Tomorrow, I'm going to Wales for a football match!
That's pretty much it.
June 27, 2008
June 24, 2008
Anatomy of Worry
Let’s be honest: if my anxiety levels fought someone else’s anxiety levels in a cage match, mine would probably win. This isn’t bragging. This is fact. There isn’t a person who (personally) knows me who hasn’t, at some point, told me to “shut up” or “chill out” or “calm down” or, simply, lately, “relax.” It’s understandable. Sometimes, I am like Woody Allen on steroids. My voice goes up an octave and I start speaking quickly and flailing my arms and hands, and, on really good days, I might even start crying, if my brain feels up to transmitting those kinds of emotional and physical signals. During my first year of college, my roommate told me I had to be the most neurotic person she’d ever met. She also had a habit of saying calmaté when things got really strenuous; I have yet to determine if this is a proper usage of Spanish.
I’d like to think my anxiety is often prompted by things worth worrying about, that my neuroses is just. As of late, it’s become easier to convince myself of this. First, there was finding housing for the summer. The thing about real estate—or at least Dublin City Centre real estate—is that it’s very in-the-moment, very blink-and-you-miss-it. Due to the country’s fairly recent economic boom, people are moving here in droves, which means competition on all levels. The fact that I’d only be needing a home base for four months, and the fact that I’m not yet a working professional, and the fact that some places I looked at wanted people who could move in immediately put me at a disadvantage. In the middle of April, faced with the prospect of living in a hostel or homelessness, I panicked. I took the first option that presented itself as feasible. In doing this, I failed to ask the right questions. I failed to make the right inspections. And while my flatmates are awesome and things could be much worse, I’ve since learned how unfortunate impulsivity can be (see: my recent list).
Next, there was immigration business. Knowing I’d only been given an allowance of thirty days in Ireland, the thought of having to choose between leaving the country and living here illegally/risking deportation was a lot to swallow. I’m not built for those kinds of decisions. It’s difficult enough answering the question, “Where do you want to eat dinner?” Fortunately, the proper paperwork was accumulated and my passport is now stamped through the end of August. Problem solved.
Now, it’s medical. Let me preface this by saying: I’m fine. It’s not serious. Don’t worry. Really. I just have anxiety because…well, because I almost never get sick, and suddenly I’m in another country and damn if karma hasn’t come to kick my ass. Some stuff’s been up. Some recurrent stuff. Some stuff that’s been checked out, but needs to get checked out again. Really, though. I’m fine. No worries. Believe me. I’m not a walking zombie, nor am I in danger of becoming one. The anxiety’s just popped up because…well, because shit happens, you know? One day you’re fine, and the next, you find yourself in a waiting room tapping your foot at a million miles a minute, nervously awaiting test results for a disease you never even knew existed. This is life. People get sick all the time. Our bodies aren’t foolproof. You can take vitamins and pills and sufficiently exercise and look both ways before crossing the street and still find yourself damned. Someone very close to me went to bed and woke up with cancer. One of my best friends nearly died our first year of college because he abruptly developed some rare illness with some long scientific name I don’t remember, and the long scientific name I don’t remember caused his heart to palpitate until it stopped and he flatlined and had to be resuscitated. I’ve heard myriad stories about aneurysms. Anything is possible. I’ve just been trying to breathe and hope for the best, even though relatively bad news may be in order. Not death. I’m not going to “meet my maker” or anything like that. But I may have to hear a few things I’d rather not hear, some things I’ve been told I might have to hear sooner or later, some things that will force me to alter my lifestyle in ways that’ll displease me, though they’ll be necessary.
But again: this is me working through my anxiety. I am fine. Or I will be, and this will all blow over, one way or another.
I’d like to think my anxiety is often prompted by things worth worrying about, that my neuroses is just. As of late, it’s become easier to convince myself of this. First, there was finding housing for the summer. The thing about real estate—or at least Dublin City Centre real estate—is that it’s very in-the-moment, very blink-and-you-miss-it. Due to the country’s fairly recent economic boom, people are moving here in droves, which means competition on all levels. The fact that I’d only be needing a home base for four months, and the fact that I’m not yet a working professional, and the fact that some places I looked at wanted people who could move in immediately put me at a disadvantage. In the middle of April, faced with the prospect of living in a hostel or homelessness, I panicked. I took the first option that presented itself as feasible. In doing this, I failed to ask the right questions. I failed to make the right inspections. And while my flatmates are awesome and things could be much worse, I’ve since learned how unfortunate impulsivity can be (see: my recent list).
