My Dublin Life

I can't believe that freakin' NERVE of Bepe's girlfriend!

I was all geared up to go to the International with Saoirse when she comes in in a pair of rhinestone infested jeans.

"Oh goodnight," she said. "Early for going to bed."
"I'm just heading out," I said.
"I see," she said. "I was confused because of your pyjamas..."

Pyjamas??? I might not be as gaudy a dresser as some people but I was wearing MAKE-UP.

I was so cross I didn't go out and to make matters worse I don't even know if they do shows Tuesdays. I didn't check. I texted Saoirse and told her that the night was off, went and bought a couple of cans of Guinness and drank them morosely in my room. So you would think that that was bad enough but when I came out to pick up a snack in the kitchen, we had this exchange:

"Oh look, you've got one of those children's stick-on tattoos. Just as well it will come off, coz who would want a bat on their wrist forever."
"It's a real tattoo."

I HATE HER.

However, the good news is that her job situation is not going well. She's too fussy -- doesn't want to do anything that might involve breaking a nail. So it looks like she's going to have to go back to Italy. And that means that I won't have to leave this apartment, which Iwould really not do. However, she's going to be round for a couple weeks more, which means that I'll be OUT as much as possible which in turn means that I'll have a lot of things to write about which hopefully will mean that Dublin Tourism will keep posting my blog and MAYBE (hint, guys) throw some tickets to the Dublin Theatre Festival in my general direction. It all looks good. I have my preferences, but I'll take anything ;-)

Especially as I have to make it up to Saoirse after having to cancel the other night.

This afternoon, I'm going to try and find this place my local greengrocer told me about. Apparently it's not far from here: a cemetery dedicated to or maybe the resting place of some fallen heroes or other. I am pretty hazy on the details of Irish history. The Irish sure do like their cemeteries. But I'm not complaining: as a student of 19th century lit., anything gloomy is right up my alley!

Well, my lovely tattoo is all healed now and I am so happy with it. Not so my room mate. As if it was any of his business, he grabbed my wrist yesterday afternoon and we had the following lovely exchange:

"What the hell have you done?"
"It's a tattoo."
"I can see that. I'm wondering why you were so stupid as to defile yourself like that" (he actually said, "defile")
"Well, I'm not the one who got back together with his cheating girlfriend, so if anyone is stupid..."

Things have been pretty tense since then and I find myself wondering for the nth time if maybe I should just move out and find someplace else to live. Thing is that I love where this apartment is--it rocks looking out the window and seeing the Liffey and the Ha'penny Bridge and most of the time we actually have a lot of fun together sharing this house. But with the girlfriend...well, three is a crowd and while obviously she's gonna be here some of the time there's been no mention of her chipping in to pay for all the hot water she consumes in the shower and hand-washing her stupid lingerie.

That might sound petty, but I'm on a budget here.

On a cheerier note, college is going really well. I like my supervisor, I like the other students and Trinity is a lot more fun with more structure to my day. They all seem impressed with all the pre-reading I've done and, of course, there's the constant thrill of will-I-or-won't-I see the Beautiful PhD Student on whom I've got such a crush.

As for the entertainments this week, there's a comedy festival on that is out of my budget -- but I don't feel hard-done-by. I'll be hitting my usual comedy joint, the International! Maybe even tonight, if I can get someone to come with me.

My dashing PhD student and new crush was walking down Dame Street yesterday. I spotted him while I was waiting to cross the road, and all of a sudden realise that I had to go the same way.

I'm so ashamed. I followed him down the road and into Dublin Castle. I saw him meet up with a smartly dressed older lady (his mom? His Mrs Robinson) at the cafe of the Chester Beatty library.

At that point, I sorta shook myself and realised that I had just FOLLOWED HIM DOWN THE ROAD like a stalker or something and hastily rushed upstairs to examine the manuscripts on display to retrospectively justify my excursion into creepiness by turning it into a trip to the museum.

"Ancient Middle Eastern Manuscripts" are likely not the first words to spring to mind when you think of Dublin, but they sure have loads of them here. I spend an hour there to confirm, at least to myself, that I am not a creepy stalker but actually a serious person and a scholar.

Know what I'm thinking? I need some exercise and fresh air. So my mission this weekend is going to be to go blackberry picking in Phoenix Park. that will also have the added bonus of getting me out of the house and away from Bepe's girlfriend who is coming over. I might rent a bike as it's a big space and I don't have one right now. I was thinking of getting one but I'm not sure how confident I feel about riding after all these years (it's been a while) so an hour or so on a bike might help me to make up my mind.

Festivals on top of festivals.

This weekend there's an International Puppetry Festival on, which sounds intriguing. Plus, it's on in one of my favourite parts of Dublin, Monkstown, a fancy Victorian neighbourhood on the sea. Obviously, I have no kids to take about but there are several shows just for adults, which is even more intriguing. I've never been to or even heard of a puppet show for grown-ups before. What do you think? Should I go? It's that or eating this weekend, and I could probably stand to lose a kilo or two.

