Annual street party

The day was sunny and warm. We could have been in Barcelona. I woke feeling less than 100%... it had been another late night and I was getting a cold. The system of putting Pops in a taxi home at a reasonable hour, giving the driver instructions, and heading off to my late night winebar is a good one. Except for the smoking outside in the chilly air and getting a cold.
The kids were excited from an early hour. They wandered around, waiting for the party to start, doing some last-minute artwork, or practicing their drama performance. The adults were more blase although still cheerful.
By the time I had had my shower, I was feeling better. I helped with setup and then made a large potato salad, which contained olives and pumpkin seeds among other ingredients. Pops brought a chair into the kitchen and supervised the making of the salad. I just thought he came to chat but he got concerned when he saw what went into the salad. "Whose recipe is this?" he asked subtly. "No one's," I replied. "I just make it up as I go along... don't you remember? My younger siblings used to hate my experimental approach to cooking." Vague head nods.
As it was warm, I held off putting the salad out to share just yet. Neighbors and their friends had started to gather around. Pops pulled out a chair and was almost immediately offered a glass of white wine. But it was the homemade scones he was eyeing up... I think he ate 5.

Mrs O'Reilly and Mrs Sullivan stayed seated in their doorways even though people were grouped almost immediately in front of them. They had front-row seats and were loth to give them up. The boyfriend of my friend, Mad One, turned up with Mad One's half sister and daughter, along with their son. He dropped off the daughter, Daisy, saying he had to take his baby son home to change and put to down for a nap. The sister went with him, and somehow I got Daisy for the afternoon. She is a good kid despite her crazy dress sense (she is only 6). Pops did not expect her to show up in a tutu and boots.
As per tradition, a Johnny Cash song was played to kick the party off. Then the music changed, and face painting started, which I did not have to do this year. The kids were in their element. At that stage they had already dug into the sweets and orangeade.
A great time was had by all. There was a performance by the children (only one weird topic chosen by the slightly scary drama neighbor), art show of the children's paintings, raffles prizes, dancing, a film shown on the side of a house for the kids--complete with blankets and popcorn, just like old-fashioned drive-ins--more dancing, and lots of music. Oh yes, a bit of wine was consumed.
Mad One eventually showed up to collect her child; the boyfriend had got an earful earlier, I believe. Daisy had been left with no sunscreen on and no lunch eaten. She had to go home after some dancing but before the raffle prizes. She instructed me to hold onto any prizes that she won and notify her mother asap. Which I did.
Oh yeah, and it turns out that Mrs O'Reilly was a roquette in her day... the slightly scary drama neighbor had Mrs O'Reilly up out of her chair dancing and holding onto the telephone post for balance. Apparently, O'Reilly cut some shapes. I only caught part of it.

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...

The cat that got away

I swore to myself early on that I wouldn't write about pets. Of course, it was an easy decision since I didn't have any at the time. I also have no desire to become one of those people who have pets instead of having children and then treat the pets like their precious children. My independent, selfish streak is too wide.
Then I decided to try getting a cat again. I had had one about 20 years ago but then I moved from the suburbs back into Paris and my flatmate gave me an ultimatum within days. The cat went back to its original owner fairly sharpish.
I thought I would surprise Pops and have the new cat before he arrived. That didn't work out. Next I decided I would torment him by telling he was getting a surprise on Friday. Since I told him at the beginning of that week and he hates not knowing what surprises are, it was torture for him (when he remembered or I reminded him).
Friday afternoon a friend of mine dropped off a cat. She has four and this was number four, adopted temporarily; however, her husband had put his foot down and said four was too many. Said cat (who still does not have a name) went to the vet to be fixed before arriving chez moi.
Apparently, I found a cat that has an even bigger independent streak than I have. It was in a state, my friend let it out of its cage. It took off toward the back off the house... At the same time I was outside putting my cigarette out, turning to go back in and close the front door. Then I heard "Columbo" and grasped at the blur of white and gray that flew by. No joy. I then headed off at an oblique angle trying to cut off the cat from the street/walls leading to the busier street. The cat shot from car to car.

