Road Rage

Two and a quarter hours, it took to drive home tonight.

I’ve done the journey door to door, in an hour, once, when all the lights were green, and there was no other traffic on the road.  We’d left the city centre at eight thirty in the evening, and I think Ireland must have been playing  a match or something.

On an ordinary day, if there’s no real traffic, and you get lucky with the lights, it takes an hour and fifteen minutes.

Today it took two hours and fifteen minutes, and needless to say we were in His Nibs’ car.

I hate driving His Nibs’ car, and being the contrary pair we are, he hates driving my car.  He says the seat in mine is uncomfortable.  I say his speedometer doesn’t work, his car stereo doesn’t work, and for some inexplicable reason, if you drive the fecking thing at more than fifty five miles an hour there’s a very real danger that boiling oil will start spewing out of the engine. 

Not that there was any chance of driving at fifty five miles an hour today.  Wishful bloody thinking.

His Nibs went to sleep, of course.  He was right, I would have done the same.  Anything is better than sitting there looking out the windscreen and going nowhere.  I thought the pig noises were a bit much though.  I know he’s a snorer, God knows I know, why do you think I look ten years older than I am?  It’s lack of sleep.  But it’s hard enough to listen to him at night, without listening to him during the day as well.

So with no functional radio, his snoring, and the angry growl of a slowly overheating engine were the only things I had to listen to.

In these situations, where there’s such a sudden stop to the traffic, I like to turn on the radio at news time and find out why.

We stopped at Junction 8 on the N7, and didn’t get into second gear again until Junction 10 on the M7.  By Junction 9, I was practically eating my fists.  All I wanted to hear was the AA report, where they say something like “the traffic is stopped dead until Junction 10, then it’s fine”. 

I’m the same in the dentist.  I need to know what time the suffering will end at.  Since there’s no stereo in the car, I tried turning on my phone radio.  It’s one of those ones where you need the headphones to hear the radio. I don’t have the headphones.  So I tried His Nibs’ phone.  Apparently the radio doesn’t work if it doesn’t have much battery.

Why is it that every time I get onto a Luas or a train, there’s a large group of teenagers, listening to dreadful music on a phone that doesn’t need headphones?  Yet the only information I can get in the car is that the hundreds of euro I’ve spent over the years on anti-snoring devices for His Nibs has been a complete waste of money.

Then, of course, there’s always a twit who makes everything worse.  Like the gom who decided the outside lane was moving faster than the inside one, even though we were all stopped, bumper to bumper.  So she turned to her extreme right and stopped her car across both lanes.   When the inside lane eventually started moving again, but the outside one didn’t, we were all stuck.

Not to mention the crowd of eejits who decided, about two hundred metres before the Naas exit, to fling themselves into the exit lane, tear down it, and then almost immediately screech to a halt and start indicating right to re-join our lane. 

I struggled to control myself.  Actually, if it wasn’t for the very unusual looking man in the next lane, who kept rolling up beside me in a purple Suzuki Wagon R, I don’t think I would have made it.

It’s impossible to describe this man.  He was very, very odd looking.  And he had the most intent look on his face I’ve ever seen.  As if driving the car in stopped traffic is like playing one of those electric buzzing games.  It was like driving along beside Mr. Bean.  He fascinated me, I admit it.

 

 

Finally, we passed Junction 10 and I got up to third gear.  At this point, His Nibs woke up, and wondered why I was wearing my cranky face.  When he finally noticed the time, and that we should have been at home at least ten minutes previously, the penny dropped.  He wondered why I hadn’t just driven down the second lane, if the one I was in was so backed up.  I managed not to give him a belt in the chops.

Then he suggested that since I was so uptight and stressed out, maybe he should drive.  Just as I finally put the car into fifth gear.   I refused.  I don’t know why, maybe I’m a martyr.

