of Sydney' hat (and, lets face it, I don't really find many other uses for that hat in my day-to-day life, so I should make the most of it when I can), I would suggest that the cyclical structure of the story suggests to the reader that the little boy is now trapped, Sisyphus-like, into a cycle of giving, from which he will only be able to escape when he has either given everything he owns to the mouse, or has died of exhaustion.
By the time I had reached the end of the book, I was truly confused and worried, feeling like, at its absolute worst, and if I wanted to push the message to its ultimate ending, the book could almost be a warning to children about the dangers of accepting refugees into one's country, or homeless people into one's neighbourhood. That they were essentially laying the groundwork for 'policies' like Malaysia and Nauru. I decided to laugh it off, tell myself I was just grumpy because I hadn't had dinner yet and it was colouring how I was reading this book, BUT THEN, I turned to the front cover and the description of the story reads, 'If a hungry little traveller shows up at your house, you might want to give him a cookie.'
See? SEE? ITS SO NOT ABOUT MICE AND COOKIES.
Its TOTALLY right-wing paranoid propaganda. 
I mean, it doesn't even MENTION mice!! 
So, then I went and checked the author's Wikipedia page (she's extended the series, showing that you can also be pestered by an overly-demanding moose if you offer him a muffin or a high-maintenance pig if you give him a pancake), trying to find some redeemable features to put up here, and just as I was scanning through, thinking, alright, this is a silly post, I should stop writing it in case I insult a fairly decent human being who I don't know at all, but just as I was coming to the bottom of the page, just as I was about to dismiss all my fears and paranoia, there it was.
The author was invited to an event honouring American writers by none other than LAURA BUSH.
Case closed.
So, I don't know what you did with your evening, but I totally uncovered a deep and systematic right-wing conspiracy in children's literature.

I was going to put up a picture of the cover of the book, but then I was worried that it might make it easier for the authors/publishers to find this post (like, if they are obsessive self-google-rs or something) and then they might sue me. I mean, they are American after all.

One day, everyone is going to thank me.

I Don't Really Know What to do with Cleaning Products

Taking an abrupt U-turn back into my life as an au pair, and leaving greater questions of love, life, happiness and fulfillment behind me in my last posts, as well as doing some spectacular procrastination surrounding a performance that I have signed up for on Wednesday night (why do I do this to myself why why why why why??? it always seems like a good idea until it actually gets to a point when I have to produce the work I said I was going to produce and I'm all like, 'Aw, yeah, well, the thing about that is, I'd rather watch excerpts of old 'Friends' episodes all night instead, kay?'), I offer you this post.
You may have guessed that this post is to do with cleaning (I'm not really into that whole idea of naming your story, 'Captain Cat and his Magical Powers' or something, and then not ever ACTUALLY mentioning a nautical feline with a magician's wand, confusing and disappointing your readers, and when people confront you in interviews with this fact, you sigh and roll your eyes and say, 'Well, most of my educated readers were able to pick up that the naval reference was ironic/metaphorical/allegorical/sarcastic/farcical and that further, by speaking of a cat, I was clearly referencing Ancient Egypt not contemporary America and who's to say what powers are magical anyway, and wank, wank, wank...' No, my titles mean something. They are clear that they mean something. They mean what they mean. Yes). So, anyway, this post is about cleaning. House cleaning, to be precise. And, the fact of the matter is... I'm not very good at it.
I never have been. Its not something that ever really got my engines roaring, so to speak, not something that I would choose to do over, say, an afternoon on the couch watching the latest BBC costume drama, or an evening with friends, or, even, say, completing my tax return, or picking the dirt out from underneath my fingernails. Housework is not something that ever really enters my brain as a possible way of spending my time. The only time that I would consider the need to do housework is when the state of my house actually prevents me from living my life or doing basic human activities. So, for example, when the piles of junk on the bedroom floor actually prevent me from opening the door of my room to allow me to go outside and participate in gainful employment, or when I have worn literally every piece of clothing in my entire wardrobe, sometimes some of the several times over, maybe even inside-out, and if I attempt to wear them again, people will think I am actually a homeless person when I'm sitting outside on a park bench, and may ask me to 'move along' or offer me their spare change. My best friend Erin will tell you that we were mates for a good 5 or 6 years, the majority of high school, before I would even permit her to see my room. Every time she came to visit, I would run screaming to my bedroom, slam the door shut and throw myself in front of it until she promised not to attempt to step inside. Eventually, one day, knowing she was coming over, I spent a day tidying up and putting things in order, specifically so that she could come inside and see what it (never) looked like. She must have thought I had dead bodies in there or something.