Herding cats does not work, I can assure you. Perhaps it was my military style red coat and boots... Whatever the reason, he skirted me and when something else came into the road, he raced right up the corner wall--and over.
My friend and I explored the neighborhood behind mine. A nice man let me check his back garden. Another lady that I know told me to get the key to the laneway behind the houses. We walked down there as well.
Columbo and Pops were out that night. The blurry, freaked out boy cat made an appearance but we were not back home. The next morning the ugly dog from across the road chased the poor cat out of the neighborhood. The Saturday night the dog's pal, the ugly cat, picked a fight with the freaked out boy cat. One of my neighbors came running down at midnight to tell me. We raced back to where they were fighting, but the boy cat was long gone. It moves like lightening. And I do not.

Guilt is bad

About 20 years ago a friend of mine, Phoebe, tried to reeducate me about guilt. She too had been raised as a Catholic, but for whatever reason, the whole complex and easily triggered, guilt-induced behaviors were not as ingrained as in me.
Twenty years on, I am still trying to not feel so much guilt or induce it in others. It is so easy to do though... and behavior that is so hard to change. I couldn't resist sending a gentle, guilt-ridden email to my siblings yesterday. They had all been busy this past week, and I figured at the weekend they might get a moment to check their email. By Saturday morning their time, I had received three emails and two phone calls. Apparently, my siblings also have a trigger reaction to guilt (despite claims to the contrary from Gambling Boy that he is immune, and complaints from Lovebug and GoGo Girl).
They all have a point. Pops has only been gone a week, and most of them wouldn't normally see him midweek. They all spent quality time with him before he left. However, what they forget is that he is a big pampered child. When he gets a bit of attention, he just wants more. Plus, it is a big change from hanging out with the army, and living here in the small bungalow with the detective that gives him grief and the weather that makes his bones ache.
It was a successful social experiment. I promised I won't send more guilt-inducing emails or write any more posts in such a vein. (This one doesn't count by the way.)

Yesterday morning I went for a walk in Phoenix Park. It was cold and windy so I went to the tea shop by the zoo and had a latte (Pops was still sleeping at the time). While huddled inside the shop with my hands wrapped around the warm mug, I eavesdropped on a family that had met up there for a late breakfast. The mother was in her 60s or 70s and her son was trying to accommodate her as well as treat everyone. He had arrived by bike and may possibly have been out to the pub the previous evening. He was patient with her though. "Would you like a scone, mum?" "No, no, I couldn't. Well, unless you ate half of it."
"What would you like?" "Oh, I don't know... I'll just wait till Jim gets here." This went on for a while. I could almost hear the son's wife counting to ten in her head. I'm pretty sure she sighed at one point. Jim finally arrived, whoever he was--possibly a family friend or the mother's brother. Everyone else ordered in a straightforward manner. Eventually the mother had tea and a sandwich.
I was almost expecting the mother to ask the staff to turn off the lights so she could sit in the dark while everyone else was enjoying themselves.

Week 1

The first evening Pops was here he opened the fridge, examined the contents, and said "Now that is a properly stocked fridge." This was also the night he told me that the service had improved over last year... Mind you, it is early days.
He has been spoiled, getting Irish food for his dinners: bangers/mash/onion gravy, boiled bacon/calcannon, and oxtail stew. There was one night where he got scrambled eggs on toast with loads of tea (it reminded me of his Thursday night golf outings when he was young; occasionally, that was what I would have made for him on his return if he had missed Mom's dinner). It is funny what makes me nostalgic...
Jet lag is still affecting him. He is convinced he is not sleeping well, but since I can hear him snoring in the mornings while I wander around doing my morning routine--and checking email/facebook for contacts from his already missed family members (he and I have decided that none of them love us. Out of sight, out of mind...) He is also not great about answering the phone when I ring to check how he is doing, and the ring is quite loud, so again I am pretty sure he is sleeping like a log.

