Caution: Scuttling Androids

...the bane of South Dublin motorists 

Summer in the City

Tourists to Ireland can be assured of at least two things in a given visit -- the Guinness will taste better here than in their home country, and the weather will be changeable.  And by changeable, I mean that they may well live four seasons/weather fronts in a single day.  

I hadn't realized how inured I'd become to this meteorological schizophrenia until my visiting sister-in-law, Danielle, remarked that, for an island so frequently visited by rain, very few people seemed to bother with umbrellas.  And it's true.  I don't own an umbrella.  Because I know the rain is either (a) the light, insistent, infuriating sort -- depression-inducing, but not enough to soak me or (b) will be over in ten minutes to make way for the next front of Mother Nature's choosing.  

However, there is light at the end of the grey, wet tunnel -- a brief period each year when the sun shines consistently with actual warmth and residents flood outdoors in a be-shorted, barbecue-crazed fever.  To the wrath of students nationwide, it generally comes about in late May-early June, coinciding with the key period of study time for the Leaving Cert, the school exam that determines university placement and, more broadly, future life success.  To the joy of potential tourists, it's as tidy a guarantee as any as to when they should book Irish travel. 

The good news?  It's happening RIGHT NOW.  Since Thursday, Dublin's been awash in sunshine, bare legs, sunscreen, ice cream, sandals and all the things we associate with a different type of island life entirely. 

For my part, I've eaten mango for breakfast, painted my toenails, slathered myself in SPF15 and worn just about every sundress I own.  Maybe it seems like I'm taking it all a little too far too fast.  But I'm not missing an opportunity to wear open-toe shoes without fear of blue feet.

So without further ado, time for the beach and a glass of sun tea...

Friday afternoon on Salthill Beach

Sun Screen / Tea

Nails painted? Check. Sundress? Check. Summer: I'm ready for my close up.

Sunset @ Salthill & Monkstown

Sunset, Part Deux

Urban Hikes for Man & Beast

Weekends at our house are about relaxing the humans and exhausting the canines.  We've discovered that a good way to achieve both aims is the Urban Hike, a long walk combining cityscape, greenery and takeaway coffee.  The first in the series kicks off with couture vintage and ends with falafel.  What can I say?  The Bitches have exacting taste in fashion and street food.

Begin at Lulu Vintage on Monkstown Crescent, well worth a visit, or an ogle if 
you've left your wallet at home.  I don't actually make it inside the store on this 
trip -- dogs aren't so welcome around Chanel, even if it is secondhand...

...but window shopping here feeds my fantasy of a life where I have reason to cycle (with a basket) around Paris in a flounced, turquoise skirt.

Selling the dream: one cleverly designed shopfront at a time.

We knock out a quick visit to Avoca Salt across the road for coffee (they also sell pomegranates here -- a produce extravagance at 1.90 EUR per fruit, but they remind me of what summer tastes like) and make our way to Salthill Beach. Relatively deserted for the hour and weather, save a few hardy souls gathered at the martello tower for their daily swim.  Respect, you crazy bastards.  RESPECT.

Foraging intently for razor clams.

My favorite game in Dun Laoghaire harbor is to review all the crap things people name their boats -- Calypso, Cathy-Ann (who?!), Sea Dancer -- and come up with alternatives. This week's entries include Crunkshop, K-Middy (or P-Middy if your boat has a particularly nice stern) and -- obviously -- The Black Pearl.

Per below, The Bitches' favorite game is to walk carelessly along the pier's knife-edge and I spend much of the time screeching their names, heart-in-mouth, while physically leaning my body in whatever direction is AWAY from the water.  Is not particularly effective as a deterrent or compelling force, but they've yet to fall the 30 feet to watery depths below -- touch wood -- so perhaps my physical osmosis is working?

