I know that your breath is bated (or maybe you're just holding it out of politeness, because you forgot to brush your teeth this morning and your breath is a bit stinky).
Last night saw the jury vote on the Nicest Beard Competition. There were three contestants in the final (the guy who shaved his off decided to let it grow back for the competition), five judges in situ, four postal votes and two independent referees to verify the result. There was even a tie-break round of questions in case the judges were unable to reach a majority verdict.
The three candidates lined up and the judges who were present had to stand beside their favourite beard. A secret ballot had been suggested and one of the guys had tried to organise a ballot box and a member of the Garda Siochána to stand beside it for security, but in the end that sounded like too much trouble and we weren't trying to oust a corrupt regime from government or anything so open voting was agreed by all.
Beard A: was not a bad showing from a first-timer. A little short still and not quite full enough around the chin for my taste, but there was a lot of potential for further beard development.
Beard B: was a healthy offering from the beardie-perennial. Not as much growth as I'm used to, but nicely rounded and full around the mouth and chin. As always, a bit thin on the cheeks - either make 'em grow out more or (preferably) tidy them off altogether.
Beard C: was a brave attempt from another beard-virgin. Striking contrast between dark brown/black hair and a completely ginger facial growth. Had disadvantaged himself by shaving earlier in the competition; growth was not nearly thick enough to compete with Beard A or Beard B - still at the bristly stage.
My vote had to go to Beard B. Of course. The four other live judges all voted for Beard A. One of the independent referees suggested that Beard A could enter a Jeremy Beadle look-alike competition. The other reckoned Brendan Grace. The postal votes were distributed: two to Beard B and two to Beard C.
There were accusations of Eurovision-like voting with cubicle-members voting for their local candidate, something akin to the Eastern bloc countries voting for each other or the Scandanavians banding together. The independent referees were called in. They found no evidence of jury-tampering or undue influence being applied to the judges.
The final scores were Beard A: 4; Beard B: 3; Beard C: 2. It was a landslide. The A's had it.
There really wasn't a need for the tie-breaker round, but we had it anyway. We were on a roll. Just as well we didn't need it to finalise the decision because the five beard questions were really tough and no-one knew any of the answers.
Finally, the prize giving ceremony: a Playmobil Bearded Viking (with a beard colour that most closely matched the contestant's beard) to each of the participants and the big play set that they came from to the overall winner.
We ought to have had some interval entertainment and closed with the National Anthem, but instead we drank and ate spicy chicken wings at the bar. I think that was the better option.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Nicest Beard Competition
To those of you who have been following the trials and tribulations of my life, or just reading my blog and the comments on it, I am pleased to announce that I will be sitting in judgement at the "Nicest Beard Competition" tonight.
This event will be held in the Life Bar, Irish Life Mall, Dublin 1 (Ireland, not Texas, for any of my geographically-challenged readers) from 5.30 this evening.
My sources tell me that there are just two combatants remaining in the contest. One went off to Thailand, where presumably, beard-growing is an optional occupation; the other gave up and shaved a fortnight ago on the grounds that he wasn't meeting enough women who were willing to kiss his hirsute visage. Apparently, the kissing (or lack thereof) was a greater danger to his self-esteem than being beaten by his peers, jeered at for being pussy-whipped and generally being humiliated in public. His testosterone-levels will also be called into question at the judging ceremony.
I will report back to my loyal readers tomorrow and let them know who won the coveted moniker of "Nicest Beard" - and no, we don't mean the "nicest lesbian companion of a gay man", though the talk of testosterone could have been misleading...
This event will be held in the Life Bar, Irish Life Mall, Dublin 1 (Ireland, not Texas, for any of my geographically-challenged readers) from 5.30 this evening.
My sources tell me that there are just two combatants remaining in the contest. One went off to Thailand, where presumably, beard-growing is an optional occupation; the other gave up and shaved a fortnight ago on the grounds that he wasn't meeting enough women who were willing to kiss his hirsute visage. Apparently, the kissing (or lack thereof) was a greater danger to his self-esteem than being beaten by his peers, jeered at for being pussy-whipped and generally being humiliated in public. His testosterone-levels will also be called into question at the judging ceremony.
I will report back to my loyal readers tomorrow and let them know who won the coveted moniker of "Nicest Beard" - and no, we don't mean the "nicest lesbian companion of a gay man", though the talk of testosterone could have been misleading...
Friday, July 23, 2004
Riverpants
To any of you considering forking out your hard-earned cash to actually pay for a ticket to see the "cultural" extravaganza that is Riverdance, my advice is DON'T.