When we started moving again, there was nothing to indicate what the delay had been.  Not that I was hoping for mangled limbs strewn across the motorway and burn marks all over the road surface.  Jesus no.  But I had assumed there’d at least be roadworks, or a Garda checkpoint, or even two drivers squaring up for a fist fight, their cars abandoned in everybody’s way.

But there was nothing.  No explanation whatsoever.  Just an hour of our lives that we’ll never get back, and a man left coping with a psychotic wife for the evening.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WLTM, GSOH, Meeting Mr. Right

I’ve known some couples, in my life, who’ve met through blind dates, or internet dating, or similar.

Obviously not all of these reationships work out, but then not all relationships work out full stop, do they?

Some people seem to judge these relationships ("he met her on the Internet, you know!"), as if everyone who tries internet dating is trying to buy a Thai bride.

I think it’s a great idea.  Instead of wandering the streets hoping to trip over some perfect person, you get a chance to say what you’re looking for, and weed out the time wasters before you bother yourself putting on your makeup and straightening your hair until it begs for mercy.

If I got myself all gussied up and found myself across the table from somebody who liked Black Sabbath, or was a militant vegetarian, I’d count the night as a disaster.  If he didn’t want to eat meat, fine, but if he kept shouting at me about the suffering of the chicken, I’d leave immediately.

All in all, I think these ads are a good thing.  Most of the time.

My friend Florrie, who is almost eighty eight years old, is a subscriber to a magazine that will remain nameless, but which is printed on newsprint rather than glossy paper, and prides itself on having been an Irish favourite for over a hundred years.

The back page of this magazine is given over to the “Penfriends” page.  Needless to say, nobody sends in their profile because they actually want a penfriend.  No, it’s a meeting page.  Which is fine, except that Florrie kept the magazine this week and actually showed me one of the ads.  I was highly amused. 

Word for word, the ad is as follows:

Single Irish Professional female, wlthf  sincere, single Irish male, 30-40, professional, academic, rural background, must be ns and nd, kind, caring, trustworthy, honest, genuinely seeking love, romance and long term relationship, keen interest in animals, nature, wildlife, going out, midlands area but ala, must be willing to travel, please incl recent full length photo and phone no with letter.

There were three of us women in the house when we found this ad, and I have to say, we were all hysterical.

“wlthf” stands for “Would like to hear from” – I thought these ads were limited to WLTM – would like to meet.  This woman can’t even commit herself to meeting this paragon of virtue, she can only promise that she would like to hear from them.

ns and nd mean non smoker and non drinker.  I don’t think I know a man in his thirties who doesn’t drink, but of course I could be wrong.

ala is All Letters Answered – to be honest, if I was a teetotaller man in his thirties who loved animals and was desperate for love I don’t think I’d contact this woman.  I’d be afraid of her.  She sounds quite demanding.

She wants to meet a man in his thirties, who has a professional and academic job, he can’t be from the city, he’s not allowed to drink or smoke.  There follows a number of required attributes.  He must like all the things she likes, as well as going out.  I can’t help wondering where her favourite place to go out to is, considering that he’s not allowed to have a drink .  He must also be willing to travel to be with our lady.

If this man exists, I’d quite like to meet him myself.  He sounds lovely.  I’m sure even His Nibs wouldn’t resent my throwing myself at this kind, caring, trustworthy, honest man.  There’d be no real competition , would there?  I’m not saying that His Nibs doesn’t possess all these virtues.  But he doesn’t.  He’s honest and trustworthy, but I’d have to think about kind and caring. 
He didn’t seem to give a flying feck on Friday when I hobbled myself.  I fell off a footpath and twisted my ankle.  When I filled him in on this almost accident about eight hours later, he didn’t really react at all.  He certainly didn’t offer to drive home, then insist on gently massaging said ankle and bringing me cups of tea.