I always kind of hoped that when I moved into my own house, things would change, because it was *my* house, and I would feel some sort of pride and care for it. I had at least one good friend who went from being a messy-room occupier to a fussy, tidy house cleaner the minute he rented his first share house. But, for me it was not to be (I still sometimes think wishfully that maybe I'll be cleaner when I own my house as opposed to just rent it, or live in someone else's, but I have my doubts).
There were lots of reasons for the appalling state of my room. I was a busy kid: I spent most afternoons doing various lessons - Japanese classes, art classes, dance classes, violin lessons, and then my entire Saturday was usually taken up with Young People's Theatre. Plus, there was still homework and practicing all the things that I was taking lessons for, and, of course, a great big chunk of time was needed to spend day-dreaming in front of the mirror, or dancing around the living room in ridiculous home-made costumes to 'The Lion King' soundtrack or something (a swimsuit and a bowtie on a little blonde Anglo girl? I mean, really, does that scream Africa to you?) But, apart from that, I kind of got used to my room being messy, and whenever I did clean it up, things became that much harder to find. I couldn't remember where I had tidied them to, and the tidy room generally only lasted for as many days as I could survive living with only the things I had put within easy reach or on display. The minute I had to go scurrying under my bed for something, the whole delicate, tidy balance was disrupted, and I went back to storing my possessions in a deceptively chaotic looking mess on the carpet (I still maintain I knew where everything was in that mess, and I had strategic empty spots to walk my feet through from bed to door, so I never broke anything).
Anyway, the point is, that when your bedroom is that messy, when you can't even see the floor for all the stuff strewn across it, actual 'cleaning' activities' such as vacuuming, sweeping, dusting, polishing etc. instantly become much less of a big deal. Well, actually, when you're just battling against piles of junk, clothes, old school notes, empty bags, boxes, CD's, videos, mixed tapes, food packets, candles, blankets, pillows, photo albums, notebooks, diaries, textbooks, and random ceramic decorative things to get to the bedroom door, any actual 'cleaning' in the form of getting rid of dirt and dust becomes not so much unimportant as unnecessary. Impossible. So, I'm 27, and for a lot of reasons, I don't really know how to do housework.
This has been a bit of a problem as an au pair, as housework is kind of part of the deal. Particularly in my current family, where the house is (to my untrained eyes), immaculate. It looks gorgeous, shiny, clean, at all moments of the day, and this is despite the two little munchkins running around trying to mess everything up to the best of their abilities. Making things much worse is the fact that I, me, the girl with the mess, was expected to keep this shiny, clean looking house in its nice, shiny, cleanness.
Tidying toys and things away is easy, I'm actually quite good at organisation when I want to be (despite the mess on my floor, my wardrobe was always organised according to type of clothing, and my bookshelves according to book height). The basic cleaning is easy enough too, I mean, I know how to use a hoover and a broom, though, I didn't realise, until I started doing it every day, just how dirty floors get. Even if you look at the floor and can't see anything on it, if you sweep it, you will find dust and crud and dirt and all sorts of other things coming up (though, a sudden thought - maybe I need to clean the broom? Perhaps I am making a clean floor dirty by sweeping it with a dirty broom? Hmm.... did not think this was possible. Will need to investigate further). The problem I find with both the broom and the vacuum is that no matter how hard you try, you will always, always miss a spot. If you insist on vacuuming or sweeping in your big, heavy-duty walking boots (as I constantly do - forgetting what happened last time), you will also tramp more dirt and grass and tiny, irritating little rocks over the floors you have just cleaned. I think, maybe another reason I avoid housework is that it brings out my OCD, perfectionist side, where I'm left thinking, 'well, there's no point in doing it unless its going to be perfect,' which then means all these tiny little bits of crud on the floor (are they crumbs? are they dirt? granite? who knows, but they are so powerful they are able to resist the hoover, the broom the brush and the mop, and no, they are not part of the floor, I assure you) are incredibly anxiety inducing, and I spend my days walking around picking up various bits of dirt and, having nowhere else on hand to store them, put them into my jeans pocket. Which I then forget to empty. So, the next time I actually need to put something in my jeans pocket, I'll go to retrieve it and my hand will come out covered in crap.