Oh my God. I sat through 2 hours of the most excrutiating torture I have ever endured last night. It was shockingly bad. The only good things about the whole experience were (a) the tickets were free and (b) we had really good seats, right in front of the stage. This last was a mixed blessing though. Not only could I see them, they could see me.
Christ - I was bored out of my gourd for most of it and then started to get really uncomfortable whenever the performers got too close to the edge of the stage (which was often), because they could see how unimpressed I was. I tried to smile encouragingly whenever my eyes met with theirs, but all I could muster was some sort of deranged rictus.
To be honest, I'm not sure which I liked least: the leading man with all the charisma of a turnip (say what you like about Michael Flately, at least he could inflame the passions, even if it was just the passion of hatred!)
Could it have been the thick-ankled girls, who danced about with their haon-dó-trís, and far more hip waggling than any of my Irish dancing teachers would ever have permitted. That sort of carry on would have been enough to have you sent home from the feis in disgrace! And if they're going to sex-up Irish dancing with a bit of pelvic gyration, why couldn't they allow the hatchet-faced wimmin to smile a bit. The make-up woman could have gone a little easier on the blusher too...
Or maybe it was the "cultural diversity", represented by a flamenco dancer, some Russian dancer combo thingie and some not-white folks - who were there to illustrate the hardship faced by Irish immigrants in America around the time of the Famine and how, despite their different dancing styles and the innate racism displayed by the Irish, they all became good friends.
Or could it have been the whooping and hollering audience of yokels and tourists, who actually believe that Riverdance is the greatest thing to come out of Ireland since Johnny Logan - and let's face it, they're on something of a par...
Not wanting to be a complete nay-sayer, I would like to mention that the "dance-off" was fantastic good fun and the woman who played the violin was excellent. Almost, though not entirely, worth sitting through the rest of the dross. Get it on DVD and do a scene selection - better yet, borrow the DVD from one of your friends. Though if my friends had bought the DVD, I would have to re-evaluate the friendship. People with that level of poor taste, in my house?
Riverdance? RiverPANTS, I say.
Oh my God. I sat through 2 hours of the most excrutiating torture I have ever endured last night. It was shockingly bad. The only good things about the whole experience were (a) the tickets were free and (b) we had really good seats, right in front of the stage. This last was a mixed blessing though. Not only could I see them, they could see me.
Christ - I was bored out of my gourd for most of it and then started to get really uncomfortable whenever the performers got too close to the edge of the stage (which was often), because they could see how unimpressed I was. I tried to smile encouragingly whenever my eyes met with theirs, but all I could muster was some sort of deranged rictus.
To be honest, I'm not sure which I liked least: the leading man with all the charisma of a turnip (say what you like about Michael Flately, at least he could inflame the passions, even if it was just the passion of hatred!)
Could it have been the thick-ankled girls, who danced about with their haon-dó-trís, and far more hip waggling than any of my Irish dancing teachers would ever have permitted. That sort of carry on would have been enough to have you sent home from the feis in disgrace! And if they're going to sex-up Irish dancing with a bit of pelvic gyration, why couldn't they allow the hatchet-faced wimmin to smile a bit. The make-up woman could have gone a little easier on the blusher too...
Or maybe it was the "cultural diversity", represented by a flamenco dancer, some Russian dancer combo thingie and some not-white folks - who were there to illustrate the hardship faced by Irish immigrants in America around the time of the Famine and how, despite their different dancing styles and the innate racism displayed by the Irish, they all became good friends.
Or could it have been the whooping and hollering audience of yokels and tourists, who actually believe that Riverdance is the greatest thing to come out of Ireland since Johnny Logan - and let's face it, they're on something of a par...
Not wanting to be a complete nay-sayer, I would like to mention that the "dance-off" was fantastic good fun and the woman who played the violin was excellent. Almost, though not entirely, worth sitting through the rest of the dross. Get it on DVD and do a scene selection - better yet, borrow the DVD from one of your friends. Though if my friends had bought the DVD, I would have to re-evaluate the friendship. People with that level of poor taste, in my house?
Riverdance? RiverPANTS, I say.
Monday, July 12, 2004
Nerd Alert
When I met my (now) husband for the very first time, I should have known better and probably run a mile. He had longish hair that was very thick, quite curly and slightly sun-bleached. He was wearing an extremely old-fashioned pair of glasses (which, it transpires, once belonged to his grandfather, so good spot!) He had on a very sloppy woolly cardigan. And he was wearing a pair (not just one) of long dangly cat earrings. He was easily the most interesting looking person in the room.