Next, there was immigration business. Knowing I’d only been given an allowance of thirty days in Ireland, the thought of having to choose between leaving the country and living here illegally/risking deportation was a lot to swallow. I’m not built for those kinds of decisions. It’s difficult enough answering the question, “Where do you want to eat dinner?” Fortunately, the proper paperwork was accumulated and my passport is now stamped through the end of August. Problem solved.
Now, it’s medical. Let me preface this by saying: I’m fine. It’s not serious. Don’t worry. Really. I just have anxiety because…well, because I almost never get sick, and suddenly I’m in another country and damn if karma hasn’t come to kick my ass. Some stuff’s been up. Some recurrent stuff. Some stuff that’s been checked out, but needs to get checked out again. Really, though. I’m fine. No worries. Believe me. I’m not a walking zombie, nor am I in danger of becoming one. The anxiety’s just popped up because…well, because shit happens, you know? One day you’re fine, and the next, you find yourself in a waiting room tapping your foot at a million miles a minute, nervously awaiting test results for a disease you never even knew existed. This is life. People get sick all the time. Our bodies aren’t foolproof. You can take vitamins and pills and sufficiently exercise and look both ways before crossing the street and still find yourself damned. Someone very close to me went to bed and woke up with cancer. One of my best friends nearly died our first year of college because he abruptly developed some rare illness with some long scientific name I don’t remember, and the long scientific name I don’t remember caused his heart to palpitate until it stopped and he flatlined and had to be resuscitated. I’ve heard myriad stories about aneurysms. Anything is possible. I’ve just been trying to breathe and hope for the best, even though relatively bad news may be in order. Not death. I’m not going to “meet my maker” or anything like that. But I may have to hear a few things I’d rather not hear, some things I’ve been told I might have to hear sooner or later, some things that will force me to alter my lifestyle in ways that’ll displease me, though they’ll be necessary.
But again: this is me working through my anxiety. I am fine. Or I will be, and this will all blow over, one way or another.
June 23, 2008
Choices
Sometimes I think about the things I gave up this summer (the Middlebury Spanish Language School, a potential internship in New York, the chance to make money by working legally), but then I remember I'm in Ireland, and everything's okay.
June 22, 2008
Good Weekend
Today, it rained. Water came down, slanted, alternately heavy and light, and splashed itself across my window, drenching it. Little droplets, then big, then little, then big again. In random bursts. Like a carwash. The sun eventually came out. Then it disappeared and reappeared. In between, there was more diagonal rainfall, and a rainbow arching its way across a backdrop of apocalyptic gray clouds. Now the sky is darkening in slow motion.
I've done nothing all day.
Last night was brilliant. I don’t remember much. I remember buying Coca-Cola and discovering I had almost no money left and thinking that was probably a bad thing and continuing on to the tiki party and downing a Jameson & Coke and reading a copy of the latest issue of Playboy (for no particular reason) and arguing with people about film (specifically Juno, that beast of beasts) and downing another Jameson & Coke and meeting Brendan, who I incorrectly assumed was heterosexual (slap on the wrist!), and talking about New York and attempting to down another Jameson & Coke and talking about Buffy and Firefly and realizing everything was starting to spin and eating lots of garlic bread and time passing and somehow ending up in my friend, the host’s room and talking with a bunch of people and lying on my friend’s bed for a very long time and nearly locking myself in a bathroom without a door handle and more time passing and eventually making it downstairs and time passing and not being a good friend because of an aversion to vomit and sitting in the bathroom/nodding off in the bathroom for what I was told was a half hour and time passing and more time passing and talking about how food was probably a good idea and slagging Irish accents and pseudo-threatening people with an empty beer bottle and making up a story about how I killed a bunch of Amish kids on a train once (the Rumspringa part was true, though!) and watching the sun come up and nearly falling asleep on my friend’s floor but instead taking a very bumpy and nauseating taxi back into town at half five so I could go to sleep in my own bed and wake up at one in the afternoon. I also went to a very entertaining football match before all this even happened.
Madness. I’d do it all over again if given the chance.
Today, I woke up to breakfast cooked by my roommate and his boyfriend: vegetarian sausage, scrambled eggs, toasted brown bread and soft butter, baked beans, sautéed mushrooms and onions and tomatoes, English Breakfast tea, orange juice. Mouth-watering and delicious. The perfect solution to nursing the hangovers we either had or, in my case, should have had.
I've done nothing all day.