But the real problem is all the other accoutrements, the sprays and the polishes, the various towels and scrubbers, that all live under the sink. They look so promising, these bottles. There's so many of them, all different shapes and colours, you think, the answer to my cleaning question must be housed in there somewhere! Its like the feeling you get when you open a newspaper (well, the feeling I get when I open a newspaper) - ah, knowledge! Clarity! Information! All the problems and confusions of the world are about to be solved by my reading of this newspaper! But, then, you finish the paper and you're more anxious and confused then you were when you started and you begin to worry if maybe the answers were in a different paper, or if perhaps you just missed all the answers in this one, or, maybe you needed to watch the news on TV instead? Or listen to the radio? Or read a topic-specific blog? Its the same with those cleaning products under the sink. So many possibilities! But, then you start pulling them out and, its like, oh, crap, so many possibilities. You're confronted with surface cleaner and bathroom cleaner and kitchen cleaner and Dettol and they all seem to do the same thing, but they're so specifically labelled, you kind of get the feeling that if you, say, used kitchen cleaner in the bathroom, the whole house might explode. And, where are the surfaces you clean with the surface cleaner if they're not in the kitchen or bathroom? May you only use 'surface cleaner' on non-specific-room surfaces? Say, for instance, the table that sits halfway down the hall and you're not really sure if its part of the living room or the playroom? And, further, if you use non-kitchen-specific surface cleaner on your oven, will it turn a hideous brown-orange colour and smell of rotten eggs? And, if I'm caught using bathroom cleaner on surfaces in the kitchen, by housemates or friends or family, will this be... OK? Or will people laugh at me? Or, even worse, will people yell at me? Or, will I be thrown out of the house, told that such an incompetent house cleaner will no longer be tolerated in our share house/friendship group/family Christmases, and to take my non-specific-room surface cleaner and get out?
I had a disaster situation a month or so ago, where one of the roads up to our house was being newly paved. There was hot bitumen everywhere. There were also no footpaths (there are very few footpaths anywhere in Ireland), so I had no choice but to walk through the hot bitumen. I found this an interesting and not unpleasant experience. Squidgy, steamy and smelly. However, when I got home, I walked through the hose without really thinking about it. After a little while I did think, 'hmmm... these floors seem to be unaccountably sticky.' Then, a minute or two later, 'oh, wait, I think its my shoes that seem to be a bit sticky'. A minute or two later I finally remembered the hot bitumen, looked down, and, sure enough, I had managed to track hot bitumen all through the house. I panicked, and went straight to the cupboard sink, grabbed a Dettol spray and some paper towels and went back to the first of the bitumen shoe patches on the ground. I sprayed it with Dettol, and attempted to wipe it away with the paper towel. It stayed put. Panicking even more, thinking that potentially I had just permanently bitumen-ed my employer's floors, and the only way to get it off would be to chip away at it with a pick and hammer, I went back to the sink cupboard. Pulling out a variety of multi-coloured containers, I proceeded to spray the floor with everything I could find that didn't come with a sign stating something like, 'Warning: Contains burning acid and will horrifically burn and/or melt and/or destroy anything it comes in contact with (dirt as well as prized family possessions).' Nothing worked. The bitumen stayed on the floor. Finally, in a last desperate attempt, I spied a scrubbing brush that looked like its past job may have been as a prop in a production of Cinderella: it was wooden, with heavy-duty, barely movable brush bristles. In fact, apart from cleaning bitumen off floors, I didn't actually know what else such a brush could be used for. Burnishing steel, perhaps? Thankfully, the bitumen came off, with some Dettol and some determined Cinderella-like brushing and I cleaned up the mess quite successfully, all things considered, really. In hindsight, I'm not sure how much the Dettol contributed to the process, but I insisted on spraying it on to the bitumen anyway, just for effect and for the pine-fresh smell.
I am also responsible for cleaning the bathroom, which is a nightmare of shiny, shiny, clean, reflective surfaces. I went to wipe clean (with carefully chosen, specifically labelled, mirror cleaning spray) some specks of toothpaste I had flicked on to the mirror, and managed to transfer a pile of... well, I want to call it, lint? But, I'm not even sure what lint is. Does anyone know? And what's the difference between lint and dust? I know you can buy lint-free cloths... or is it lint-free stockings? Or both? What is this lint and why is everyone so keen to be rid of it? Anyway, whatever it was, dirt, lint, material, string, an alien life form, it wasn't meant to be on my shiny, clean, toothpaste free mirror. So, I wiped it again. With the same cloth. I then proceeded to continue wiping it with this cloth, for several minutes, getting grumpier and grumpier that the lint (?) refused to come off. I eventually wiped it off with the sleeve of my jumper (into the sink, but, hey, then I flushed it all down the drain with water, so what does it matter?)

Which one, which one? When did life get so complicated? Image from http://www.hsa.ie/eng/Your_Industry/Chemicals/Detergents/

I could go on and on, but you get the idea. I think the only answer is to watch more infomercial TV, because then, maybe, I would understand the use of all these multi-coloured bottles and cloths that live underneath the sink.

All the Single Ladies: Or, What has Love Got to Do With It?