SPEAKING of puppets, guess who's back?

Bepe's girlfriend, that's who. They had split up and she'd gone back to Italy but now she's here again and they seem to be back together.

This is so bad. I hate her and her tiny butt. And he is such a nice guy, he deserves someone better. Sure, she's pretty, but really...

Apparently, she's doing some kind of a course. And there was me thinking she didn't have enough brains to worry about more onerous things than handwashing her tiny underwear and hanging it on MY shower rail. And poor Bepe, the fool that he is, is her puppet on a string. Tsk, men.

It's none of my business, right? But he IS my housemate and I do feel that I should say something to him before he gets too involved. But how? And when?

And more to the point, is she going to be round my place ALL THE TIME now, or what?

So I'm a bit depressed and considering how hard I've been working today, I think I deserve something tasty and greasy to eat. I'm gonna head downstairs to the Epicurean Food Hall to see what's cooking.

I've found an idol to worship.

...Wow, I wish I looked like Zocorro. She's the Fringe Fest gig on in Bewley's Cafe and she rocks. I think some of the show was above my head, or possibly had too many local references (?) but she's a total freakin riot. Plus I love the venue. How cool is it to have teeny theatres all over the city? I keep coming across them in all sorts of unlikely places. This one is in an old, elegant cafe (I have actually had an Irish Breakfast there -- it is not nearly as expensive as it looks) on Grafton Street.

I feel really lucky to have had these free tix to the Fringe Festival. Thank you, Dublin Tourism!

In more news, work is building up steam at college. And I'm building up steam every time I see my new crush. Sigh. Of course, I haven't spoken to him, as he is a lofty PhD candidate and I am a mere MA underling. But gosh. When Irish boys are hot, they are totally rocking.

Mostly, I'm quite happy to be tall. I'm a blonde gal and I'm quite tall, like my hard-working outport forebears. And there's something that makes me thing that Mr Gorgeous would like a waif to toss over his shoulder. But I don't know. What to do? How to impress? I'm way too tall to be winsome, so my best chance is to impress him with my exotic origins (well, exotic-ish) or get Bepe to preprepare something to and make him thing I'm a fabulous cook or... suggestions welcome please.

I have casually broken into loud conversation within earshot about my recent exploits at the forty foot, so here's hoping he'll be won over by my impressive sea-swimming feats.

I do have one more set of free tickets to use in the Fringe Festival but can't quite figure out how to a) introduce myself or b) invite him out.

All suggestions welcome thank you!

Something arrived in the mail today and I had to go downstairs to get it from the mailman; partridge berry jam, sent my my mom, made by my aunt.

Now I'm sure that there are some great jams in Ireland, but I can't imagine that they compete with the magic of partidge berries. Maybe it's the knowlege that I won't be home for Christmas this year, but I'm having a little seasonal homesickness, for the salty coldness of the clouds on an early Septmber morning before the Fall really sets in.

But enough of that. The real news is that I think I might've replaced George, my erstwhile handsome librarian from the National Library with a PhD candidate I've seen in the library at TCD. I don't know what department he's in but he's totally rocking the "dark Irish" look, rather like Daniel Day Lewis back in the day .... I guess maybe 25 years ago? This also means that I now share my mom's taste in men, which is a bit too icky to explore in detail and which I won't ponder on for too long.

But how to get this Celtic Adonis to notice yours truly?

Meanwhile, I've got a couple more free tickets to Fringe events and will be going to something tonight and then again tomorrow, of which more later.

That's how James Joyce described the Irish Sea. Someone posted a comment on here recommending that I try a swim at the "forty foot" in Sandymount as as the weather is so amazing that's what I am going to do today, so I will see for myself. Or, to be more precise, I'm dragging Bepe along so HE can see for himself. He'll be going to a craft beer event in Phoenix park this pm, for professional reasons being a chef 'n' all so I guess it'll be good for him to work up an appetite. Not that he ever gets drunk.

Apparently, the forty-foot (no doubt I will find out later why it's called that) used to be the only spot where male nudists could go for a legal naked dip, but now women go too, and everyone keeps their kit on (whew). I'm guessing Joyce must've gone there himself back in the day, to know about the interesting effects of the sea on the male anatomy. That's really pretty cool--getting changed and going for a swim in a place that has been made part of one of the world's most famous books. I've never managed to finish Ulysses, but perhaps after today I will be inspired.

After the dip, I'm meeting up with Saoirse, who is having lunch with her FAMOUS ROCK STAR COUSIN who lives not all that far from there. I would totally love another invite but don't want to look like a doofus and actually come straight out and say it, so let's hope they loved Mom's bottled moose (my picturesque gift, the time I was invited over) and are dying for seconds...