Last night was brilliant. I don’t remember much. I remember buying Coca-Cola and discovering I had almost no money left and thinking that was probably a bad thing and continuing on to the tiki party and downing a Jameson & Coke and reading a copy of the latest issue of Playboy (for no particular reason) and arguing with people about film (specifically Juno, that beast of beasts) and downing another Jameson & Coke and meeting Brendan, who I incorrectly assumed was heterosexual (slap on the wrist!), and talking about New York and attempting to down another Jameson & Coke and talking about Buffy and Firefly and realizing everything was starting to spin and eating lots of garlic bread and time passing and somehow ending up in my friend, the host’s room and talking with a bunch of people and lying on my friend’s bed for a very long time and nearly locking myself in a bathroom without a door handle and more time passing and eventually making it downstairs and time passing and not being a good friend because of an aversion to vomit and sitting in the bathroom/nodding off in the bathroom for what I was told was a half hour and time passing and more time passing and talking about how food was probably a good idea and slagging Irish accents and pseudo-threatening people with an empty beer bottle and making up a story about how I killed a bunch of Amish kids on a train once (the Rumspringa part was true, though!) and watching the sun come up and nearly falling asleep on my friend’s floor but instead taking a very bumpy and nauseating taxi back into town at half five so I could go to sleep in my own bed and wake up at one in the afternoon. I also went to a very entertaining football match before all this even happened.
Madness. I’d do it all over again if given the chance.
Today, I woke up to breakfast cooked by my roommate and his boyfriend: vegetarian sausage, scrambled eggs, toasted brown bread and soft butter, baked beans, sautéed mushrooms and onions and tomatoes, English Breakfast tea, orange juice. Mouth-watering and delicious. The perfect solution to nursing the hangovers we either had or, in my case, should have had.
June 21, 2008
List #1
The rain is coming down again. In sheets. This is not a weather blog, but it bears mentioning.
Some good things in life are inexpensive. Like food, for instance, in the right places. It’s nice to wake up mid-day, and cook eggs and sausage, spread butter over warm whole wheat pita, and pour a glass of milk, and know everything cost less than 5 euro. That this can be done multiple times, with the same purchased ingredients, is even nicer.
***
Things I Have Learned Not To Take For Granted Since Temporarily Moving To Ireland:
1. Warm water. I have almost perfected the five-minute shower as a result.
2. Inexpensive washing. In my building, it costs 4 euro per load, which means shelling out 8 euro if a complete wash and dry is desired. Do the conversion math, and that’s over $10. Insanity. Pure insanity. At college, it costs $2 for a complete wash and dry, which, conversion math again, is significantly less in euro. At home, everything is free. I am in the process of figuring out alternative laundry methods.
3. Dryers. They exist here, but the ones I’ve encountered have been sub-par when it comes to quickness and effectiveness. I have learned to love drying racks.
4. Television. We don’t have one, because licenses cost over 100 euro. And because we are all too poor to afford it. Yes, watching TV legally requires a license. No, you don’t want to even know what the fine is if you get caught.
5. Late-night and 24-hour businesses. Here, late-night means ten o’clock. That’s usually when pharmacies close. There are several 24-hour convenience stores, but McDonald’s is the only 24-hour restaurant I know of. Even greasy hamburger joints like Rick’s, greasy Chinese joints like Charlie’s, and Eddie Rocket’s, the Irish version of Johnny Rocket’s, close at four in the morning.
Some good things in life are inexpensive. Like food, for instance, in the right places. It’s nice to wake up mid-day, and cook eggs and sausage, spread butter over warm whole wheat pita, and pour a glass of milk, and know everything cost less than 5 euro. That this can be done multiple times, with the same purchased ingredients, is even nicer.
Things I Have Learned Not To Take For Granted Since Temporarily Moving To Ireland:
1. Warm water. I have almost perfected the five-minute shower as a result.
2. Inexpensive washing. In my building, it costs 4 euro per load, which means shelling out 8 euro if a complete wash and dry is desired. Do the conversion math, and that’s over $10. Insanity. Pure insanity. At college, it costs $2 for a complete wash and dry, which, conversion math again, is significantly less in euro. At home, everything is free. I am in the process of figuring out alternative laundry methods.
3. Dryers. They exist here, but the ones I’ve encountered have been sub-par when it comes to quickness and effectiveness. I have learned to love drying racks.
4. Television. We don’t have one, because licenses cost over 100 euro. And because we are all too poor to afford it. Yes, watching TV legally requires a license. No, you don’t want to even know what the fine is if you get caught.
5. Late-night and 24-hour businesses. Here, late-night means ten o’clock. That’s usually when pharmacies close. There are several 24-hour convenience stores, but McDonald’s is the only 24-hour restaurant I know of. Even greasy hamburger joints like Rick’s, greasy Chinese joints like Charlie’s, and Eddie Rocket’s, the Irish version of Johnny Rocket’s, close at four in the morning.
