My dream job

July 14, 2011April 10, 2012 | Mairead

(One paw, two pause…)

We have a George Foreman grill. It’s a thing you plug in and when it heats up you put in your rashers or burgers or some other thing you might want to grill. It was advertised as a healthy way to cook because all the fat from your chosen meat product drips down into a tray and you don’t eat it! Also, in the ads it seemed to be really easy to clean, most of the mess goes into that drip tray.

(A cactus in a salsa jar, kinda poetic)

The reality hasn’t exactly lived up to the dream, though. Possibly it is healthy, but watching fat drip is a real appetite suppressant. And the easy cleaning? It’s not…. easy. Well to be clear, (and this might seem a little moany but I’m telling anyway) the one who uses it most, doesn’t clean it after using it. So it needs heavy duty cleaning ten days later!

(Very wet bumble bee)

And this reminded me of when I wanted to be a receptionist. I was a trainee software programmer and I was finding the work challenging (in other words, I was fed up and miserable). In the same company there was a receptionist and each day she would come in, go to the bathroom, put on her makeup and come out to the reception area with a big smile. She answered calls all day and at five she went home. It looked like a dream job to me. To me she had no worries, she knew what she was doing and she did it well. My fantasy of getting her job went on for weeks until one day I met her in the bathroom and she was crying. I did what you do in these situations, I sat and listened. Well, long story short, it turns out being a receptionist isn’t the dream job I had imagined!

(More nice Irish clouds)

So… maybe the George Foreman grill has lived up to the dream….. but just not my dream. Maybe it’s George Foreman’s dream or the advertiser’s dream or the manufacturer’s dream. Someone else’s dream life may not be a fit for you…. you’re an original, live your own dream life.

Anyone want a slightly used, very dirty, signed, George Foreman grill? Mairead.

Awful Arabella

July 13, 2011April 10, 2012 | Mairead

(Maybe it’s time to cut the grass)

Ok, assignment well on the way to being finished… so I’ll take a break to tell you a story. When our children were little I used to love reading to them. I think it was mainly because it involved sitting down! But also, the rhythm of a voice reading (even your own!) is hypnotic and I was probably glad of the effect it had on all of us.

(Nice looking hydrangeas)

One of my favourite books was Awful Arabella by Bill Gillham, illustrated by Margaret Chamberlain (looked this up on Amazon and it brought it all back). I read that book hundred’s of times, no exaggeration. It was very short with two lines and a picture per page, and I still love it. So the story goes, Arabella arrived to stay at the narrator’s home and she was awful. She mis-behaved all day and wouldn’t go to bed and then in the middle of the night she was sick – throwing up type sick. The next day she was much better behaved but in her efforts to be a good girl she made just as big a mess. In spite of all that, when she was leaving the whole family were very sad to see her go.

(Love blue)

The last picture in the book sees Arabella on her own waving from the front gate with a big suitcase in her hand and the family at the front door crying into their handkerchiefs.

(Yellow flowers that come back every year without any effort from me – and they’re not weeds)

Now that I think about it maybe I liked it because of it’s message. I must have been reading it for myself, because it’s a great message for any parent.

No matter how badly you’ve behaved you’re still loveable and forgivable and we’ll miss you when you’re gone!

Missing you already, Mairead.

Stuff Happens

July 12, 2011April 10, 2012 | Mairead

(Dogs create stuff)

I have a deadline on Friday to finish an assignment. But I finished it today! Yippee! Then I read the instructions…… it was the first time I’d read them. They would have been very useful, because they were very clear and detailed about how the assignment should be written. They bore little resemblance to how I had actually written the assignment… aaahhh!.

(Nice stuff)

So I’ve taken a little break, written a colourful synopsis of how that makes me feel, including expletives and gone to the supermarket to get chocolate biscuits. Tomorrow I will re-read the instructions and begin again.

(Birds produce stuff too)

Sometimes stuff happens. It’s not the stuff that’s important, it’s how we deal with it. I’m not exactly recommending expletives and chocolate, but they do help me.

Dealing with my stuff, Mairead.

Don’t sweat the meatballs!

July 10, 2011April 11, 2012 | Mairead

(Damien and Nat are organising a Flamenco Festival in Dublin 23rd to 31st July www.dublinflamencofestival.com)

The de-clutter is continuing slowly, and today (Sunday) we went to Ikea. Not entirely sensible, because we might have been tempted to buy more clutter. Fortunately we were not tempted… and we came home with only what we went for… drinking glasses. But we were tempted by the restaurant.

(An Ikea glass?)

Well, Denis was tempted by the fifteen meatballs. Yes, exactly fifteen, there’s a choice, you can have ten, fifteen or twenty. He choose fifteen along with potatoes, gravy and some fruit sauce… Watching the woman speedily scoop the meatballs onto his plate, I couldn’t believe she had time to count them. She didn’t. When we sat down and he went off to get a knife and fork, I counted. Only fourteen…. Oh no, we would have to do something… what? Ask for an extra meatball? Would they need to check the cctv footage to make sure we hadn’t eaten it? As I contemplated our position Denis returned. I told him about the problem. He took out his fork to investigate further.