You might be sick of the topic of my single-dom and (lack of) love life, but, unfortunately, things seem to keep happening that gets me thinking about it all over again. The other possibility, of course, is that I'm thinking about it so obsessively at the moment, that completely unrelated things somehow seem related to the topic of my singledom, and I then spend hours making blog posts out of these random incidents and ideas.
Today, however, it was not me forcing anything on the world, it was the world that was forcing the topic on to me.
In the supermarket today, wandering about, not sure if I was hungry, not sure if I wanted to buy food and drink and take it home, or go out to a pub and have a meal there, I happened to spy the front cover of 'The Observer'. In the corner, highlighted in yellow, with an intriguing looking women beside it, was printed an article title seemingly very related to my last blog post: 'Why Millions of Women Like Me Will Never Marry' by Katie Bolick. I was wary, as I must confess my virtual ignorance of 'The Observer' as a paper, and wasn't sure if this was a terrifying UK tabloid, and that the article itself would be a highly offensive polemic about how the feminist liberation movement had turned all women into spoiled brats who didn't want to have kids and do the housework, and were therefore refusing to settle for all the hugely decent, hard-working men out there, leading, ultimately, to the destruction of life and society as we know it.
But, with nothing else to do or buy, and intrigued enough to want to know more, I caved and paid my 2.50 Euro to see what this Katie Bolick had to say for herself. I sat myself down with a pot of tea in a local Kinsale restaurant, and opened the paper. Within the first paragraph, I was hooked. It opened with Katie Bolick describing the ending of a long-term relationship in her late twenties and the reasons behind it. The whole situation was scarily familiar to me, for a great many reasons, not least of all the question of whether or not this was the worst mistake of her life. I devoured her words voraciously: here was a woman who had gone through what I had gone through, but who was now 13 years down the track and living out my 'worst fears' (I've put them in inverted commas, because I'm still not sure if they are my worst fears or not). That is, to say, she is 40, has never been married and coming to the conclusion that she may never be.
To read the full article (and I suggest you do read the article, its completely fascinating, thought-provoking and compelling), go to The Atlantic Magazine: http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/11/all-the-single-ladies/8654/?single_page=true Its apparently caused a huge stir over in the USA, and there are talks of TV series and movies and all sorts of other ridiculousness, which clearly means its hit a nerve.
For those of you who won't read it (and I'm sure there'll be a few, as its quite long), the basic argument is that marriage as an institution is breaking down, and, further, there are a whole heap of women out there who ain't ever going to get married, for a whole heap of different reasons. However, where Katie differs from the hysterical right-wing, often Christian, conservatives, is that she doesn't see this as a terrible thing that needs to be stopped, but as a function of our ever-changing idea of what marriage is, and what it means to be married. Our idea of marriage as being a reflection and celebration of ever-lasting love has really only being current for 100 years or so at the most. Before that, it was, as I'm sure you've heard, about the consolidation and protection of property. The article talks about how various other issues, such as the increasing rates of female education, the loss of construction and manufacturing jobs in the USA, gender-ratio imbalances and the rise of the 'hook-up' culture are also making it difficult, or undesirable, for women to settle down with the men that are available to them. It looks at ways other cultures and societies have organised the raising of children, have expressed love and dealt with sexuality or sexual desire and suggests that our hugely rigid way of thinking around these topics (and insistence of bundling them up together) is detrimental to the ever-increasing group of long-term singles, as well as people in 'non-traditional relationships', that are currently getting by, and doing fine in the Western world.
The article goes into a lot of other interesting side topics, but I can't really summarise it all here (read it, read it, seriously, read it, its worth the time). What it made me want to think about, basically, was what are we, in our Western society, left with, if we don't have marriage?
I don't mean that to sound pathetically over-romantic and Charlotte-like. Its a genuine question, that perhaps other people in my group of friends, or in this generation, have already come to terms with, made peace with or got an answer for (I'm all ears, by the way). Because, well, look, here's the thing: even if I say I'm 'ok' with the idea of not getting married, even if I am not particularly fussed on the institution of marriage, per se, I am interested, and quite fussed, on the idea of passionate, soul-crushing, world-changing, romantic love. I'm totally caught up in the idea of a soul mate. Its probably the influence of all those 19th-century novels I read as a kid. I blame Austen! I blame the Brontes! But, whom-so-ever's fault it is, I do associate that sort of love with marriage, although, obviously, the two don't go hand in hand: many of my beloved classic novels - 'Anna Karenina', 'Wuthering Heights', 'Madame Bovary' - were about people who found that love outside of their marriage. Now, this may seem like a stretch, and it is actually seeming more ridiculous now that I sit down and try to write it out, but if society as a whole 'gives up' on marriage, which, to me, is still about the hope, the search, for that perfect embodiment of everlasting love (even if it sometimes fails, or people sometimes make mistakes), then, where does that leave the rom-com film industry, the chick-lit industry (all of which only have endings because societal conventions dictate that once you've found the love of your life, the story ends: they may not state outright, 'and they lived happily ever after', but we've all heard enough fairy tales by that point in our lives to know that that is what is meant when the credits roll, the book ends)? But, most importantly, where does that leave the idea of the soul mate? That is to say, if we all acknowledge, that, actually, ever-lasting love is probably *not* something that is likely, possible or desirable for the majority of people, what is the point of all this dating, all these relationships, these hook-ups, this anxiety to get together, stay together, make it work?