Of particular interest to them on this visit is the plump, contented pigeon roosting, tantalizingly, in a nook some three feet down the pier wall.  Fortunately, even live pigeon can't compete with the lure of leftover bacon I just so happen to have in my pocket -- the dog owner's ace-in-the-hole.  (As DSPCA dog trainer extraordinaire, Alex Petrelli, taught us, "you wouldn't go to work if you weren't being paid.  Think of [insert bacon, cheese, sausage] as your dog's salary for good behavior.")

 

And for the non-bacon eaters among us, a final stop in Dun Laoghaire market for Dublin's best falafel deliciousness.  There are two stalls, always packed and always divine -- my discerning-palate strategy is to go for whichever has the shortest line.

Mmmmmmmm, falafel...

And they napped happily on the sofa for the remainder of the afternoon (ever after.)

Referend-hilari-um 2012

Was asked my opinion on whether below image would be appropriate to advertize debate on the Irish referendum for the EU fiscal stability treaty -- otherwise known as "The Vote to Decide the Future of the European Union."

My first impulse was to laugh/snort out loud.  On second inspection, realize I've no idea if the hilarity represents political bigwig reaction to the "Yes" vote or the "No" vote.

Following hours of deep political and economic analysis, my sense is that we might be a little bit f*#^ed either way...

My Lucky Charm

The leprechauns of Irish folklore are petite, mischief making shoe cobblers in green coats and knickerbockers, who hoard away gold in pots at the bottom of (frequent and stunning) rainbows.  They also have the power to grant three wishes -- or lucky charms -- to humans spritely enough to catch them.  (I've personally never had the pleasure, unless you count M...but I think he's too tall.  And also has yet to grant me three wishes.  Hmmmm, no, definitely not a leprechaun on closer reflection.)  But I digress...

In one of the stranger evenings I've spent in Ireland in my eight years here, M's cousin (let's call him Rick for the sake of this post) agreed to be hypnotized on stage in front of a live audience at a professional hypnotist's show.  Rick did and said lots of amusing things over the course of his hour, but the final act really took the cake.  The hypnotist convinced he and another girl they were proud owners of their VERY OWN LEPRECHAUN, a small being they would see and take full charge of for the next three hours of their lives.  

Rick couldn't have been more delighted to introduce the audience to his [let me be clear here: invisible, completely imaginary] leprechaun, Joe, who (he told us) chased him around the room and, later, followed him to the pub for drinks.  The hypnosis wore off, but the memory!  Ah, the memory stays with all of us, much to Rick's chagrin.

Anyway, given the leprechaun's long and storied tradition here in the Emerald Isle, I've always found it strange that General Mills' Lucky Charms cereal is nowhere to be found on Irish supermarket shelves.  M tells me it was sold here for a few years, to great acclaim, but that it suddenly disappeared from market sometime in the early nineties, leaving a small, but highly committed subset of the Irish population -- including M, his father and sister -- sad and bereft.  

Thus you can understand why my mother's popularity skyrocketed a few weeks ago, when the Irish Postal Service delivered M a "belated birthday" box of Lucky Charms through the mailbox.  His delight was matched only by his fury, when I accidentally let it slip to his sister that there were Charms in the house.  I think this photo says it all:

The Reverse Benton

For those of you familiar with the YouTube "Benton vs. The Deer" video, here's a photo of my bro's basset hound, Tater, executing what we're calling a *Reverse Benton* in Richmond Park over the weekend.  Pretty much everything this dog does in hilarious -- she can't help it, she's a basset in all that breed's long-tailed-droopy-eyed-floppy-eared glory -- but sometimes (I think you'll agree) she really outdoes herself...

For Ima On Ima's Day

My mother never wanted to be called "mom" or "mum" or any sort of accepted diminutive when my brother and I were growing up.  It was "Mummy" or nothing. This was okay until we hit the double digits in age -- difficult to retain credibility as an angsty teen while calling someone Mummy -- and took matters into our own hands.  I chose "Ima" (Eee-ma), the Hebrew word for mother, and Nick chose "Mamoo" (no idea -- as with most things he does, kitchen or otherwise, it’s an original.)  She accepted the change, as she always does, and embraced her inner Ima/Mamoo-ness. 

