Godsons are the best

The other day I emailed Lovebug and Guido with this link for my godson, Diddums. He liked it and I read the reply last night, which cheered me no end "That was really cool and really crazy and I like that you told us. If there is any more nature cool stuff please email us back." This is the same kid who told me that I did not need to get him a present because he already had everything he needed.
Apparently I get on better with seven year olds than adult males, especially those who refuse to grow up. I had a fun dinner party last night to celebrate Spanish Guy #2's moving back to Spain (he really wants a proper nickname, so in honor of his leaving he will henceforth be known as Rafael). The guys liked the food I made, and I got a lovely thank you message from Sancho today. Rafael and Sancho headed off around 12:30 to continue the leaving celebration in Temple Bar. Dante il Bambino stayed for a short while for a discussion.
We have both been operating under different assumptions... language is sometimes a problem, as is understanding our differences. I was not impressed with his take on things, to put it mildly.
Luckily, my neighbor and friend Corkman called over for a nightcap. That eased the tension. Corkman was full of his woes this week, having been to the hospital twice since he was worried about his head. He fell on Sunday morning and has had bad headaches since. Mind you, he was also convinced that he had fractured his skull despite assurances from the good-looking female doctor that he had not.
Corkman's stories and tribulations are always entertaining and he can laugh at himself at the same time that he worries incessantly about whatever the current problem might be.
May Diddums never lose his sense of wonder and non-selfish ways. A gorgeous kid, no doubt he will be breaking girls' hearts when he is older. Unfortunately.