The rational side of me, the part that is highly influenced by my father, makes jokes about a marriage partner simply being, 'the most suitable person at the most suitable time'. The rational, cynical side of me likes to come out at a swish, university parties, whilst wearing black and waving a glass of red around. This cynical, rational side is fully down with the idea of ever-lasting, passionate, soul-crushing love being something that we trick ourselves into believing exists so that we can get through those marriage vows, start a family and, get ourselves a companion to (hopefully) last us til our hair turns grey. But, there is also the romantic side of me that still believes, or still desperately wants to believe, that, out there, somewhere, is a person like Aristophanes described, a person who is the other half of my whole, cut apart from me by the Gods, and when that person is found, finally, everything will fall into place. The interesting thing here is that, even the cynical side doesn't actively attack the idea of marriage itself. Sure, it doubts the existence of romantic, ever-lasting love, but it still feels like, well, marriage is something that, usually, most respectable people do, even if there reasons for doing it aren't as clear as they think they are.
In short, there is a very strong idea within me that feels like that everyone's ultimate goal in life is to find their other half, of whatever sex, to then potentially have children. The creation of your own little couple or family unit is the ultimate achievement, whether or not you believe this is based on the finding of your soul mate, a need for ongoing companionship, the need for a stable family unit to raise children etc. Whatever the reason, and whether or not it is eventually made official through marriage, the creation of this little unit of people, which is never meant to be torn asunder is presented to us as the only thing that will ever bring you real happiness in life. The idea is constantly repeated to us, through films, through books, through TV, through interviews with famous people (Tom Cruise on Oprah's couch, anyone?), and through the hounding, questioning, mocking, ignorance and distrust of those people who choose to live their lives differently. And, I for one, have been well and truly brainwashed.
Katie Bolick's article points out that, with people getting married later and later, not getting married at all, or having multiple long-term, short-term and other forms of relationships, the idea of the couple, of the two separate halves of a whole is becoming obsolete. Its not just marriage that is becoming outdated, but its the idea of the couple itself as our dominant, expected and most constant state of being that is becoming problematic. You're probably going to end up spending a lot of your life, if not most of it, as a single: as an uno, rather than as a duo. And through all this chopping and changing, the constant switch from single to couple, to single again, it follows that the most important relationship you're going to have throughout your life will be with yourself.
That's maybe not much of a revelation, nor is it actually a physical change in the way we live our lives. Of course, you always had to live within your own body. But, it is a huge change in perception. Instead of viewing yourself as a half who is searching for the other half to make them complete, you view yourself as complete, happy, finished, whatever, just as you are. I'm aware that these is a whole movement out there that would say, you can't find a partner without feeling complete in yourself anyway, but I find it distinctly ironic that this sort of advice is still given in the context of trying to find that long-term partner.  There's that horrible old cliche that people often parrot at you as a single, 'How do you expect people to love you if you don't love yourself,' once again, making the goals of loving oneself and feeling complete in oneself only desirable in relation to how they will help you to eventually find a partner.
But, as partners come and go more easily these days, as the relationships we find ourselves in are less definable and stable (one-night stand? affair? friend with benefits? summer fling? boyfriend? partner?), liable to change at any point, and based on the different needs, wants and expectations of the people within the relationships, then, it seems that the relationship with yourself as an individual becomes not a temporary state of being, not as a stepping stone towards the coveted state of 'couple', as it once was seen, but as our primary way of existing in the world. Partners become optional extras, like chiropractors or acupuncture on your health cover: nice to have, if you're into that sort of thing, but, by no means necessary to your overall health, wealth and happiness.