I didn't run. I was intrigued. I can remember thinking, "Cripes! [I didn't swear much back then, and indeed thought it was cute to talk - even to myself - like an English cartoon from the early 1980s] If only my mother could see the freaks I am hanging out with now!"
Fast-forward to ten years later and you can see me get less intimidated by the male species, more out-going, start swearing, try to stop swearing, grow up a bit, still watch English cartoons from the early 1980s, and marry the freak with the long hair and earrings!
In these last eleven years, I have got to know Con really well. He is as dippy as a brush, mad as a badger, and about as nerdy as they come. I found him at a party once, sitting on the stairs discussing the merits of Linux versus Unix with a fellow geek. In my innocence and naivete, I foolishly assumed that some sex with a real girl would help him function like a normal human being.
Wrong!
Don't misunderstand me. There's not a hope in hell that I'd swap or change him for all the tea in China. In all fairness, what are the alternatives? Illiterate, ignorant, self-important, pompous, callous, mysogynistic assholes? No thanks, I'm more than happy with my man. But God in heaven, what is it with the constant nerdiness?
I don't think that they're organised or even conscious, but he has competitions with his mates to try and out-geek each other. No, seriously, they do. The current enterprise is a "facial hair growing contest". The one before that was a "who writes the most on our blog" competition [see link to Lunchtime above] and before that "who can learn to play the guitar quickest". Nobody won the last one. There's still a guitar leaning against the wall in our bedroom gathering dust. The only time there's so much as a twang out of it is when the cat knocks it over.
So where is all this going? Nowhere, really. For some reason, over the past couple of days, I've been repeatedly struck (figuratively, not literally) by the unimaginable scope of nerdiness displayed by my husband. What can break this cycle? Do I really want the cycle broken?
After all, he may be a nerd, but he's my nerd.
I didn't run. I was intrigued. I can remember thinking, "Cripes! [I didn't swear much back then, and indeed thought it was cute to talk - even to myself - like an English cartoon from the early 1980s] If only my mother could see the freaks I am hanging out with now!"
Fast-forward to ten years later and you can see me get less intimidated by the male species, more out-going, start swearing, try to stop swearing, grow up a bit, still watch English cartoons from the early 1980s, and marry the freak with the long hair and earrings!
In these last eleven years, I have got to know Con really well. He is as dippy as a brush, mad as a badger, and about as nerdy as they come. I found him at a party once, sitting on the stairs discussing the merits of Linux versus Unix with a fellow geek. In my innocence and naivete, I foolishly assumed that some sex with a real girl would help him function like a normal human being.
Wrong!
Don't misunderstand me. There's not a hope in hell that I'd swap or change him for all the tea in China. In all fairness, what are the alternatives? Illiterate, ignorant, self-important, pompous, callous, mysogynistic assholes? No thanks, I'm more than happy with my man. But God in heaven, what is it with the constant nerdiness?
I don't think that they're organised or even conscious, but he has competitions with his mates to try and out-geek each other. No, seriously, they do. The current enterprise is a "facial hair growing contest". The one before that was a "who writes the most on our blog" competition [see link to Lunchtime above] and before that "who can learn to play the guitar quickest". Nobody won the last one. There's still a guitar leaning against the wall in our bedroom gathering dust. The only time there's so much as a twang out of it is when the cat knocks it over.
So where is all this going? Nowhere, really. For some reason, over the past couple of days, I've been repeatedly struck (figuratively, not literally) by the unimaginable scope of nerdiness displayed by my husband. What can break this cycle? Do I really want the cycle broken?
After all, he may be a nerd, but he's my nerd.
House Guest Etiquette
1. Do not outstay your welcome
Example: Your sister invites you and your boyfriend over for supper on Thursday evening. You don't leave until they drop you home on Sunday.
This is known as outstaying your welcome, or in the vernacular of our times, taking the complete piss. Don't do it. Ever.
2. Do not stay in bed all day
Example: You stay up late, talking and drinking with your hosts. The next day they're up and about before noon but you don't surface until some time after 4p.m. The spare room where you're sleeping is also the study where one of your hosts has her desk, laptop and all the reference papers that she needs to work on her thesis but she can't do any of it, because you've spread all your stuff all over it and mixed up current documents with old stuff.
Doing this two nights/days in a row is liable to end up with your host speaking ill of you for the next fortnight. At least.
3. Offer to cook a meal
Example: Your sister and her husband invite some friends over for dinner on Saturday night. You and your boyfriend invite yourselves along, seeing as you're there anyway. Your boyfriend offers to cook dinner for everyone. This will get you brownie points and probably means that you'll be able to blag another overnighter.