June 20, 2008
Blue Skies and Dentata
Talk about the weather: today was beautiful. BEAUTIFUL. Not too hot, not too cold, sunny, but just enough of a breeze to make sitting in the park and eating lunch and having a bit of a staring contest with an intimidating, oversized seagull pleasant.
Of course I spent the majority of my time indoors.
But! Before seeing Teeth at the IFI (several months after opening in the States, it finally received its release here), I nabbed a café table outside and sat and waited 20 minutes for service and eventually drank a pot of Earl Grey tea while attempting to write something of substance. The brain’s been clogged with emotional gobbledygook as of late, though, so I just wound up writing about my feelings, Dear Diary-style. If Judy Blume and I were best friends, she would’ve high-fived me right then and there and said something along the lines of, “You go girl!” Then we would’ve collaborated on the sequel to Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, and my impending fame would’ve been locked and sealed.
Speaking of adolescence and coming-of-age, I rather enjoyed Teeth. The only one in the cinema at first, I was looking forward to watching the film all by my lonesome, but then a lesbian couple showed up, and then some more women, and then a man—yes! a man!—sat right near me, and for some reason, I got all nervous and jittery and felt like telling him to move—“Em, excuse me, but could you sit somewhere else, because, see, given that this film will probably feature graphic depictions of castration…” (it does) “…and given that you might, perhaps, maybe react badly to it--I'm being assumptive I know, but seriously, see, I have problems watching that shit too—who in their right mind doesn’t?—and your anxiety will just feed into my anxiety and if you cringe I will feel like a bad person for being a woman sitting so close to you and, and, and wow I am WAY too neurotic for my own good so I’m just going to shut up and watch the film now okay?”—but I didn’t, because that just would have been stupid. I did, however, keep tabs on how often he laughed, which wasn’t often, but the man sitting in the back row was full of fits, and I reckon maybe laughed harder than anyone else in the cinema. Because Teeth actually is a dark comedy and a social satire and not really a horror film in the genre-specific sense (and definitely not in the way it was marketed), and most of the cringe-worthy scenes are balanced with a good amount of humor, so you’re laughing while you’re disgusted and mortified and crying because you’re still laughing, sometimes really, really hard.
[This is where the "I DON'T HATE MEN!" rant was. It was boring and eye roll-inducing and begging to be erased.]
Okay. Back to the weather. A friend of mine once wrote a play called Talking Shit About A Pretty Sunset. One beautiful discovery about Dublin was learning that during the summer (or at least for now), the sun fully sets around eleven o’clock. That means while I’m spending Friday night confined to my room, eating bowls of teriyaki rice, drinking vodka and orange juice, and perusing music blogs for hours on end, I can watch the sun sink below the Georgian architecture outside my window. Someone, please, tell me how it’s possible to talk shit about this pretty sunset:
Of course I spent the majority of my time indoors.
But! Before seeing Teeth at the IFI (several months after opening in the States, it finally received its release here), I nabbed a café table outside and sat and waited 20 minutes for service and eventually drank a pot of Earl Grey tea while attempting to write something of substance. The brain’s been clogged with emotional gobbledygook as of late, though, so I just wound up writing about my feelings, Dear Diary-style. If Judy Blume and I were best friends, she would’ve high-fived me right then and there and said something along the lines of, “You go girl!” Then we would’ve collaborated on the sequel to Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, and my impending fame would’ve been locked and sealed.
Speaking of adolescence and coming-of-age, I rather enjoyed Teeth. The only one in the cinema at first, I was looking forward to watching the film all by my lonesome, but then a lesbian couple showed up, and then some more women, and then a man—yes! a man!—sat right near me, and for some reason, I got all nervous and jittery and felt like telling him to move—“Em, excuse me, but could you sit somewhere else, because, see, given that this film will probably feature graphic depictions of castration…” (it does) “…and given that you might, perhaps, maybe react badly to it--I'm being assumptive I know, but seriously, see, I have problems watching that shit too—who in their right mind doesn’t?—and your anxiety will just feed into my anxiety and if you cringe I will feel like a bad person for being a woman sitting so close to you and, and, and wow I am WAY too neurotic for my own good so I’m just going to shut up and watch the film now okay?”—but I didn’t, because that just would have been stupid. I did, however, keep tabs on how often he laughed, which wasn’t often, but the man sitting in the back row was full of fits, and I reckon maybe laughed harder than anyone else in the cinema. Because Teeth actually is a dark comedy and a social satire and not really a horror film in the genre-specific sense (and definitely not in the way it was marketed), and most of the cringe-worthy scenes are balanced with a good amount of humor, so you’re laughing while you’re disgusted and mortified and crying because you’re still laughing, sometimes really, really hard.