Dancing and socializing like nobody is watching

Life is good. This should perhaps be the summary of my entry rather than the beginning, but for those of my gentle readers who are busy, I thought I would get right to the point.
It has been another lively weekend. On Friday I was efficient and got things done: my Irish passport has now been renewed and will be ready six days before I leave for Cuba. I am getting excited about going. I spend so many of my holidays going home and visiting the relatives--which I love-- that I do not get to travel around the world as much as I would like. I will also be meeting good friends in Cuba: great company and a new, beautiful place to visit.
I also went to the hairdresser's on Friday for a long overdue haircut. My hairdresser is a character; we had a great chat. He convinced me that I needed to go out Friday night since my hair now looked great. I told him about my boss's 40th birthday party on Saturday that I would be attending. He asked what does one get as a gift for a boss? I replied, "a book on managing people." He roared laughing. I explained that I would give the real gift first and hoped that my boss would see the book as a lighthearted joke. (He did.)
Friday evening after a glass of wine and Russian soup for my dinner, as well as grocery shopping, I went back home and took a nap (naps are sacred, after all). I woke to my phone ringing although I missed the call. It was Galway Girl, who was in our local wondering where I was. I headed down there about 10:30 pm. A good few friends were there, fellow locals and neighbors. We had a great time. At closing time, my friends were deciding to continue on at Galway Girl's house. I however had other plans. I had arranged to meet up with Reggae Cool at my late-night winebar.
I headed into town, having a great chat with the taxi driver. I then strolled to the winebar. I chatted with the doorman and another winebar patron, who said I think you know that person. It was my ex, having a cigarette across the way. I hadn't noticed him. I went over to him and chatted for a bit. Then I headed downstairs to the winebar. I didn't know anyone there; Reggae Cool was late as usual. I got a glass of the house red and a glass of water, then settled down at the bar with the reading material available, a guide to Dublin restaurants. The ex joined me after a while and we continued chatting.
Eventually Reggae Cool showed up with a friend of his from Brussels. The friend was nice; he has only been living in Brussels for two years and hates his job but likes living there. An older woman asked Reggae Cool to dance. I watched them for a bit; she was an enthusiastic dancer, making up in enthusiasm what she lacked in skill. I also danced once with Reggae Cool. Other than that I just enjoyed watching the dancers. When the winebar closed, Reggae Cool, his friend, and I walked to Reggae Cool's part of town before I got a taxi. It is on my way home. I had proposed to Reggae Cool that I have a dinner party in his honor since he is heading off to South Africa and probably would not be returning to Ireland to live. On the walk, he gave out to me about being selfish since I wanted to invite Dante il Bambino and other friends of mine. In the end, I told Reggae Cool he was uninvited. Since I have subsequently invited other people for dinner Thursday--Spanish Guy #2 is returning to Spain next weekend--the party is no longer for Reggae Cool. Oh well.
On Saturday afternoon I went to Sancho's house for more delicious Spanish food. We were more sensible than we were last Saturday. After eating, Dante spent most of his time on Sancho's computer, while Spanish Guy #2, Sancho, and I took turns playing chess. I beat Sancho; he admitted that he had underestimated my chess playing skills. However, SG #2 then avenged Sancho and beat me in under a minute. That was embarrassing.
Dante and I had to leave early because we were going to my boss's party. We headed to my house to await another friend from work who was going to the party with us, Glamor Minx. She looked fabulous (I took a photo of her shoes at the party, which another boss thought was nuts; just call me Imelda). Glamor Minx was being sensible and drove. Dante, Glamor Minx, and I thought we were being fashionably late but forgot how Irish people always arrive hours after the official start time of parties. Eventually, everyone else started arriving. At first the boss's family did not mix so much with the work crowd, but that soon changed. The boss's wife is the "hostess with the mostess" and made sure everyone had drinks regularly and were socializing. One of the boss's aunties smoked, so she and I became fast friends. We were freezing outside in the hurricane winds but persisted in going for the odd cig. Dante made friends with everyone. At one point, he told me that he was the only person there who did not know anyone but that he was in all the photos. Another auntie of the boss had been to Venice and loved it. Dante flirted with her, which she loved. Then he joked with her husband, saying he seemed like an Italian. The husband tried out his limited Italian vocabulary with Dante.
The dancing started after the boss's speech thanking everyone. I nearly fell off the sofa laughing when I saw the moves my boss was throwing on the dance floor. 1980s' flashback... It took some encouragement to get people up dancing, mostly just the women joined the boss and his wife. After a while my Russian colleague got up to dance as did Dante. It was good fun.
Getting Dante to leave was hard work. It was getting late and people were starting to leave. My Russian colleague was driving so I asked if he could drop us somewhere near a taxi (my boss lives in the boonies outside Dublin). Unfortunately, Russian colleague does not live in Dublin either (I thought he did) and was already putting his coat on when I asked for a lift. He was too polite to say no, even though Dante still had a full pint of beer. "Two minutes," said Dante and then continued chatting to the boss's uncle and did not drink his beer. I collected my coat and then Dante's. "Dai, dai, drink up", I encouraged Dante. No luck. The uncle said, "uh oh, the boss has spoken. You had better follow orders." I am not sure whether Dante understood or just ignored us. "It is still early and besides, the clocks go back," protested Dante. He did not notice that the party was ending and that my boss looked tired.
I was speaking French with Dante when my boss came up. "Columbo, do you speak Italian as well as French?!" my boss asked. Dante shook his head no. "French only." I disagreed, saying I spoke a tiny bit of Italian (it is getting better anyway, nowhere near as good as my French admittedly). My boss and Dante joked around for a while. Poor Russian colleague was wishing he had not said yes, he would give us a lift.
Finally, we managed to get Dante to finish his beer and think about leaving. My boss said "Dante is a keeper... "
We all headed out the door. I looked back and Dante had stopped again, trying to convince us to stay. My boss said "I don't think he wants to leave." I had about given up at that point and said "fine, he can stay but I am going." I may have done the dismissive Pops' wave then.
Dante caught up with us as we headed to Russian colleague's car. We had been driving along a few minutes when Dante exclaimed, "this is a momentous occasion... the cold war must be over, I am in a car with a Russian and an American." He was sitting in the front with the Russian and tried to teach him swear words in Italian. He also disparaged the Russian's conservative driving style. When we got to the Malahide Road, a taxi pulled up next to us. The driver agreed to take us the rest of the way home. He tried to rip me off, but was unsuccessful.
On Sunday morning, my boss texted me to thank me for the presents and to tell me that the aunties loved Dante. No real surprise there. I forgot my camera at my boss's house... I can't wait to see all the photos. I will have to send some of them to the aunties.
Dante cooked a tasty pasta dish for our Sunday lunch. I told him that can count as one of the three dinners that he owes me for work I did on his business plan.
I was wrecked Sunday night and went to sleep early. All this socializing and dancing can wear out a girl.

