Has Paddy’s Day Burned Out?

When I lived in Dublin, Patrick’s day was always about getting up early, like Christmas, to get into town before the crowds. Getting a place by the barriers was always tough but, failing that, my Mum and Dad hoisted us onto their shoulders so that we could see the huge colourful parade that lasted for hours. Wearing costumes we had made at school that year, we felt part of the Paddy’s Day spectacle and it was magical.

So, our first parade after we came to live in Cork was shite!! No rush for the barriers required, a couple of colourful floats drifted by, no pageantry; just one band and the whole thing over in 20 minutes. What a disappointment! The following year my father said, “lets have a fun day at home this year…. A bonfire!” and I realized now that he had kept the garden waste and was using willing helpers, still dressed in homemade Paddy’s Day costumes, to help him clear the garden. We had a ball feeding the fire – my brother flicking blazing bushes around the garden like fire bombs.

Brilliant Day!!

Later when the fire was just ambers, my mum rigged up a little grill and we cooked sausages while rapped in our coats in the dark. Most of the time the sausages had to be fished from the ashes as they fell through the grill, but we ate them all the same.

The Irish in Canada

After a few years of burning garden waste, the novelty wore off and even the prospect of grilled sausages in the dark didn’t cut it.

Swedish Mid-Summer

Lately I noticed that Paddy’s Day is all about drink, a custom I have fallen for also. This year I was reminded of the charred sausages of my childhood when my boyfriend and I feel asleep after putting food in the oven to cook following our Paddy’s Day celebration. Even I, well practiced in the custom of eating charred Paddy’s Day food, couldn’t eat the remains of the chips, chicken and sausages cooked 2.5 hours too long.

Thinking about this makes me wonder – as an adult I’ve noticed that all national days (Canada Day, 4^th of July, Swedish Mid-summer) are celebrated with drinking, and I've enjoyed every minute of it, but I’m actually looking forward to the day when burned offerings will be edible again.

 St. Patricks Day 2012

Am I only as interesting as the colour of my hair?

Former 16 year old self

What a cliché! For years I have been talking about going back to my 14-year-old hair – long, thick, wavy fair-haired but not typically blonde.  How I hated that dull boring hair until recently a friend asked me “why don’t you grow your hair long?” The answer is.. I cant.

My hair is so over worked that it simply refuses to grow. My mother stuck a picture of me at 14 on the fridge door, how I envied that thin young girl, her amazing head of thick healthy hair. Was that really me?

So decision time?

Friday 10am sharp, I was strapped to the hairdresser’s chair. No escaping now, the processes of remedial hair care had begun.  Two dyeing processes were suggested to remove the peroxide blonde. Unfortunately she hadn’t seen the photograph on the fridge and perhaps didn’t quite understand what my ultimate goal was. I was feeling great that I was finally taking a radical step, going dark is a very hard thing for a blonde who has more fun to do. But even I was shocked when the towel was removed after the first pre-colour stage. “Is going to much darker than this”. I whispered teary-eyed thinking privately, “shit what have I done?”

Round one

“No no no” the hairdresser replied, seemly unaware of my distressing tears and the fact that I was stuck to the chair by my own sweat. 

Words or tears would not adequately express my feelings when the final colour was revealed!!!

So naturally everyone said, “OMG its beautiful, it really suits you” trying to avoid doing their share of suicide watch.

On Friday night after a couple of drinks I frighten myself in the bathroom when I a stranger in the mirror looking back at me. I had to reintroduce myself to old acquaintances “don’t I know you from somewhere?” was asked a surprising number of times.

So do blondes have more fun? The jury is out – but one thing I do no for sure blondes get noticed more, but what are people noticing?? 

Have you ever tried to go back and pick up a childhood fantasy??

When we stumbled up on this video on YouTube last year in Canada we watched it obsessively.

It reminded me so much of the days when I used to do ballet in the Scouts hall in Carragaline. I went from the star of the show, aged 8 to the girl with the “ fountain on her head” a phrase my teacher used to describe my efforts to look like Joan Fontaine. That remark ended my ballet career. My mum never understood why I ran from the hall to the car dropping my slipper like Cinderella crying, “I’m never going back there”.

Now, in Canada 12 years later, looking at the little girl placing her feet together with such determination I wondered did I quit ballet prematurely. After all see how elegant and graceful I am now… right??

So us six Canada girls set out for our first ballet class, in a rough part of town in our new leggings. When we arrived the teacher, although gob smacked by the fact he suddenly had six Irish girls in his class who didn’t know the meaning of pirouette, seemed happy to see us. The 8-year-old ballerina inside me leapt around the room, like a baby elephant in leggings, thinking she was Angelina Ballerina. Totally absorbed in my own wonderfulness, like the little girl in the video, I didn’t notice that the other five, who had some ballet skills, were falling around the place hysterically laughing at my little girl efforts.

 We laughed through the whole class and weren’t at all offended when the teacher, saying good-bye, recommended, “maybe you girls should try some other form of dance”.

Lets hope that that little girl managed to put her feet together so age 22 she wont be fantasizing that she’s as graceful as a gazelle as she prances about a dance studio in a bad part of town.