So, what's my problem then? What's my problem with letting go of this idea of the soul mate? Of ever-lasting, perfect love? What's my problem with all these new relationship-types? What's my problem with looking at myself and what I do, individually, with my life, as the only place to find contentment, peace, happiness and security in the world? In some ways its very liberating, it allows people to create relationships with other people that are unique and special to the individuals within them, it also potentially saves people from making vows of 'til death do us part' and then cheating, or divorcing and all the pain and existential angst that comes from these abrupt changes in ideals and promises. Over the course of your life, you may have a series of fulfilling long-term relationships, meaning that you get to know intimately, a whole group of people, instead of just the one. I'm not saying its necessarily better, but why do I consider it to be inherently worse?
Well, I think there's an element of the negative brainwashing. I worry that I'll be, above all, lonely. Potentially crazy and eccentric (and not in a good way, but in a crazy cat lady, empty jam jar and coupon collecting way). But, I think the negative stereotypes wouldn't be nearly so persuasive if there were positive examples or role models out there to 'follow', so to speak. To look up to, and to show us the way. Of course, there have always been single people in the world. But most of them (not all), are portrayed, or portray themselves, as being single, not through choice, but through a series of unfortunate events and poor life decisions. That ending your life single is a mistake, something to be avoided at all costs, the greatest regret of their lives. These are people that live on the outside, who were never good at relationships, who were alcoholics, players, slightly too weird, unattractive, and so have ended up alone and sad. Their singledom is something to be pitied. What if it were something to be rejoiced in? Is it possible to find happiness and contentment as a single person? And if so, what would that look like? What sort of relationships (romantic or sexual, but also platonic or familial) would that pave the way for? Because, I'm not saying that we need to give up on intimate or sexual relationships - I still think they are important, necessary, but what form would they take, how would they be shaped, constructed or justified without this idea of the search for 'The One'? Certainly, as a single, as a free agent, you have the opportunity to be more open, more giving with your time, your love, your energy, because its not directed inwards at your personal relationship and family unit. It gives you the opportunity to be more dedicated to your friends, your community, your world.
Once again, I'm not trying to tear apart marriage, or the long-lasting, romantically involved couple. I'm just curious about this idea that has taken over Western society that this is the ultimate in emotional and spiritual fulfillment: the obtaining of a single, everlasting 'soul mate'. I'm curious that it never occurred to me before that this desire was most likely culturally, rather than biologically determined, and I'm curious about what emotional fulfillment you aim for in life if you give up on the idea of that never-changing soul mate, of 'The One'. Happiness and contentment, is surely what you aim for. But what does that happiness and contentment look like? For so long, for me, the short-hand has been the image of a loving couple, married or otherwise. Other goals may have come and gone, but that was a constant desire, expectation and comfort. What happens when I actively give up on that image? What is it replaced with?
At this point, I honestly don't know.
A room of one's own?

Image from http://www.panoramio.com/photo/11985124

All My Friends Got Married When I Wasn't Looking

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, 'But, wait, Jenny, I thought this was a blog complaining about children, not marriage! You just got me going into one groove, and now you've U-turned and started on a whole over topic. I'm not sure I'm fully prepared for this change in pace!'
Well, ok, maybe that's not what you're thinking. Maybe you're actually thinking, 'Oh God, don't let this be like another crappy rom-com inspired blog post, or a cheap imitation of a Bridget Jones-type book' (to which I reply, its free! You can't get mad at me when you're not paying anything for it!) Or, maybe you're actually thinking, 'Hope she gets on with it soon, I'm really sick of these loopy detour things she does, in fact, I might just go improve my land holding on Farmville instead of reading this,' or just, 'I wonder if there's any birthday cake left in the fridge, and whether chocolate cake lasts for upwards of 3 weeks if it doesn't have a cream centre?' (I'd say, go for it, by the way, as long as it doesn't smell bad and there's nothing growing on it - I think the sugar would pretty much keep away any bad boy germs)
Anyway, whatever you're thinking, (I honestly don't know what you're thinking), the topic of today's discussion is marriage.
Marriage is what brings us here today.
