acarbery

Go visit Conortje. He’s a rockstar!

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Most awesome weekend; thanks Conortje!

Couple of things popping up over the next couple of days making me a wee bit apprehensive.

I’m off tomorrow to stay with the lubbly Conortje for a few days. That’s not one of them. I had the most amazing time the last time I went over. And again when he came home for a weekend.

No. But I realised this morning in a quick fire shot-and-kill moment that I don’t recall seeing my passport since I moved house. That’s what a mortgage will do for you folks; send the passport into hibernation. Don’t do it, for the love of God! We’re in a recession.

Ahem. Sorry. So yeah. Missing passport. I’m banking on it being in the pile of boxes sitting in the far corner of the living room that I still haven’t unpacked. That’s right; I moved 9 months ago and I still haven’t unpacked. SUCK IT! Fingers crossed I find it in time.

Secondly; I’m taking Waterford Airport’s fancy smancy new flight route direct to Amsterdam. This is indeed extra great news. Except I took a trip out to the airport (dry run) and noticed the smallest, tiniest plane ever. You know the ones that look like their propellers wouldn’t cut through a paper bag, never mind altitudes of god-knows-how-many-feet!

So folks, fingers crossed I get over in one piece. Starting now, I’m taking requests for the number of cheap pats on Conortje’s bum, or other assorted lewd behaviours I should demonstrate on your behalf.

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‘Why are you speed dating?‘ asks a few different people during the week.

“I’m not” says I in return, the first time to the Bethster.

You see; I’ve been the victim of identity theft. It’s a serious crime folks. Like, real serious. Someone out there is riding high, going around living the high life. Thieving scum. I feel violated. Pilferage of the highest order.

Someone has gone out there; pretended to be me, in order to speed date.

Everyone in my contacts for my email address for this blog (staroga@gmail.com - drop me a line and say “hey”) received an email this week, with my picture (not sure how they got that), saying that I wanted to speed date online, and that they should sign up!

I am not now, nor have I ever been, on an online, or indeed real life, speed date session.

If you managed to get one; Delete and just remember that I wasn’t look to speed date with you.

Because seriously, look at the state of some of you; I wouldn’t date you if you paid me! * +

* Besides, that sounds like prostitution to me!

+ Just kidding! D’uh! Of course I’m not in any position to be chosey about who I date! Getting dates is never easy for someone as aesthetically  challenged as me!

Dearest Certain Other Person

Please accept my humblest apologies for suggesting to all and sundry (and known acquaintance, meeting Certain Other Person for the very first time) that you were entirely to blame for a rather hefty parking toll this afternoon.

The fact that I do indeed have free parking two streets over, but that you feel the need to grumble if I avail of this bonus, is of course, bien sur, completely irrelevant.

In addition, the fact that you (so kindly) paid for lovely lunch is outside the remits of this little tête-à-tête, I’ve decided.

Kindest regards,

Al

I have two stinging red eyes.

I am tired as hell.

I’m getting too damn old for this malarky.

This past Wednesday I took to the road for a work conference. While many get to experience the thrills and spills of Paris, New York, Milan, China or heck, even an overnighter in London, this public serving academic librarian must make do with a couple of nights in Cork for a work conference.

But really, in the grand scheme of shit conference venues, I guess Cork isn’t so bad. It’s a pretty funky city; great nightspots, nice restaurants. Weird accents.

Not that I saw all that much of Cork city itself. Its 5 star hotel rooms, pubs and residence bars, on the other hand; aren’t to be sneezed at.

I’d also love to say that the conference bored the face off me, but actually, it put a bit of a fire in my working belly that might have been lacking a bit after a particularly long spell of shushing and telling students off. I’m not in the business long enough to not have the cynical inspired moments after hearing some success stories of my peers.

Highlight of the entire trip? Hmm; I can’t quite decide which 4am late night socialising networking session was better. I should reflect more on that.

But to wing it from one end of the country to my hometown on the other end is probably what has me done in. The third cousin wedding of the year so far (one more to go - Mexico abound!) will finish me, says I. Maybe I should miss it?

And miss myself on the stage with the wedding band, doing my running man dance moves at 2.30 am?.. Er, actually, yeah I probably should have made my excuses and not attended.