Have you ever tried to go back and pick up a childhood fantasy??

Do pots and pans determine what we eat?

January blues, grey sky’s, no money, deadlines pending – that’s my life right now. So Friday night, the six Canada girls had a come dine with me night in celebration of a ritual we used to have every Friday night in Canada last year. 

We called it family dinner. As we stuffed ourselves with nachos, couscous and pasta salad, chicken, brownies and pavolva inevitably the conversation led to last year dinner menus and we remembered the one pot we shared between the six of us – god love you if you wanted to cook something which required two!

When we arrived in Canada we each bought, at great cost, a pot, sharp knife and fork and a plastic bowl. These we carried to and from our bedrooms religiously three times a day because if we didn’t they would end up in a cardboard box full of dirty dishes and pots where the cleaning people deposited all unwashed items.  By the time we left, we had one pot between the six of us which was shared between us because each person clamed it was their pot and nobody wanted to search through the fermenting cardboard box.

I also had a yellow one-egg frying pan, which also served as a one pork chop frying pan. Our fermenting George-Forman Grill (which was secretly used by the other 30 people on the floor) was in quarantine, embedded with charred and sterilized food, which had collected there for months. The small child’s plastic dish, which acted as a bowl for cereal, plate for chili and cooking pot for scrambled eggs was a very strange colour and had furry texture towards the end which couldn’t be washed away.

Our weekly shop became an obstacle course, we religiously avoided the junk food isles. Eyes closed we choose the same items every week automatically and had a competition to see who could spend the least – needless to say I never won that competition. Pork chops, pork chops and more pork chops. We hated the two seasoned in a pack for $2.69 pork chops but, my god, if they were gone we cried in the aisle – seriously that was two meals for $2.69 but I haven’t eaten a pork chop since. ‘Chilli’ was the other stable item on the menu.  Minced meat cooked with a can of tomato sauce -with Franks hot sauce and rice it was called chilli  - minus the hot sauce with pasta it was called spaghetti bolognaise. These two meals and the pork chops were dinners for 4 nights. On shopping day we cooked ‘chicken fajitas’ but without the chicken, who can win the lowest shopping bill if you buy chicken? So pepper, onion and sweet corn chicken-less fajitas – mmmmmm delicious…. Not. 

You can imagine what a grand occasion of the week it was to be invited out to someone’s house for dinner?  Describing the food afterwards caused spiteful comment as the others, mouths watering, ate their pork chops and looked forward to their Frank’s chili. 

While sitting at the table last Friday night, we realized we had enough food to last a whole week for the six of us in Canada, grateful for an abundance of pots and pans, knifes and forks and a fridge full of food every time we open it. 

We all remembered the night we bought the cupcakes - it was such an important occasion we actually photographed it

As we laughed, remembering our frugal, pot-less existence, we wondered did other people have the same experience living away from home? 

A life or death decision?

Why does the exam time-table always make me think of Ios? Every year I pour over the details, note the day the exams start, work out how long between them and mark the finishing date with a big red X on the calendar. Then there’s those blank boxes that scream “fill me”… which I have done with the word Ios for the last three years.

 The first year was such an adventure, going to the little island in the sun. Driving through Ios town you’d think, “what’s all the fuss about?” but then delving into the side streets you find a world of fun and excitement that is there for the taking- meeting new people, turning night into day, cheep booze, it’s got it all. Lying with 20 friends on the beach I watched the island workers, mostly bronzed Aussies and Scandos, sharing their stories and creating a world I knew I’d really enjoy – next year. First year ended with a stay in a hospital in Athens – a severe ear infection.

What did I learn?

Never swim in dirty swimming pools.

The second year I was an old hand.  Blonde, bronzed and boozed was this years motto and a job… yes…… a bar job was a necessary accessory to gain entry to that privileged staff club I envied so much from last year. Enter Danny, bar manager of Circus Bar and friend for life, and we hit the ground running.  Who cared that the money was 30 euros for a 12-hour shift? It was exactly were we wanted to be and I learned a lot about running a bar, my first taste of real commerce!!!!!! I came home after two months because I had to go to college in Canada in August but I wasn’t done with Ios yet…..not by a long shot.

What did I learn?

Avoiding dirty swimming pools works.

Catching a nap whenever possible in the hammocks in Harmony restaurant is essential to survive a working summer in Ios.

Third year comes round and after a winter of -35 degrees, Ios was the only place I wanted to be, that warm blue sea calling…job sorted in circus with Danny..…….I couldn’t say no!!

What did I learn?

Avoiding dirty swimming pools still works.

Do not replace essential naps in the hammocks in harmony with Red Bull – not unless you want to be permanently awake.

A helpful friend pointed out that 6 cans of Red Bull is the equivalent of drinking a coffee field in Kenya per night and sleep became, night or day, almost impossible not to mention the severe body spasms and the involuntary twitching.  I had to make a life or death decision and came home to a job that involved normal hours, better pay, less fun but with a guarantee that I’d reach my next birthday.

So it’s that time of year again but even thinking about Ios makes my heart race.

Is it Ios excitement or a warning to stay away?