Naps are sacred

I ran into my ex last night at my late night winebar. He had annoyed me last Sunday by phoning me repeatedly while I was trying to take a nap. I refused to take his calls since I had promised I would take care of something for him Sunday and I intended to do it after my nap. Which I did. Then I sent him a text saying it was done and that he had been a pain in the arse contacting me constantly.
Funnily enough, he was surprised and shocked by my message. Does he know me at all?! Perhaps he has blocked the two and a half years we were together out of his mind... I reminded him last night how much I like my naps and told him I have not changed. Likewise, I tend to text, say or write what I think without pussyfooting around--that too has not changed (much to the chagrin of my family).
Speaking of naps, I took two yesterday. I have been waking early every morning for months now. While I enjoy the leisurely early hours I still need my sleep. So I dozed in the late morning yesterday and then again for an hour yesterday evening before going out.
So, the fact that I am awake after four hours' sleep now should not trouble me. Mind you, I do have two social events to go to today. I am not sure whether I will be able to fit a nap in.
Science backs me up about the sacredness of sleep; see snooze.

Autumnal celebrations

Autumn is my favorite season, and this year autumn is mild, full of turning leaves. Friday evening I went to a party, invited by Dante il Bambino. It was at his friend's (Sardinian Musician) apartment in Temple Bar. There had been rumors of good pasta cooked by Italians but in the end only hors d'oeuvres were served. Lots of wine and other drinks though. I am too old to go without a proper dinner however; pasta would really have hit the spot. I struggled on regardless.
I had met a good few of the people there before and they are entertaining. At one point one of Dante il Bambino's friends made the mistake of saying he intended to get his head shaved, so Dante il Bambino offered to do so there and then. Which he did in the hallway.
The guy was happy enough with his haircut. I hope he was the next day when he sobered up as well. In any case, it will grow back...
On Saturday afternoon Dante il Bambino and I got the bus to Sancho's house in Rathgar. Sancho was annoyed because some of the people he had invited for his wonderful paella did not show up. He cheered up though when we delivered sufficient wine for the luncheon (or early dinner). It was a feast and no one was allowed to leave the table set outside until we had eaten all the paella. Not really a challenge for Dante, who has a healthy appetite.
Eventually it got cold so we moved back inside. I made Irish coffees for everyone, my one skill from my bartending days in Paris (temporary gig to help out a friend who managed an Irish pub). Spanish guy number two, who shall remain nameless because he is dead to me, preferred the Bulowski coffees made by Dante.
After a while poor Sancho was not feeling well, possibly due more to the amount of whiskey he consumed than the stress of all that cooking. He crashed in his room but the rest of us stayed on to finish our drinks. I checked in on Sancho later, and put a duvet over him and took off his shoes. He muttered something about my being just like his mother.
When we had finished philosophizing--Spanish guy and I shared the same theories but Dante il Bambino was not convinced by them--and drinking, we all headed back into town. Spanish guy was tired, so he went home and we went to the pub for more "arguments" (discussions really) and drink.
It was another good night.

Pops knows best

Well, the old guy is gone. Before he left I asked him advice about men. He laughed, enjoying that I was asking him. I did say I would not necessarily follow his advice but would take it under consideration. He loves gossip and scandal... so I have been keeping him informed of my doings. There are two age-appropriate men in whom I am interested. At least one appears to be interested as well, while the other is playing it cautious... icy cool even. It was interesting to hear an elderly Irishman's male viewpoint.
As we both agreed, it is early days and neither may pan out. Or as Pops pointed out, I may at some stage get annoyed with both of them and kick them to the curb. Which, knowing me as he does, is a very likely thing.
The two men are from different cultures. I met both in my local winebar although one is a friend of a friend. This is a new experience for me, having more than one potential candidate. Feast or famine, to use that well-worn phrase. I wasn't even looking for a relationship... just enjoying my social life and friends. My dear sister, Lovebug, said it has happened because "I wasn't giving off an air of desperation." Cheers for that, L.
At least I seem to have kicked the bad habit of dating inappropriate young'uns.