Why is today's topic marriage? Well, the easy answer is that, whilst meditating yesterday evening, when I should have been chanting Buddhist mantras to myself, or concentrating on the nothingness, or attempting to achieve nirvana, or approach or nirvana or acknowledge nirvana, or whatever, my brain was instead contemplating all the people in my life who have recently gotten hitched, or decided to get hitched at some point in the near future (and exchanged great big rocks to seal the deal). And, once it started down that path, my brain started realising that, lately, when men start to talk to me, within the first 2-3 minutes of meeting them (if they're an attractive, personable sort), I have inevitably glanced down to check their ring finger. More distressingly, most of the time, these days, that finger has a nice, manly gold band wrapped around it. My brain started to wonder when it was exactly that I had started looking for this mother-of-all 'back off' signals, because it certainly wasn't a conscious or deliberate decision. It thought back nostalgically to lovely teenage days when most any boy you met could be a potential boyfriend, even ones that had girlfriends (because, let's face it, they'd usually only been going out for a few weeks) or ones you met in musical theatre (because, even if they eventually turned out to be gay, they hadn't actually worked this out yet, or, at least, hadn't told anyone yet, so there was still reason to hope). My brain then jumped back to somewhere near the end of last year, when I had taken to wearing a fairly cheap, thin, silver band, that I had picked up somewhere along the line, on my wedding ring finger as the other ring finger is always occupied by a very sentimental silver ring that I never take it off (actually, these days, I CAN'T take it off without some serious hand cream action - that's how much weight I've put on...). I wore this ring, confident that people would realise it couldn't possibly be a wedding ring, as it was thin, and silver, and, well, CHEAP. However, after 3 or 4 men asking (in the same week) if I was married, I decided to stop wearing it (or only wear it around men who I was keen to avoid romantic overtures from). My 'meditating' brain very slowly started to piece all these things together (it might have been the incense in the room that was keeping it moving at such a slow and nostalgic pace), and gradually came to a conclusion.
I'm getting old.
I must be. Because only old people get married, right?  That's what I always thought as a kid. I can remember asking my Dad (inspired by the movie, 'Father of the Bride') what he would do if I told him I was engaged at the age of 21. His reaction was rather far removed from the description, 'happy'. It got less icy as the conversation moved on, and I asked how he would react if I got engaged at 23, 24, 25, 26 and he visibly relaxed from the age of 30 onwards, and, ever since then, I've kept that number (both consciously and unconsciously) in my mind as the only appropriate age at which to get hitched (as a side note, Dad was probably around 30 - 31 when he and Mum got married, so he was only preaching what he practiced).
But, back to being old. I must be old if my friends are getting married, the men I'm interested in are married, and even other people are assuming I'm married. And it all seems to have happened all of a sudden. One minute, I was in my mid-twenties, newly single, with a few friends in long-term relationships. And then, without me even realising it, I was in my late twenties, 'not-even-close-to-newly-single' with a whole bunch of married or engaged friends. Every few weeks I look through another friend's wedding photos on Facebook, 'liking' pictures of the bride and groom, judging the dresses, the marquees, the photos, the 'event'. Now, I hope I'm not giving the impression of a desperately sad singleton here (I certainly can do one of those impressions, but its not the point of this post...yet...), I'm merely commenting that life seems to have (suddenly) stepped up a level. People are making commitments that are, to all intents and purposes (unless you are Kim Kardashian or a similar C-grade celebrity), meant to last the rest of their lives.
Meanwhile, I'm still struggling to commit, from one day to the next, whether or not I am a dog person or a cat person (see, the problem is, that I love how friendly and happy dogs are, but I don't like their barking - big, barking dogs are scary, and little, barking dogs are annoying. I always loved cats, they're so cuddly and conveniently sized, but they're kind of snooty, really, and they eat little birdies and things... and, oh, I don't know, maybe I'm more of a dog/cat person... or a cat/dog person...). So, anyway, to have friends that, whatever their views on divorce may be, are, at this point in their life, able to state, absolutely, unequivocally, 'I think I can spend the rest of my life with this person,' and, further, 'I want to spend the rest of my life with this person,' is, to me, a pretty amazing thing. It's a pretty astoundingly wonderful and exceedingly terrifying, mortality-confronting thing, they've got going on there.
And the strange thing is, that with all of these 'til death do us part' vows going up and out into the atmosphere, I guess it starts you thinking, 'And what do I have to look forward to til death does me part from this world?' That is to say... it seems to me, that... (and here comes the desperate, sad singleton side of me coming out), the more of my friends that get engaged, the more lovely men I meet who wave their gold band in my face; the more I become aware of a slightly uncomfortable feeling, encouraged by a tiny, but determined voice (which will presumably grow louder and more desperate as the years pass me by), that 'all the good ones are getting snapped up! If you don't get someone now, you'll never get married!'