Colour me mortified. Bad wine. BAD!

So it would appear that I’ve had nothing of interest to say since the start of last week. No biggie. All’s good with me. Nothing terribly exciting or amazing going on at present.

Except to say that Hurley from Lost was walking around Waterford last week, but since I’ve neither seen him; nor actually care if they get off the island, then whatever! Still, a girl at work was so excited that she got her picture taken with him that the first thing she said to me when I saw her this morning was “I had my picture taken with Hurley from Lost. See; here he is!”

Oh exciting life I lead; how I love thee.

By the end of last week, I wanted to escape every madness under the sun, hide under a blanket, and never return.

Certain other Person had received major brownie points for bagging tickets to Rufus Wainwright solo at the Cork Opera House for my birthday a few weeks back and surprising me with them. I was thinking that I’d sadly have to pass on them halfway during the week, but it worked out ok, and off we tottled to Cork to shut away the world for the weekend.

The gig was great. It was billed as Rufus Solo. So it was just Rufus and his piano or Rufus and his guitar. Meaning there was no Judy Garland songs… which was fine with me.

And a gig wouldn’t be a gig if I didn’t get SOME vidjos for aural and visual pleasure.

I’ve argued back and forth with myself about whether or not I would write this post, or some variation of it, but I think I’ve applied the logic that if this is a personal blog, then personal it should be; both good and bad. Whatever the logic; I’m feeling particularly exposed right now, so please forgive me.

Last Wednesday my Granny passed away.

But actually, I had felt that she had passed quite a few years ago. My Nannie (she insisted on signing birthday cards with the ie ending) suffered from Alzheimer’s for the past number of years. A disease that doesn’t necessarily affect organs or mobility. A disease so nasty it rips apart a personality. Alzheimer’s took my Nannie years ago, and left a shell of a woman I hardly recognised, and was often too painful to watch, sit, and listen to.

But as her health deteriorated over the last week, I realised that I hadn’t let her go yet. My Nannie was here, and she wasn’t ready to go just yet. She clung on to this life for almost a week; strong, stubborn and defying, right to the end. Just like the good ole days, Nannie.

So I got to say goodbyes to my Granny. She had a beautiful send off. And it was comforting to see the hoardes of crowds pay respect to my Granny at probably the biggest funeral I’ve ever seen! She was a respected and admired woman in her native community. It was very touching.

So almost a week after taking seriously ill, my Granny hung on. Fought for something. And it wasn’t until she did finally pass that it all became clear what she fought and clung on for.

Exactly 31 years to the day her husband died, my Nannie left this world. She opened her eyes, watched her reunited family, and drifted off. But not before the end of a mass service. A mass service that was celebrated by a particular priest. The same priest that 31 years ago on the very same day came to her and told her her husband had died.

As someone remarked to my Mother at the funeral service; “Romance is clearly not dead”.

Had I known leaving my house last night, all excited, because The Diving Bell and The Butterfly was showing for one night only, that I’d end up watching What Happens in Vegas instead, I’m not sure I would have left the house.

I feel cheated out of a good movie.

“You got me year of birth way wrong” says I as I was presented with a surprise Birthday cake just before heading out for cocktails, disco dancing and merriment last Saturday night.

“It’s not your year of birth, it’s one of your favourite books!”

“Oh, so it is”, says I. You know; me being a librarian and all, I simply must have birthday cake with icing books on top.

Still, the clock ain’t going back, so I should have been grateful that someone thought I was born in 1984. I wasn’t quite as ungrateful when tucking into a slice or ten.

Any advice? Yikes!

My nose feels like it’s shrunken in to half its size, meaning I can barely breathe.

Because I cut my lawn for the first time last night, and because the weather is so lovely, and because Google told me so, I’ve decided I suddenly have hay-fever.

Now, to self-medicate…

If the reception is not frosty enough after moaning “Tommy” in your sleep, then for the freakin’ LOVE OF GOD, when introducing certain someone else to the folks, after having a really nice day together, DON’T let your Dad end it all by saying; “It was great to meet you Peter”.

Certain Someone: “Eh, who’s Peter, Alan?”

Eh, that’s what I’D like to know!

{Ensue rapid Kicking Dad’s Legs  Action under the table}

Family! They’ll hang ya.