(Blue benches along the pier in Dun Laoghaire)

And he found the missing meatball… along with its friend. He had been given sixteen meatballs! Noooo, now we had a different problem. How would we return the extra meatball? And which one was it anyway? I seemed to be handling this problem on my own and expected some help from Denis. But he hadn’t let me down, he had formulated an inspired plan and had even executed it, while I was panicking.

He ate the extra meatball!

(Orange worms spotted near the pier….)

And it made me wonder…. is it possible that we sometimes make a mountain out of a meatball? Maybe it’s just a meatball? What if all our problems were just meatballs?

It’s just a meatball, Mairead.

Thank you Aunty Phil!

July 4, 2011April 11, 2012 | Mairead

(Butterfly in Powerscourt Gardens)

The Happy Pear cafe/restaurant/vegetable shop in Greystones has come up with another healthy idea. They are asking people to donate their old bicycles, no matter what condition. They will fix them up and then make them available free-to-ride around the town, just like the blue bicycles in Dublin and other cities. Then you can leave your car on the edge of town and borrow a bike and ride around to get your groceries or to just meet friends.

(No pictures of The Happy Pear – a happy cabbage instead?)

That got me thinking about when I first came to live in the big city (Dublin) when I was nineteen. My mother organised that I would live with my aunt, who was (and still is!) just three years older than me. I had just got into a computer course with a small software house and she was at university in Trinity. She travelled in each day on her bicycle. At home in Cashel, I used my bike once in a while and usually only rode it on the footpaths…. nevertheless, it was decided I would need my bicycle. As my course was on her way and I didn’t know (for a while…) how to get there, we rode together most mornings.

(Old stone wall on the Aran Islands)

It would probably have been the bravest thing I ever did, if I thought it was dangerous. But I didn’t. My aunt taught me how to weave in and out through the traffic – there were no cycle lanes then. She taught me that it was essential to be at the front of the traffic when the lights went from red to green. She taught me that I had as much right to be using the road as the cars, buses (no bus lanes either) and trucks, and she taught me to believe that. Because, once I knew I belonged on the road, the other road users knew it too and they gave me space.

(Old stones on the beach)

She did all of this without telling me anything. But in her every behaviour she told me by example.

Be the example of what you want in the world, Mairead.

PS. Thank you Auntie Phil!

The front of the Westport train goes to Galway

July 3, 2011April 11, 2012 | Mairead

(Comfy throws at my Somatics class)

I was travelling on the 7.30am train from Dublin to Westport, last year. I had brought my crochet needle and wool, a magazine, bottle of filtered water, snacks, a pen and some paper. It’s a three and a half hour journey, I wanted to be prepared! Something you may not know about that Dublin to Westport train is that it goes to Galway too. Well, only the front bit of the train goes to Galway. It’s an efficiency thing, I think. The whole train goes as far as Athlone and then the front bit is unhooked and it goes onto Galway while the back bit goes to Westport. A bit worrisome the first time I travelled on it, but once I realised which bit of the train I needed to be sitting in, it was fine.

(Rua the horse)

Anyway, this time I had spread my things out on the table and was settling into my crochet when the ticket collector came to check my ticket. He also checked the ticket of a male passenger (there was only two of us in the carriage) in a seat on the other side of the aisle from me. It seemed the man was going to Galway, but here he was sitting in the back bit of the train. The bit that was going to Westport! (Are you’re feeling my anxiety here?) Anyway, the ticket man explained that he needed to go to the front of the train and the man nodded. But… he didn’t move……

(Sally the angel and her stars)

The ticket man left to check the passenger’s tickets in the next carriage. I was doing my best to concentrate on my crochet and remain calm (why was I so worried?) when the man for Galway gets my attention by showing me his ticket and pointing to a station we are flying past.

I realise something….. he can’t talk.

I read his ticket, it said Galway (which I knew). I can talk so I assumed I could communicate. But I couldn’t. Not that I didn’t try. I did try…. (remember the problem with trying….?)

(Thierry’s cook books)

First, I spoke very clearly and concisely, saying, “No, you must move to the front of the train for Galway.” He nodded, and smiled, a lot, but he still didn’t move. So I had another idea, I wrote the same message on my notebook and handed it to him. He smiled and nodded again but still didn’t move. I began using hand gestures towards the front of the train. He had a lovely smile…. but he still didn’t move. My message was not being understood. I was starting to feel anxious again. There was still another hour until we arrived in Athlone, there was still time for him to get to the right part of the train. I had to come up with a plan. So I did. I decided I would take him by the arm and guide him to the front of the train just before we arrived in Athlone.

(Poker food….)

But I had a problem…. I had been up since 5am to get this train and I was now starting to feel drowsy. Usually I just doze off at some point but now I couldn’t possibly close my eyes in case I was asleep when we got to Athlone! While I’m contemplating this I look over and the man has fallen asleep! Now we are close to Athlone, I am a nervous wreck and I’ve ripped the crochet five times.

And then the ticket man returns.

(Poker chips)

He patiently wakes the man and tells him it’s time to move to the front of the train and communicates this somehow because the man gets up and follows him…. but not before giving me a big smile, a lovely smile.

And I thought….. there was nothing for me to worry about. I didn’t need to fix anything. All is well. It always was….

All is well, Mairead.