The thing that amused me the most, though, is the request for a full length photograph.  Is that a euphemism?  If you write on this page that you want a full length photo of this man, is the secret message that you want to see a snap of his willie?  I’m absolutely dying to know.  I asked His Nibs to reply to this woman just to find out, but he’s refusing point blank.  He says he’s having enough trouble coping with me without walking into a load of trouble with some mad stalker.  Also, he says the woman who’d make it worth giving up smoking isn’t yet born.  I presume he means other than me, but I don’t like to ask.

I asked him what he’d put in his own ad, if something was to happen between us.  He didn’t seem enthusiastic, he muttered something about “exhausted, short, bald man just wants to be left alone”

I hope he’s joking.  Surely his experiences of love have been positive and life affirming? 

Surely when he says  he is exhausted, he just means because he’s been gardening all day?  Could it be that he is exhausted by my various ideas and demands?  Could he be disinterested when I read out strangers’ ads to him, and when I attack him for eating the grapes, since I am clearly a fat person and should be encouraged toward fruit?

Surely not?

 

Shacking Up - An Update

After reading my last blog, Niece and her Man decided to relieve me of the suspense, and bring me out on Thursday night.

I was delighted, almost beside myself with the thought of being out in the Big Smoke after half past eight in the evening, wearing make up, if not heels, and very excited about meeting this man who Niece has fallen in love with so quickly.

He’s lovely.  I had no need to worry so much.  And very patient, I thought.  And they’re lovely together, so much so that instead of referring to them as Niece and Man, I’ll now be calling them Romeo and Juliet, for obvious reasons.

One of the things I liked most about him, was that although he's obviously mad about her, he's not too eejity to see the wisdom of those of us who've known her for longer.  He's absolutely refusing to put her on his car insurance, for instance, when the moving in together is complete.

We started the evening with just me and her having a drink, I suspect she was taking the opportunity to try to get me to behave myself for the evening. I thought that maybe she wanted to give me a list of questions she’d like me to squeeze in as the night progressed.  It turns out that she hadn’t warned him about a couple of my little quirks.

Like the fact that I’m very very nosey indeed.  Not that I want to know how much a person earns, or what their mortgage costs, although if they want to tell me that’s fine.  But I definitely want to know things like how couples meet, or what they’d call their children if they had any, or why they’re getting so serious with my niece so quickly.

Poor Romeo, he probably thought he was just joining his girlfriend and her auntie for their regular after work dinner.  I doubt that he had any idea that I would be more or less interviewing him. 

Actually, interviewing him mightn’t be an accurate description.  I interrogated the poor soul.

And he must be stone mad about her, because instead of telling me to feck off and mind my own business, which he had every right to do, he answered every question, and I honestly believe he was telling the truth.  Of course, I’m not stupid enough to believe that there was no gilding of the lily when I asked him, for instance, about his alcohol consumption or whether he’d ever tried illicit drugs, but I came away from the night believing he is a good and honest man, which is exactly what I’d hoped for.

And if my niece is going to say that she wasn’t remotely interested when I started questioning Romeo about previous relationships, how long they’d lasted, who’d ended them, and who, if anyone, spent a month crying into their cornflakes, I’m sorry to say I don’t accept that. 

I’d have absolutely loved someone to come along and ask His Nibs his entire life history a couple of months after I met him.  It took me about five years to find out everything Juliet heard last Thursday night.

That’s the thing about being a martyr to nosiness.  You always have to apologise for it.  Everyone seems to think it’s a character flaw, it’s never given the benefit of the doubt and counted as a virtue.  I find myself, when I get talking to people at parties or in the post office queue for that matter, and I get one interesting nugget about their lives, informing them that I’m frightfully nosey and will now ask them a series of questions, and to tell me to mind my own business when I go too far.

The funny thing is, people very rarely tell me to mind my own business.   Maybe I have an inbuilt filter that stops me before it’s too late, but I doubt it.

