The opening shot of the water filling in across the sand would almost be creepy -- in a "Final Destination, you can't escape Death" sort of way -- were it not for the lounge muzak soundtrack and maniacally happy canines.
4/24/12
Incoming
The Bitches and I, and M, when he's not in college, are pretty regular visitors to Sandymount Beach in Dublin -- summer, winter, rain, shine, wind, hail et al. (Not so great for the car upholstery, but v good for the soul.) When the tide is fully out, you can walk up to a couple of miles across the tidal flat to reach the water's edge. I took this video a couple of weeks ago when said tide was on its way in -- thankfully I had on my trusty Hunter wellies (shout out to my brother and his wife for this most excellent Christmas present.)
The opening shot of the water filling in across the sand would almost be creepy -- in a "Final Destination, you can't escape Death" sort of way -- were it not for the lounge muzak soundtrack and maniacally happy canines.
The opening shot of the water filling in across the sand would almost be creepy -- in a "Final Destination, you can't escape Death" sort of way -- were it not for the lounge muzak soundtrack and maniacally happy canines.
4/20/12
How to Sell Soap
Okay, so I'm on my sixth run-through of this video today and tear up every time:
It's basically an ad for dishwashing up liquid. What's wrong with me?
4/18/12
Quiet, Road, Girl, Milk
The big joke in Ireland is that no one actually knows how to speak Irish (Gaelic), though they spend upwards of ten years learning it in school. Actually, the no-one-speaking-it part isn’t entirely true, as there are broad swathes of county out West that continue to use the Irish language in everyday interactions for reasons of pride, heritage and, ahem, tourism.
There’s also been a resurgence in past years of parents choosing traditional Irish names and spelling for their offspring. For the non-Irish among you, best of luck deciphering how to pronounce: Caoimhe (clue: there’s no “m” sound in it), Oisin, Daithi, Maebh (clue: there’s no “b” sound in it), Donncha, Eoghan (clue: there’s no “g” sound in it), Aoibheann, Naoise and on and on...
But the majority of Irish people I know would agree that their Irish language prowess is limited to reading road signs, however bad, (printed by law in both Irish and English), and recalling rote phrases from their schooldays -- “please sir, may I have...s’more?” Some cultures might be shamed, but the Irish are possessed of a total inability to take anything -- least of all themselves -- too seriously. Enter the genius Carlsberg beer ads from several years ago:
A group of Irish 20-something males are holidaying in Brazil(?), trying their luck in local nightclub. An intimidating, bald-by-choice bartender comments on their nationality as he serves them (a Carlsberg, obvs) and demands they “do something Irish.” The crowd around quickly chimes in, in vaguely menacing tones -- ”yes, something Irish -- a song, a dance.” Put on the spot, one of them finally offers up a recitation of Irish verse, which sounds fairly poetic:
An bhfuil cead agam dul amach go dtí an leithreas?
There’s also been a resurgence in past years of parents choosing traditional Irish names and spelling for their offspring. For the non-Irish among you, best of luck deciphering how to pronounce: Caoimhe (clue: there’s no “m” sound in it), Oisin, Daithi, Maebh (clue: there’s no “b” sound in it), Donncha, Eoghan (clue: there’s no “g” sound in it), Aoibheann, Naoise and on and on...
But the majority of Irish people I know would agree that their Irish language prowess is limited to reading road signs, however bad, (printed by law in both Irish and English), and recalling rote phrases from their schooldays -- “please sir, may I have...s’more?” Some cultures might be shamed, but the Irish are possessed of a total inability to take anything -- least of all themselves -- too seriously. Enter the genius Carlsberg beer ads from several years ago:
A group of Irish 20-something males are holidaying in Brazil(?), trying their luck in local nightclub. An intimidating, bald-by-choice bartender comments on their nationality as he serves them (a Carlsberg, obvs) and demands they “do something Irish.” The crowd around quickly chimes in, in vaguely menacing tones -- ”yes, something Irish -- a song, a dance.” Put on the spot, one of them finally offers up a recitation of Irish verse, which sounds fairly poetic:
An bhfuil cead agam dul amach go dtí an leithreas?
Agus madra rua! Is maith liom cáca milis.
Agus Sharon Ní Bheoláin.
Tá geansaí orm.
Tá scamaill sa spéir.
Tabhair dom an cáca milis!'
But is actually just a series of cobbled-together phrases, per below:
'May I have permission to go out to the toilet?
But is actually just a series of cobbled-together phrases, per below:
'May I have permission to go out to the toilet?
And fox! I like cake.
And Sharon Ní Bheoláin.
I'm wearing a jumper.