Great! Just for God's sake clean the kitchen after you. Your sister will not appreciate having to spend two hours on Sunday morning cleaning up her kitchen that was clean before your boyfriend started cooking.
4. Don't ask stupid questions
Example: You've just woken up. It's 4p.m. Your sister and her husband are watching a programme on TV. You come into the sitting room and start asking inane questions about the programme that is half way through.
Just sit quietly and watch. You might pick it up. If you don't, it doesn't matter because it's nearly over anyway. Whoever said that there are no stupid questions, just stupid answers was wrong. There are plenty of stupid questions.
If I think of any more guidelines, I'll publish them again. There may be a book in this!
Example: Your sister invites you and your boyfriend over for supper on Thursday evening. You don't leave until they drop you home on Sunday.
This is known as outstaying your welcome, or in the vernacular of our times, taking the complete piss. Don't do it. Ever.
2. Do not stay in bed all day
Example: You stay up late, talking and drinking with your hosts. The next day they're up and about before noon but you don't surface until some time after 4p.m. The spare room where you're sleeping is also the study where one of your hosts has her desk, laptop and all the reference papers that she needs to work on her thesis but she can't do any of it, because you've spread all your stuff all over it and mixed up current documents with old stuff.
Doing this two nights/days in a row is liable to end up with your host speaking ill of you for the next fortnight. At least.
3. Offer to cook a meal
Example: Your sister and her husband invite some friends over for dinner on Saturday night. You and your boyfriend invite yourselves along, seeing as you're there anyway. Your boyfriend offers to cook dinner for everyone. This will get you brownie points and probably means that you'll be able to blag another overnighter.
Great! Just for God's sake clean the kitchen after you. Your sister will not appreciate having to spend two hours on Sunday morning cleaning up her kitchen that was clean before your boyfriend started cooking.
4. Don't ask stupid questions
Example: You've just woken up. It's 4p.m. Your sister and her husband are watching a programme on TV. You come into the sitting room and start asking inane questions about the programme that is half way through.
Just sit quietly and watch. You might pick it up. If you don't, it doesn't matter because it's nearly over anyway. Whoever said that there are no stupid questions, just stupid answers was wrong. There are plenty of stupid questions.
If I think of any more guidelines, I'll publish them again. There may be a book in this!
Thursday, July 08, 2004
House Hunting
Anyone who's been through the process of looking for a place to live knows how much of a pain in the ass it is. Whether you're renting or buying, it's a shocker. Looking for somewhere that you could see yourself staying in and liking - a place that looks nice, somewhere you wouldn't be embarrassed to have your friends or your parents come visit you at - makes it into the second circle of Hell.
(I think that there may be a seperate blog in this - I should really put down what I think falls into those seven circles of Hell... a job for another day though. I should probably populate my Room 101 while I'm about it too.)
It's even harder when you're part of a couple because then you've got to take two peoples' tastes into consideration. There will be compromise and one (or both) will end up putting up with stuff (not necessarily the same stuff, assuming there are no major communication difficulties. Given the stress levels involved in moving, however, this cannot be guaranteed) they hate (or just don't like very much) because the other person likes it. Maybe overall, women win on this score, so I shouldn't grouse too much about it. The point is still valid though.
To be perfectly honest, while the looking is in itself a bit boring, it's not until you bring in the Affordability Factor that things really reach the point of abject demoralisation. You find the place you love but it's beyond the scope of your pocket. You know this. You try to put it out of your mind. Put it behind you. But all the time it's lurking in your subconscious mind. Silently comparing all other houses you look at against itself and finding them lacking. You think "Maybe..." but you know that you're just fooling yourself. Your subconscious picks up on the hesitation - feeds it, nurtures it, encourages it...
You start to resent your job. You work so hard and you're (a) undervalued, (b) underpaid and - this is the real clincher - (c) don't earn enough to buy your dream house. Damn their eyes! You start to resent your partner for not earning enough to be able to buy the house of your dreams for you. Damn them all!
The whole damn world is out to piss you off. You know it. They know it. And those bastards are having a good giggle when they think you're not looking, and don't bother to try and hide it when they know you are.
This is Day 2 of "We're only looking to see what's around and don't have any plans to move or buy or do anything for at least another 3 months". My marriage and mental health are doomed.
Does anyone know a good estate agent?
(I think that there may be a seperate blog in this - I should really put down what I think falls into those seven circles of Hell... a job for another day though. I should probably populate my Room 101 while I'm about it too.)