I once met a friend of my brother’s at a party, and asked him about his children.  He had a number of them, (four if you must know), all by different mothers.  So I asked him what his mother thought about his getting so many different girls pregnant.  Not that I particularly cared, I just wondered how far he could go before his Irish Mammy gave him a belt in the ear for himself.  My brother, our host for the day, was absolutely horrified.  But his friend told me honestly, his mother wasn’t impressed, she was always going mad over the whole business, but loved every one of her grandchildren with all her heart. 

At the same party another friend of my brother’s informed me that he was still living with his ex and their child, but that he slept in the spare room.  He didn’t have to tell me that, I didn’t ask him.  Maybe he’d heard about my chat with the first lad, and knew what to expect so he just thought he’d spit it out, I couldn’t say.  Anyway, I informed him that I didn’t believe him, he had quite the twinkle in his eye and I knew by the look of him that he was enjoying certain benefits that he didn’t want to admit to.  He’d admitted all within minutes.  My brother couldn’t believe it, his friend had been denying all this to him for months.  And he never hosted a party in a pub again.  Or at least not one I was invited to.

I know nosiness isn’t a great thing.  I know I should try to control it.  But I hate being told half a story.

I honestly don’t want to know how often people have sex, how far in arrears their mortgage is, or whether they eat their five a day.  It’s the human interest stories that fascinate me.  I like to think I’m a people watcher.  People are the most fascinating things on earth. 

In restaurants and pubs I stare at the other couples and wonder why they’re not speaking, or what he just said to make her raise her eyebrows like that,  or why they’re holding hands and being so romantic when they look like they’ve been together for twenty years.  Although that might be jealousy more than nosiness.

One way or the other, I can tell you Romeo’s full work and romantic history,  how he gets on with the different members of his family, and even how his parents met.  But I won’t.  It’s private.  Don’t be nosey.

 

 

 

Shacking Up

One of my much loved nieces is in love.  She met a man, a few months ago, and although she hasn’t admitted it to me, I get the impression that she’s stone mad about this one, and is hoping it will last a while.

I haven’t met the lucky man, but am reliably informed, not just by the niece, but by her mother, a tougher audience, I assume, that he is absolutely lovely.  I’m sure he is, and I’m looking forward to meeting him.

Because both of their current leases are up soon, and they are young and impetuous and have fire in their bellies, they’ve decided that feck it, they’ll take their chances on getting a place together.

I hope it works out great for them, I love her very dearly and want her to be happy, and don’t want her to have to untangle a big mess in a few months, with a broken lease, a broken heart and, presumably, a pissed off landlord.

And it is because I love her, and I’m sure I’ll like him very much but only in an appropriate way, that I don’t want them to be disappointed when real life hits them in the face, about six weeks after they move in, and they finally get out of bed and stop grinning inanely at each other and look around them.  And so I’ve sorted out a little “Top Ten Tips” for them.

1  Darling niece, unless you have met the only Irish man I’ve ever heard of with a bit of laundry decorum, please prepare yourself for the fact that you will find dirty socks and underpants on the floor of your home at some point.  And not necessarily in the bedroom.  It could be in any room.

 In my experience, there is nothing to stop a man from removing his socks and jocks in the kitchen, in the hall, or anywhere else, and leaving them in a friendly little bundle for you to walk on in your bare feet.  I hate that.

2  Dear Man I haven’t met yet, and so am not rude enough to name in a published blog, and will therefore refer to as Man, aren’t you a lucky divil?   Isn’t my niece absolutely gorgeous?  She is a natural beauty.  But her beauty doesn’t come as naturally as you might think.  Her hair isn’t like that through pure good luck, you know.  In fact, it takes some time and effort to get it like that. And her eyelashes aren’t naturally sooty black, obviously, not when she’s so fair. 

 I suggest that when you start your flat hunt, you insist on a place with two bathrooms. Believe me when I tell you that unless you take my advice you’re going to spend a hell of a lot of time banging on the bathroom door.