When I'm not listening to it emotionally, when I'm not allowing its pathetic pleas to make me ever-so-slightly anxious, I find this desperate little voice very interesting. Firstly, I don't know when or where or who I got the idea from that I 'had' to get married. That marriage was something that I 'had' to 'achieve' or my life would be worthless, pointless, incomplete. This voice makes marriage seem like another box to tick, another thing to cross off the white, middle-class life 'To-Do' list: 'Tertiary Education: Tick. Mortgage: Tick. Marriage: Tick.' Certainly no-one ever said this to me outright (maybe it was all those years spent playing, 'The Game of Life' where it wasn't possible to move through the game without getting a qualification, a partner and a house?). I mean, I consider myself a feminist, whatever that means - a romantic, sure, but still, also, a feminist - and it disturbs me that, even with my belief that I don't need a man to complete me, even with my belief that I'm perfectly capable of living happily on my own and being an eccentric grand aunt in the style of Jane Austen or Miss Marple, that I should still be hounded by this determined little voice, yelling, 'You're not getting any younger, you know! If you don't find someone, chop, chop, you're NEVER going to find someone! Tick, tock, tick, tock!' In fact, so determined is this little voice, that I have, recently, under its influence, begun to get the determined feeling that I 'won't ever get married', and that I should just 'give up now.' When I caught up with another (single) friend recently, we commented that we were both 'coming to terms' with the fact that we may never get married, we may never have kids, and that we're 'ok with that'. There's plenty of other things that we could do. Become Prime Minister of Australia, for one.
But this brings me to the second thing that I find really intriguing about this voice, and this feeling, which is that, in all honesty, I don't actually feel that old. When I think about it rationally, 27 seems to be an awfully young age to be giving up on love, companionship (maybe marriage) as a lost cause. I mean, sure, at 27, Anne Elliot in 'Persuasion' was considered by Austen to be completely over the hill. But, its now the 21st century! I thought women weren't supposed to feel that way at 27 anymore! Isn't that what 'Sex and the City' was supposed to give us? The freedom to be 'single and fabulous(?)' well into our 30's and 40's if we so desired? Isn't that why we clung so desperately to the series, forgave the appalling movies, ignored the women's slavish idolatry of wealth and fashion, because, underneath it all, at its heart, this was a series that told us women we were now allowed to do what we want? Get married if want, not get married if we want, live with a partner, have sex with many people? That it captured some sort of changing social mores, some Zeitgeist? But, here I am, talking sadly with my other 27 year old friend about what other possibilities there potentially might be ahead for us, if we don't get married, commenting that we're 'ok with that', that we can 'deal with it'.
Maybe the fact that we are 'ok with that' is a step in the right direction. I certainly don't feel like I would be bringing shame or unnecessary financial burden onto my family by remaining a spinster aunt for the rest of my life, as so many Austen heroines were threatened with however many years ago. Of course, the fact that I can name other possibilities in life that would fulfill me aside from getting married is also a right that Austen's heroines wouldn't have enjoyed. So, you have to admit those are improvements. And, in all honesty, I often look at all the destructive things that happen between two people within a marriage, and think, 'is it really worth it? Is it really all its cracked up to be?' So many divorces, affairs, separations, estrangements, lies, abuses: does anyone actually end up staying together happily for the rest of their lives? Is it in anyway possible to predict at the age of 30, what you'll be like in 20, 30, 40 years time and whether or not you'll still be in love with the person you're in love with now? In which case, why bother pledging that you will be? But, still, the reigning expectation is that you want to get married, so if this looks like it might not be on the cards, you are required to state, bravely and heroically, that you're 'ok' with this possibility. You need to assert it, to reassure people you're not sad, that you'll be ok, that it actually might be a life choice, not an unhappy circumstance. I think that's kind of crap. I mean, its not like, you've made a life choice to go around strangling puppies, or anything like that. Its not like you've decided to do something completely immoral and despicable, so why does it need to be defended? And, if marriage is really not the be-end and end-all, why do you get pitied if you're single, why do people start to get an anxious look in their eyes the older (and more single - oh, yes, its possible to get 'more single') you get, why do you get offers to set you up, take you out, blah, blah, blah, why does your own brain start to manipulate you, to intimidate you, to make ticking noises at you every time you admire another friend's wedding photos? (On a side note, I'm aware that I'm babbling a lot about how tough it is to be a straight woman dealing with the assumption, that as you're a single woman, you must want to get married, and your single state is probably due to some hideous deficiency on your behalf, which you must be both embarrassed and mournful about. I can't imagine what it would be like as a gay woman, or man, who has found the love of their life and isn't legally allowed to get married)
Anyway, that's a lot of questions on a very big topic that I don't think I have successfully man-handled into a single blog post yet. But its kind of late, and I think I'm going to turn in, as the post has turned much more strident, shrill and possibly offensive than I ever intended. Married folk, I'm not meaning to bag out marriage. I'm an old-fashioned romantic, and I love that you've gotten married, really I do. I always cry at weddings. I love oohing and aahing over the photos and would like to see them more of them on Facebook, please. Its just that, as an old-fashioned, idealistic romantic (and I mean that in the larger sense of the word), sometimes things don't happen in the real world the way you would like them to, and that includes both being married and being single.

Oh, wait, now I see why people want to get married...