My friend, Herman, called over for dinner last night. He arrived loaded down with gifts, the profiteroles in particular were a huge hit with Pops. Herman and I gossip galore when we are together, and Pops enjoys hearing all the gory details. Occasionally, the bushy eyebrows do shoot up followed by a nervous "heh, heh". The two of them have known each other a good few years at this stage, and are buddies. Of course, this means the two sometimes gang up on me... never-ending slagging. I like to think that I give as good as I get though.
Tonight Pops gets to meet some of my work crowd. I am going to park him somewhere in town while I participate in the scavenger hunt, and when I know the name of the pub we will all be gathering in this evening for free food/drinks, I will collect him. He will be pacing his drinks, having plenty of water between gin and tonics. He knows it is not worth the agony of my giving out to him not to do so. He and I have a bet that he cannot get my local pub's bar staff to serve him a brandy, cognac, or whiskey. Herman was encouraging him when we told him about the bet and gave him tips on winning. Again, I am not sure winning that particular bet with be worth the grounding I give Pops if he succeeds. (It is not that I dislike losing, I swear.)

My cousin, Emmy Lou

Emmy Lou is one of my favorite cousins and we are good friends. She remembers taking care of me when I was little and she got shipped off to my young parents for the summer. The pattern of cheap babysitters and delegation to younger relatives began then...
I visited her and her partner regularly over the years, even after I had moved abroad. The long car drive down to her part of the world was just the beginning of each enjoyable visit. I find long drives on my own relaxing and even perhaps grounding. Especially when I get overwhelmed by the hordes, not that I do not love them. However, going from a solitary life to a small army can sometimes be a shock to the system.
Emmy Lou is a no-nonsense, hard working, sound individual--with a biting sense of humor, which of course is a trait I appreciate. While she is at work, I potter around her house, a place of peace and refuge for me. Sitting in her back garden and enjoying the sunshine (the novelty!), smoking a cigarette, I contemplate whatever the current state of affairs is with me. Even 6,000 miles away I can picture sitting there and return to that peaceful feeling.
I do try to help out a bit so I am not just lounging around the whole time. I give her a break from the cooking. Pets, however, she is on her own with. Emmy Lou has her set routines, both morning and evening. Most mornings I try to wake up early so that we can chat while she is getting ready; evenings once she has completed some of her chores and grabbed a beer, we resume our chats.
We have decided that we will both retire to the same island. As close as we are, I don't think we should do the Golden Girls thing and share a home... perhaps being next-door neighbors will suffice. We will be the female versions of her dad and her uncle, running amok on the island till we are old and cranky. We draw the line at making that rotgut home-brewed wine that the two men used to guzzle though. Rocket fuel.

Autumn boot camp

Columbo has been having a mini holiday of sorts these part few weeks. Working part-time, walking a lot around Dublin, meeting new people, trying to be sensible and sometimes failing… It all ends tomorrow.
Pops arrives in the early am and five or so weeks of responsibility starts immediately. Not that there won’t be enjoyable moments and slagging galore. However, Columbo’s late night adventures shall be curtailed. Work, straight home most evenings to make sure the bungalow is still standing (there will be war if Pops reads this), cocktail hour, supervision of the fire lighting, and then the cooking of proper food.
Columbo hasn’t had potatoes in the house for months. One large shopping delivery, check. Stockup of a few days’ worth of briquettes and wood from the kind coalman, Joseph, check. Warning the barman in the local that he is not to serve whiskey to Pops, check. He knows to inform Pops that “Columbo says we are out of whiskey.” G&Ts are permitted.
Columbo flagged the coalman down one day last week, and he inquired about the father. The two men chat regularly, given the amount of briquettes/coal Pops goes through during stays in Dublin. Essentially, most of the neighbors have been notified of Pops’s impending visit. A good few have met him over the years and like him.
One neighbor, Glenda the Good Witch, kidnapped Columbo yesterday evening on Columbo’s return home and poured quantities of wine in Columbo’s glass. It magically never emptied. When a strong G&T was presented despite repeated warnings that Columbo a) does not like G&T; b) was completely wrecked tired; and c) would not drink it, Columbo made good her escape after promising the Good Witch that she would send Pops down to drink G&Ts with her instead. (God help him. It was a desperate measure but one Columbo felt obliged to take… Sauve-qui-peut.)