3  Dear both of you – it is never ever okay to assume that you’ve made a good impression and can now proceed to behave as you see fit in front of the parents.  I say this as a woman who spent this weekend apologising for His Nibs behaviour, not to my mother, but to His Parents!  He has turned his back on his good behaviour training to such an extent that he can’t behave himself in front of his own parents now, never mind anyone else’s.

 This does not lead to a happy and tranquil atmosphere once the parents are gone home.  Just continue to behave yourselves, always be nice to Mammies and Daddies, no matter who else you’re bold in front of.

4  Dear Man, kindly do yourself the service right now, of throwing out your books, not bothering to upload anything new to your ipod, and leaving anything else that you might like in the line of hobbies behind you.  My niece likes talking even more than I do.  And unlike me, she seems to expect to be listened to, and replied to. 

There will be no time in your future for sitting around getting to the end of your book in a leisurely fashion.  You’ll be too busy listening to, and answering my lovely niece.

5.       Dear Niece.  Remember, for God’s sake, that now you will be sharing your flat in a relationship way, that your roomie will probably get in the habit of opening the bills.  This means that there will be no more ignoring bills, or throwing them in the fire unopened.  You may want to be careful what you buy on any jointly held cards. 

Dear Man, on the same note, feel free to open the bills, I am not going to visit the little pup in Mountjoy if she persists with her bad behaviour.  Someone will have to deal with these issues, and if you take her on, you take her bills too.

6.  Dear Man.  I love my niece, as you know.  But do not let her drive your car.  Not unless you have a secret and very healthy bank account for the express purpose of paying her clamping fees and parking tickets.  She doesn’t worry as much as she should about things like legal parking and so on. 

I think that’s why the roads are going to hell, actually, and so full of potholes.  The State has lost a fortune in revenue since Niece got rid of her own car.

7.  Dear Niece.  Fight like a tiger not to get Sky Sports, or any other sporting channels.  Do not get in the habit of watching Match of the Day, or five hours of GAA every Sunday.  Once you go down this road, you’ll never go back.  I fought this battle for about fifteen years, and then lost spectacularly, to my great regret.

8. Dear Both of you.  Do not listen to the people who insist that any human who is not a Neanderthal goes home from work every day and chops and mashes and mangles vegetables for an hour.  It is absolutely fine not to cook, unless of course you end up having children.  It’s not okay  to starve them.  Until that happy day, don’t let anyone pressure you.  You can live happily with only bread for toast and cereal in the cupboards.

9.   Dear Niece.  This is an important one.  Choose your battles.  When the honeymoon finally ends, and you start having rows, and you will my darlings, you will, be careful. 

Tears are a last resort, not a first one.  And if you start threatening to leave him every time he leaves his underpants on the floor, you’ll soon lose all your power.  He’ll never take you seriously. 

If, however, you have the wit to save the drama for the big stuff, you’ll have him in the palm of your hand when you let the tears drop sadly from your big brown eyes.

10.   Dear Man.  I have to tell you now, before you start flat hunting, that she’s worth it.  Worth what?  you might wonder.  Worth the fact that we, her family, would not be considered completely sane by everybody.  We’re a noisy, unruly, shouty bunch.  There will be times when you wonder why you ever got involved with us. 

But we all love her with all our hearts.  And there’s loads of us.  And if you ever mess her around, or make her cry for any reason other than dramatic effect (see 9 above), we’re coming after you.  All of us.

If, on the other hand, you’re always nice to her, we’ll embrace you as one of our own.  Which is probably worse.

Best of luck young lovers, may every day be a joy to you both!

Going Potty

Have you ever seen the Rowntree's Randoms advert, where a woman asks a passerby for directions, and he responds by speaking gibberish, using completely random words that make no sense when put together?

You know the one, he starts saying things like "No problem monkey biscuits, turn trumpet at the underpants and go ice cream"

That ad jumped into my mind today, when I was out for my lunchtime trot with a dear friend, the mother of a two year old girl. 
My friend and her husband are facing the massive challenge of toilet training a very wilful child, who may not think it's a good idea to stop wearing nappies.