When people ask her about her kids living so far away -- I'm in Ireland and Nick's in London to her Atlanta -- she always replies, "well, I didn't raise them just to keep them by my side." Rather, she gave us love, support (so much support!), a sense of possibility, a curiosity about the world and all the tools we needed to make our own way.    

I wish I could be there in person to deliver the flowers and go for a marathon shopping day this afternoon -- punctuated by a coffee and biscuit break when she senses I'm cranky and flagging (it’s our thing) -- but we'll settle for celebrating properly in person next month.  In the meantime, here below is a non-exhaustive list of the life lessons and skills she's gifted me over the years.  In no particular order:

Brown is not my color
There is a right way to lay/set a table, and there's a wrong way...
The art of diplomacy (a Darbyshire family trait)
How to wear a hat REALLY well
French!
How to make a house a home, wherever you are in the world
The art of pashmina
A (crazed) love of dogs
How to entertain (also a Darbyshire family trait)
That it’s more fun to exercise than diet
An appreciation of British humor
A total aversion to toilet humor
That you can achieve the same effect with a stacked heel vs. a stiletto (and be more comfortable!) 
Thank you notes are not optional
Posture! (I get compliments today -- she would be proud) 
Her recipe for tomato-fennel soup -- my taste of home 

I could go on, but I'll save some for next year's post :)  For now, sending a big thank you -- for all she's done and continues to do -- and lotsaluv across the Atlantic...

Happy Ima's Day, Ima OXO

Engaged!

No, not me.  I’m an old, boring married person since June last year -- Friday night takeaways and “will we buy?” discussions are firmly a part of my reality.  

My (dear) friend K-Dog, on the other hand, officially joined the ranks of “newbie fiance” last month, when her true love, L-Dog, proposed to her, sopping wet, in the doorway of their hotel room after being caught in a post-dinner rainshower.  Hello romantic!  

Am beyond excited for K-Dog in that way you can only be when someone you think is really, really wonderful finds someone else equally wonderful and the two decide to join their wonderful- ness together. I’m sending my very best vibes across the miles. It’s a long way (Ireland to Oregon), but hoping she feels them all the same.

Anyway, it got me to thinking about my own wedding and a few, ahem, “key learnings” I feel the need to share with her/the Internet.  

In preface, if anyone’s read Mary Schmich’s famous “Wear Sunscreen” column from a few years ago:  

“Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.”

So, be patient with me.  And without further ado, this one’s for you K-Dog: 

The path to wedded bliss(ish): 

(1) Friends’ and families’ excitement can be overwhelming, but don’t shy away from it.  Roll with it, channel it and, most importantly, USE IT.  You’ll rarely have so much collective good-will again.  It’s an amazing, touching, humbling [only occasionally maddening] experience.

(2) For better or worse, the wedding isn’t *really* all about you and what you want.  Unless you’ve truly unlimited funds, you’ll need a compromise somewhere to accommodate family/guests/budget/other, so don’t get too worked up when your grand vision doesn’t come together 100% the way you pictured.  Pick the three things that are most important to you and make sure they happen; everything else is just gravy.

(3) The guest list.  It’s not easy.  But with a little ruthless logic (ex: no one under age 18, even if they’re breastfeeding) and/or an inaccessible location (invite everyone, but only the most intrepid will attend), it can be made less painful.  

(4) You don’t find the dress; she finds you.  Like all good loves in life: when it’s right, it’s easy.

(5) Put as much effort and care into planning the ceremony, as you do the reception, and make it yours.  Totally unexpectedly, the ceremony ended up being my favorite part of the day.   

(6) Professionals sometimes aren’t all that professional.  As a case in point, my wedding “coordinator” on the day was a TOTAL BITCH (I’d had my suspicions leading up to, but ignored at my peril), who insulted my guests and demonstrated such lack of actual coordination ability, I’m still brought to speechless, bridal rage when I think about it.  If I EVER find myself in the same room as her again [deep breaths]...