Mingling

The smoke damage from the fire in my local Friday night did not help my recovery from a chest infection (bronchitis in American). I took it easy on Saturday, cutting back on the cigarettes and taking a 2 1/2 hour nap. I didn't even think about doing the work I am supposed to do this weekend. I wasn't able.
I managed after my nap to cook a nice dinner for Pops, as well as a homemade dessert. How spoiled is he? I rested after dinner again while we watched the boxing. I really like the sport, although I shudder to see the damage the fighters do to each other. I argued with the taxi driver that it is a sport. He said it was obvious that I knew what I was talking about boxing and was suitably impressed. I was not impressed however when he said after vehemently contesting that boxing is not a sport "Well, never argue with a woman. It is easier to let her think she is right." If I was married to that dude, I would make his life a living hell... or retrain him.
Anyway, after the boxing--Dunne lost by the way; the other guy simply outclassed him--I started to get ready to go to my late-night winebar. Pops just shook his head in disbelief. He had hoped that I would stay in and rest. I explained that I wouldn't be able to sleep after such a long nap and that I had arranged to meet people. I took my time getting ready and tried to empty my lungs in a boiling hot shower. It sort of worked, as did the Lemsip (with a drop of medicinal whisky in it). Needs must.
I arrived at the winebar slightly ahead of my friends. However, I said hello to the owner who knows he has met me over the years but cannot remember my name. All the staff know it though. I chatted with one of the waiters and the bouncer before heading downstairs. Shortly after I ordered my wine and a glass of tap water (it is always about the pacing), my friends arrived. We moved to the best table, our favorite corner.
A few more friends arrived. Reggae Cool commented that I seemed restless. I said I was just mingling... in good form. I danced a bit and wandered in and out of the place to have a cigarette or three.
One of the times that I was outside on my own (either my friends don't smoke or they have recently quit), I stood apart and watched people--other patrons of the winebar and the various passing strangers. I critiqued the fashion choices, although I am hardly a fashionista. I noticed a patron on his own approach a group of others to ask them for a light. He then made his way over to stand by me, assuring me that he wouldn't bother me. I shrugged and said it was grand. As one does, we got to chatting. He was a nice guy, easy to talk to.
So we stayed there talking. He offered me one of his cigarettes. I being in a chatty mood told him stories. He was a good listener. I did tell him it was ok to tell me I was talking too much, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. He told me about his negative impression of the French, based on a bad experience he had with a pretentious chef who kicked him and the clients he was entertaining out of the restaurant because he had quietly requested a vegetarian only meal. I laughed, then explained my take on the French in general and food in particular. His reply was "I know, I know" (translation from Irish speak to "I get what you are saying but I am not changing my mind"; perhaps that one is universal to all native English speakers).
This morning Pops asked me what time I got home. "Late" was my reply, with a cheeky grin. He shook his head again. "Was that guy there?" he asked. "Nope, but I met another guy... Irish this time."
"Oh no, be careful. Those Irish guys are up to no good." (It takes one to know one, I'd say.) I defended the guy, saying he was not like that, he was nice. Funny how things change... Pops used to tell me to be careful about dating guys from other cultures; that it was too hard. Subtext: nonwhite cultures. Now however he is telling me I should not date guys from my adopted culture, one that is not a million miles away from my family culture, given my father's background. If I were to follow his advice, the dating pool available to me would be shrunk down significantly--not that I can remember the last time I dated an Irish guy, other of course than the one who broke my heart a decade or so ago. Bygones.

Critics can be harsh

They say that they don't mind that you use stories about them... you do, you embellish the stories, you change the names, and then they yell at you. Or at least get offended. Let me make this clear, I was not trying to invade anyone's privacy or usurp their life stories. I am practicing to be a "writer" or at least doing this for my own enjoyment. Apparently, not for the enjoyment of some friends whom I wrote about. Pshah. People are too sensitive (says Columbo, one of the more sensitive people around).
I swear, there is still a very limited distribution list, nobody knows the others, and almost nobody reads the damn entries anyway. But no matter. Readers are a fickle bunch.
I had a good night out this evening--after the giving out stopped. I had invited a gentleman out to join me/us but he didn't show. Bah, humbug. Men are useless. Or perhaps I am just crap at dealing with them...

Dancing burgundy

...and the title is not because I was drinking red wine, although I was.

I ended up in my favorite late-night wine bar with Reggae Cool and one of his many women. Before she had met up with us, he had been filling me in about his latest amorous adventures. Normally, he sails calmly through all of them. He knows and is the first to admit that he will never leave his wife of 10 years and their kids. He also claims that theirs is an open relationship, and she knows what he is like (I can only attest to the latter).

Anyway, I liked this girl, whom we shall call Chica. I behaved myself and let them be. She was mature, interesting to talk to--and didn't care that she had to share Reggae's attention with another female friend. I admit that I didn't like the other one I met last December, and gave her a hard time. Bad neighbor that I am...

I am friendly with the wife, Mum D, and I could see that your one (not Chica, not Mum D) a) didn't like me and b) was only a temporary fling. So I made things worse. I couldn't resist myself even though I have no desire to be added to Reggae Cool's harem... not that he hasn't asked. It was like taking candy from a baby.
After she had sulked for a while, I behaved again and left the adults to it.
Reggae Cool still teases me about it.