Anyway, we were walking along the street when we had our Rowntree's Randoms moment.  I was thinking about what I should get for the children of another friend, who live in Nicaragua, and who are long overdue for a present from Ireland, when my friend said

"We may have to take the sound chip out of the potty."

What? I asked her.  In my harmless world, this isn't even a sentence, so I assumed I'd misheard her.  She repeated the sentence, and it sounded exactly the same. 
I admitted to her that I had no idea what she was talking about, and she looked at me for a moment. 

"You're right" she told me.  "It would be simpler to just not put the batteries in."

I had to stop walking to concentrate

"Potties don't have sound chips or batteries" I told her, as if I was talking to a moron.  "They're just little plastic piddle vessels"

As usual, I was wrong.

Brace yourself, if you are child free, or if it is many years since you trained your children.  For the humble potty, ladies and gentlemen, has gone high tech.

The one this little girl of my acquaintance has been equipped with, blew my mind.

It looks like a tiny toilet, complete with lid.  Which I was fine with, obviously. 
It is festooned with pictures of Minnie Mouse, of which the child is very fond, in order to encourage her to get involved. The potty is also available in a Mickey Mouse version, less pink, and more boyish I suppose.
It has a lid, and converts into a sturdy stepping stool, which will be very handy when the whole business is successful, for the child to use as a step up to the grown ups toilet. 
It has a detachable insert which fits onto the family toilet, again for when the user is ready to progress the project.
Most mind blowing of all, in my opinion, is the fact that it has a little Minnie Mouse arm out the side, which is used in the same way as a flush handle on the toilets we're more used to.  But instead of flushing away the contents of the potty (and it's a wonder it doesn't) when the child "flushes" the toilet, there is a celebratory round of applause and cheers of congratulations from the potty.

The whole thing is called the "Minnie Mouse Potty System" - which is fair enough.  It is a system, it's not a potty as I know it, certainly.

And of course it's far, far, more attractive than the blue or pink bowls we had as children.

My friend is worried that her daughter will get so used to being cheered and applauded that she will use the potty as a toy, and not as any kind of training aid.

When I was checking that out on Google, I discovered that parents can also buy something called a "Carry Potty" - a mobile potty that folds up into a little case with a handle a child can bring around with them, for emergency calls of nature.

I don't know if I like the idea of that.  All very handy, I'm sure, but I wouldn't like to see a potty being unfolded on the bus, or in the middle of a restaurant.

Potties can be bought with almost any well loved children's character on them, to encourage an allegiance with the item.

In America, my research has revealed that you can buy "Potty Diapers".  Nappies which sound an alarm when they come in contact with the first drops of moisture.
Alarmed nappies.  Now in fairness. 

You can buy a potty that comes with its own roll of toilet paper hanging off it, which would probably be handy, actually.
And there's "Potty Prize Boxes" and "Potty celebration stickers" for the big moments of success.

There's a potty which comes with a stand attached, to hold up the ipad and amuse the child while they're awaiting the big moment.
I'm not making this up, I'm actually putting in a picture to prove that I haven't lost my mind.  It's called the iPotty.

It makes the Minnie Mouse system seem positively pre-historic, in comparison.

An absent minded parent can buy a "Potty Watch" - worn like a wristwatch, it's basically a stopwatch that counts down the seconds and sounds an alarm when it's time to put the child on the potty.

When my friend and I had our conversation today, I thought it was fascinating that there was so much to think about in buying a potty.  Then another friend, who I was telling about the Minnie potty, said she'd start training her child soon.  But she had to go shopping first.

Extra clothes, naturally.  Those Kandoo wipes that a child can use for themselves, possibly some small prizes for successful ventures, a plastic mat to be put on the floor under the potty, a clothes horse for the inevitable extra washing in this manky weather, the list was enormous.

I know I know nothing about this area of life, but I'm astounded at the industry that's built up around potty training.
Am I the only one?