And the band?  Well, they were fine for the first hour...until they got drunk, had an argument and the singer’s car had to be pulled out of a ditch by a tractor, circa 1 a.m.  (Yeah, we’re laughing about it...now.)  There’d been signs of unprofessionalism in the months previous -- hard to get in contact, very offhand approaches to planning and my concerns -- that I ignored in the interests of not wanting to be a Bridezilla. 

The morale of this story?  Don’t be a Bridezilla with your friends and family -- you want them to still be talking to you after the wedding -- but feel free to Bridezilla your vendors. You’re paying them (someone’s) good money to get your day the way YOU want it. REGULATE!  And don’t feel even a little bit bad about it.

(7) And last but not least...remember that guy, the groom?  Yeeaaahh...him.  So essential, and yet somehow so secondary to all this fuss.  You might be initially frustrated by his lack of opinion on Massively Important Things like color schemes, reception theme, who to have [not have] as bridesmaid, signature cocktails, wedding favors et al.  But don’t take his disinterest in bridal magazines as a sign of disinterest in you/marriage -- it’s a guy thing.  

He’ll also, at some point in the planning (and just when you’re not expecting it), get completely fixated on a random, very specific detail.  M, for example, was adamant about wearing a tux.  No amount of explaining that it didn’t really jibe with the “feel” of our event (a shabby-chic-French-tent-countryside-Irish-ceali-hoedown) could dissuade him.  And in the end?  I realized just how unfair I was being.  I was getting literally EVERYTHING I wanted on this wedding -- the least I could do was throw him this one, small, possibly overdressed bone.

I think he scrubbed up okay on the day?  

 

My, how times change...

Most hilarious snippet off the brilliant television show, "Outnumbered" (paraphrased.)   

Mother trying to reassure seven-year-old daughter -- played by actress/comedy genius, Ramona Marquez -- that she's [relatively] safe from terrorism:

"Terrorism's always been around on some level or another...in my day, it was the Irish."

"The Irish?  What...you mean people like Graham Norton or Jedward?"

Parks 'n Recreation (Greenday)

A side benefit of living in a rainy country is the GREEN.  Saturday, after a few wrong turns and *some* yelling, we stumbled across Cabinteely Park for the first time.  Oh park -- oh, acres of grass so very nearby -- how is it that we're only just meeting?  

Consider these pictures the "making up for lost time" series:

The only thing that kind of freaks me out is the RAMPAGING ORKS (photo below):

There's No Place Like Margaritaville

When people ask me what I miss about the United States, I tell them “family, friends and Mexican food.”  (Good coffee would also have made the list eight years ago, but I’m happy to report I now have a plethora of frothy, barista-made lattes at my fingertips.)

But yeah, Mexican food.  Wow.  I know the old “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone” adage is probably supposed to apply to pithy, important things like, well, your health or...past loves.  But, after eight years in Ireland, I’d equally apply it to a crisp margarita, queso dip and a plate of fish tacos and rice at Los Rancheros in Atlanta.  Swoon. Swooooooon. Swooooooooon.  I even tried to convince my little bro, a chef, on multiple occasions to re-locate to Dublin, open a Mexican restaurant and save me from the hardship.

It turns out he might have missed the wave.  Since the start of the year, Dublin has suddenly come up awash in Mexicana -- from low key burrito bars to high-concept, designer Tex Mex.  I am in my element!  I hardly have enough weekends in the year to visit them all!  But believe you me, I’m gonna give it a good, old-fashioned college try.  

A few weeks ago, I dragged M to the high-concept-y place, 777, I’d heard a buzz about.  At the time, you couldn't make reservations for fewer than six people.  (That I would even need to make a reservation for a Mexican restaurant feels wrong.  My first clue that Dublin Tex-Mex might not be my kind of Tex-Mex).  Still, I had my heart set on a decent margarita and nacho chips with non-jar salsa.  