There are clouds in the sky.
Give me the cake!'
There is much murmuring of appreciation and applause as he finishes and launches himself, like a man dying of unquenchable thirst, at the awaiting Carlsberg pint. Cut to an hour or so later, where we see him grooving on the dancefloor with a Brazilian hottie, who asks coquettishly, “speak some more Irish.” To which he responds:
“Cúinas bóthar cailín bainne.” (Quiet road girl milk.)
Probably the best beer ad in the world.
Footnote: For the record, if ever my husband wants a good laugh, he asks me to read an unfamiliar phrase or sentence in Irish. Apparently, my accent is more “Hyderabad” than old-country charm. Here’s an excerpt:
“Hey -- read out what’s written on the top of that license plate over there, it's the Irish name for Dublin.”
I squint my eyes, making out the words “Baile atha Cliatha,” then stall, suspecting a trap.
“Erm, erm...hmmmm. Bye-lee a-th-a Clee-ah-tha?”
Cue hysterical laughter (not my own.)
“Well, what is in then? How would YOU say it?!”
“It’s boy-ee ah-ha clee-a...!” (Snorted through unmanly giggles.)
“So if I said it like I didn’t have any teeth, then it would be correct?”
“Hmmm, yeah. Pretty much.”
Well, THEN...
There is much murmuring of appreciation and applause as he finishes and launches himself, like a man dying of unquenchable thirst, at the awaiting Carlsberg pint. Cut to an hour or so later, where we see him grooving on the dancefloor with a Brazilian hottie, who asks coquettishly, “speak some more Irish.” To which he responds:
“Cúinas bóthar cailín bainne.” (Quiet road girl milk.)
Probably the best beer ad in the world.
Footnote: For the record, if ever my husband wants a good laugh, he asks me to read an unfamiliar phrase or sentence in Irish. Apparently, my accent is more “Hyderabad” than old-country charm. Here’s an excerpt:
“Hey -- read out what’s written on the top of that license plate over there, it's the Irish name for Dublin.”
I squint my eyes, making out the words “Baile atha Cliatha,” then stall, suspecting a trap.
“Erm, erm...hmmmm. Bye-lee a-th-a Clee-ah-tha?”
Cue hysterical laughter (not my own.)
“Well, what is in then? How would YOU say it?!”
“It’s boy-ee ah-ha clee-a...!” (Snorted through unmanly giggles.)
“So if I said it like I didn’t have any teeth, then it would be correct?”
“Hmmm, yeah. Pretty much.”
Well, THEN...
4/3/12
2/20/12
How human ideas of pampering differ from those of dogs...
Our
bitches went to the salon recently for some much-needed grooming. The
below picture should give some indication as to why this might be the case:
Human
bitches generally enjoy going to salons (pampering is good for the
soul)...but not these bitches. They employ the
wide-eyed-freeze-in-motion-refuse-to-budge mechanism as soon as they
realize where they are.
“Cruel trickery! We thought we were going to the beach! We don’t care if strangers mistake us for miniature, barking sheep!”
Four
hours and 100 euro later, they are trimmed, primped and fluffed -- and
smell so good, I spend the rest of the evening with my nose buried in
their soft, dog-deodorant-scented fur. It lasts about three days before
they find something dead or fecal to roll in. I sigh, M rants about
how “irrational” they are (um, they’re dogs? it’s a biological,
Darwinian imperative that they roll joyfully in fox poo) and we repeat
the process three months later...
Still, for those few hours/days immediately after -- I might be biased -- they are pretty much THE MOST ADORABLE 4-LEGGED CREATURES IN ALL OF IRELAND, wouldn't you agree?
And for the record? If they even look at a pile of fox poo, I’m taking away their pocket money and buying a Roomba (be afraaaaid, Bitchez, be very afraid.)
1/8/12
First Weekend of the New Year
In the spirit of starting as we mean to continue, we kicked off the first weekend of 2012 with a sunrise hike up the highest mountain in Wicklow (a relative term.)
Our group of 12 or so spent the night beforehand at the Mountain Ventures hostel in Donard (luvley, v clean and cosy, per below.) There might have been a few drinks before bedtime.
Aaron, our intrepid guide and a member of the Wicklow Mountain Rescue, managed to rouse us and get us collectively out the door by 5 a.m., boots, headlamps 'n all.
Tough going to start, but zen was achieved...
And the sun -- always the shy starlet 'round these parts -- eventually made her appearance.
I rocked the earflap hat for FUNCTION (rather than festival-hipster-cred) for the first time in my life -- holy God, the cold.
But with views like this, who's counting?
I just can't help wondering...where are the hobbits?
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