It's even harder when you're part of a couple because then you've got to take two peoples' tastes into consideration. There will be compromise and one (or both) will end up putting up with stuff (not necessarily the same stuff, assuming there are no major communication difficulties. Given the stress levels involved in moving, however, this cannot be guaranteed) they hate (or just don't like very much) because the other person likes it. Maybe overall, women win on this score, so I shouldn't grouse too much about it. The point is still valid though.
To be perfectly honest, while the looking is in itself a bit boring, it's not until you bring in the Affordability Factor that things really reach the point of abject demoralisation. You find the place you love but it's beyond the scope of your pocket. You know this. You try to put it out of your mind. Put it behind you. But all the time it's lurking in your subconscious mind. Silently comparing all other houses you look at against itself and finding them lacking. You think "Maybe..." but you know that you're just fooling yourself. Your subconscious picks up on the hesitation - feeds it, nurtures it, encourages it...
You start to resent your job. You work so hard and you're (a) undervalued, (b) underpaid and - this is the real clincher - (c) don't earn enough to buy your dream house. Damn their eyes! You start to resent your partner for not earning enough to be able to buy the house of your dreams for you. Damn them all!
The whole damn world is out to piss you off. You know it. They know it. And those bastards are having a good giggle when they think you're not looking, and don't bother to try and hide it when they know you are.
This is Day 2 of "We're only looking to see what's around and don't have any plans to move or buy or do anything for at least another 3 months". My marriage and mental health are doomed.
Does anyone know a good estate agent?
Monday, July 05, 2004
Sometimes, ya gotta back down a little...
Before I start, let me just say that I *still* hate watching sport on TV. And I still resent perfectly good programming time being wasted to air (inter alia) rubbish football matches.
That said, I did watch a bit of the Euro 2004 final last night. And I was cheering (though you wouldn't have known it to look at me, seeing as I wasn't actually cheering out loud, or anything undignified and hypocritical like that) for Greece.
I wanted the Greeks to win the tournament for the following reasons:
1. They were the underdogs
OK, there was only one reason. They'd been written off by all the soccer pundits and in classic Greek style, they raised their hands in the sign of the evil eye and put the kybosh on all the other teams, and against all the odds, got to the final. Shock-horror! They even won it!
Fan-bloody-tastic! So this is where I back down a little on my rant about sport on TV... but this is also where the point that I tried so inelegantly to make about the useless and far more irritating post-match commentary really comes into it's own.
There now follows a loose re-enactment of the exchange between that soccer genius, Eamonn "Grumpy" Dunphy and Some Other Famous (on RTE) Sporting Commentator:
E"G"D: (in a tone of disgust) In every village and town where this game is played, all over the country and all over Europe, coaches and managers will be pointing at Greece and holding them up as role-models.
SOFSC: But they won
E"G"D: They're a rubbish team
SOFSC: But they won
E"G"D: Who the hell do they think they are? Coming to Portugal and playing like a bunch of amateurs?
SOFSC: Who? The winners?
E"G"D: Whine, whine, whine. I'm a whiney bitch
SOFSC: At last! Something everyone can agree on
And so say all of us!
That said, I did watch a bit of the Euro 2004 final last night. And I was cheering (though you wouldn't have known it to look at me, seeing as I wasn't actually cheering out loud, or anything undignified and hypocritical like that) for Greece.
I wanted the Greeks to win the tournament for the following reasons:
1. They were the underdogs
OK, there was only one reason. They'd been written off by all the soccer pundits and in classic Greek style, they raised their hands in the sign of the evil eye and put the kybosh on all the other teams, and against all the odds, got to the final. Shock-horror! They even won it!
Fan-bloody-tastic! So this is where I back down a little on my rant about sport on TV... but this is also where the point that I tried so inelegantly to make about the useless and far more irritating post-match commentary really comes into it's own.
There now follows a loose re-enactment of the exchange between that soccer genius, Eamonn "Grumpy" Dunphy and Some Other Famous (on RTE) Sporting Commentator:
E"G"D: (in a tone of disgust) In every village and town where this game is played, all over the country and all over Europe, coaches and managers will be pointing at Greece and holding them up as role-models.
SOFSC: But they won
E"G"D: They're a rubbish team
SOFSC: But they won
E"G"D: Who the hell do they think they are? Coming to Portugal and playing like a bunch of amateurs?
SOFSC: Who? The winners?
E"G"D: Whine, whine, whine. I'm a whiney bitch
SOFSC: At last! Something everyone can agree on
And so say all of us!
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