[This is where the "I DON'T HATE MEN!" rant was. It was boring and eye roll-inducing and begging to be erased.]
Okay. Back to the weather. A friend of mine once wrote a play called Talking Shit About A Pretty Sunset. One beautiful discovery about Dublin was learning that during the summer (or at least for now), the sun fully sets around eleven o’clock. That means while I’m spending Friday night confined to my room, eating bowls of teriyaki rice, drinking vodka and orange juice, and perusing music blogs for hours on end, I can watch the sun sink below the Georgian architecture outside my window. Someone, please, tell me how it’s possible to talk shit about this pretty sunset:
June 19, 2008
Second-Person Introduction
This is what happens when you don’t have a job. You become restless, temperamental. You realize just how non-committal you are. Your old blog suddenly strikes you as bland, boring, pointless. The lavender-and-silver-on-black layout causes consternation. It reminds you of your teenage years, not so far away, needing distance. This is why we grow up: so we can realize how dumb and cliché we were. Listening to Nine Inch Nails and Nirvana on a Discman during school. Cutting gym class. Wearing a skull-and-crossbones knit cap—which was actually a very personal point of pride, but still, it made you “different.” Your fingers cramp at the prospect of adding another layer to that mess. It was a good idea, in theory, but now it’s time to move on. Bigger things, yes, and certainly better. It’s another day. Your cravings are different. Some white is needed in your life. Simple, the little voice in your head tells you, go simple.
Apparently, this is the solution.
It’s nearing the end of June. Today, Dublin is just as temperamental as you. All day: rain, sun, rain, sun. The sky can’t make up its mind. Or doesn't want to. Sometimes, it rains while the sun shines. Sun showers. As a kid, you loved these, but today, they bring about ill feelings. Like when you’re listening to a song, something new, you’ve never heard it before in your life, and it’s great—you think it might be the next thing to grace your Top 25 Most Played list, it’s that exciting!—but then, then, some note comes along, or some riff, or some totally inappropriate sound, and for a split second, the song is ruined, and you think to yourself, panicking, How on earth will this pick itself up again? It does, of course, but just barely, and that moment is forever imprinted on your mind.
The clouds are thick and gray, but contain pockets for the sun to peek through. These kinds of clouds aren’t dependable. They convince you of one thing—maybe the sun really will stay out this time, maybe the sky really will remain blue for the rest of the day—but it’s a whole different game. These kinds of clouds are deceptive, and it’d be better if it just rained all day, like yesterday, when it was torrential and you ate your usual round of vegetable soup in the pub and spent the afternoon reading and seeing Jules et Jim at the cinema. Or maybe it’d be better if it was sunny and warm again. All day. Every day. Then you could go to Howth and Bray and Malahide and Dun Laoghaire, and sit on the waterfront, and write, or read, or listen to music, or whatever, so long as it made you happy and content and put a smile on your face.
To end, here’s a sign found during a brief weekend spent in Paris. They must hate families there. Or children. Or both.
Apparently, this is the solution.
It’s nearing the end of June. Today, Dublin is just as temperamental as you. All day: rain, sun, rain, sun. The sky can’t make up its mind. Or doesn't want to. Sometimes, it rains while the sun shines. Sun showers. As a kid, you loved these, but today, they bring about ill feelings. Like when you’re listening to a song, something new, you’ve never heard it before in your life, and it’s great—you think it might be the next thing to grace your Top 25 Most Played list, it’s that exciting!—but then, then, some note comes along, or some riff, or some totally inappropriate sound, and for a split second, the song is ruined, and you think to yourself, panicking, How on earth will this pick itself up again? It does, of course, but just barely, and that moment is forever imprinted on your mind.
The clouds are thick and gray, but contain pockets for the sun to peek through. These kinds of clouds aren’t dependable. They convince you of one thing—maybe the sun really will stay out this time, maybe the sky really will remain blue for the rest of the day—but it’s a whole different game. These kinds of clouds are deceptive, and it’d be better if it just rained all day, like yesterday, when it was torrential and you ate your usual round of vegetable soup in the pub and spent the afternoon reading and seeing Jules et Jim at the cinema. Or maybe it’d be better if it was sunny and warm again. All day. Every day. Then you could go to Howth and Bray and Malahide and Dun Laoghaire, and sit on the waterfront, and write, or read, or listen to music, or whatever, so long as it made you happy and content and put a smile on your face.
To end, here’s a sign found during a brief weekend spent in Paris. They must hate families there. Or children. Or both.
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