The place was pretty packed when we swanned through the door around 8 p.m.  (Decor is amazeballs btw -- I want the wall tile art in my bathroom.)  

When no attention was paid to us by anyone resembling staff, we made a bee-line for two free spaces at the bar.  This (finally) provoked a reaction from the staff in form of the hostess nearly body-checking us to the floor.

“Those seats aren’t free.” Withering look.  “You’re too late for a seating tonight.”  (A glance at my phone reveals it's now 8:07 p.m.)

Me, crestfallen.  “Oh no!  I was so looking forward to eating here.  Could we get a get a drink at the bar instead?”

“There is no bar.”

“What’s that then?” I ask, pointing to the bar.

“It’s a dinner counter.”  Ah.  “Plus we don’t serve just drinks.”  More withering.

My brow puckers in confusion, so M explains: they don’t have a bar license, so can only serve alcohol with meals.  

“So there’s really no chance of us eating here tonight?”  

“No,” she responds pointedly, flexing her artfully tattooed arms, while primly smoothing the skirt of her 1950’s-style dress.  I'm sure I've seen her photo on latfh.com

We stare at one another a beat longer than is wholly polite -- I believe they call this a Mexican stand-off? -- before I turn on heel and walk out the door.

“We’ll come back another time,” I call out.

“Oh, we’ll be ready for you,” [I imagine] she answers.

You’d think after the above experience, I might write this Mex off my list.  But no, I’m a glutton for punishment (and restaurant buzz -- it really is supposed to be the best of the new openings.)  So I drag M back the following Saturday evening at 6:30 p.m.  I do realize the time of day qualifies us for the blue-rinse brigade, but we were already in town and hungry, so...

This time, we are seated relatively quickly at the bar dinner counter and it’s a mere ten minutes before our waiter, who looks like he’s been on a three-day bender, calls over to take our order.  I spit out “lime margarita with salt on the rim, pronto” almost before he’s in earshot.  M clearly wishes a hole would open up in the ground so he can jump in, but settles for mumbling “Dos Equis, uno” while darting “tone it down” looks at me.  

The menu isn’t quite Los Rancheros value (22 euro for a main, cough, splutter, cough), but we settle for a variety of tostados and taquitos that, when grouped together, constitute a full meal.  Our waiter looks less than thrilled and I resist the urge to reassure him -- “don’t worry, we’ll be drinking our bill tonight, not eating it.”  When my (first) margarita arrives, I take an initial sip and allow the nostalgia/tequila to seep through my veins.  Delicious, cold, tart!  I am back in the States!  I am happy!  I am giddy with love for Treble 7!  (The food is pretty darned good too.)  M shakes his head.  

“I could have made you a margarita at home, if that’s what all this is about...”

But then we would have missed out on the wall-tile-art...and that would be muy lamentable, no?

Happy Cinco de Mayo, peeps...

An Ode to the Sour Skittle

Because they really are So Far Superior to the plain, non-sour Skittle.  I've noticed shops are now selling something called "Crazy Core Skittles" in an orange packet.  (The innovation, the audacity!)  Am tempted, of course.  But always just end up grabbing for that monstrously luminous green bag of tart perfection that is The Sour Skittle.  Fellow sour-candy lovers out there, I know you're with me on this one...

Cruel Aside:  I *might have* dropped one in the car the other day and Scarlett *might have* found it on the seat when she hopped in for a Saturday human-canine errand ride-around.  She realized she didn't like the taste as soon as she put it in her mouth, but was damned if she was going to let that furry b*tch sister of hers (Scarlett's words, not mine) get a lick in.  So she suffered through...and I let her.  'Cos I really just can't ever get enough of that whole "dog makes face while chewing sour sweet/peanut butter/asparagus/disgusting-razor-clam-she- found-on-beach" thing.