Raglan Road: Bits & Bobs

Classes have officially ended. This has resulted in simultaneous bouts of exaltation and fear. When I'm not spending money carelessly on lunch with my friend, Phoebe, I sit down at my desk to relax and watch shitty Netflix rom-coms. (Note: yes, the syntax and clause in the previous sentence are both correct). Not rom-coms on Netflix. Netflix rom-coms. As in, made/produced by Netflix. I've hit an all-time low (or is it a high)?

Anyway, I sit at my desk noshing on unhealthy snacks, and despite having several outstanding assignments due, tonight I smile, ruminating on the fact that I just finished coursework for a masters degree and think: "Well! Thank goodness that's over."

...then I remember: my dissertation! What?! I have to basically write a book now? Who signed up for this?!

I did.

So, before I go ahead tell the world about female anxieties and maternal trauma in Shakespeare, here's a cool few things that have happened over the last few months.

...okay, maybe not cool things. But things all the same, in no particular order. Photos come at the end, though.

The Grand National (Aintree) and Numerous Equine Fatalities
Pardon the language, but what the fuck?! I'm still rather traumatized by this event, which I watched on live television. It's insane.
See, I remember my dad used to enjoy horse racing back in New York; I quite liked helping him choose a horse to bet on based solely on whether or not the name of the horse appealed to me. I would also consistently choose horses with the worst odds, because who doesn't root for the underdog? ...underhorse? Whatever.
Anyway, Colin wasn't kidding when he said the stakes were high at the Grand National. I hadn't heard of it before. I figured it was like the Kentucky Derby or something. I expected to see some fascinators and pretty mares.
Nope. About forty or so horses line up together-- there's no gate or anything-- and then, in the blink of an eye, they're off. The whole thing takes about ten minutes and you're on the edge of your seat the entire time. There's about 30 fences or so. I'm not talking white picket fences, either. The fences at Aintree, the highest of which is six feet tall, are topped with spruce. I guess it adds to the suspense when the horses leap and everything is is just flying everywhere: the spruce, the sweat, the helmets, the humans. Seriously! This year, they hadn't even jumped the first fence when a jockey was dislodged from his horse and down they both went. Oh, and guess what? The horse gets shot in the head. Mother of God. Medics literally fly in from the sidelines with a gun and they (arguably mercifully? humanely?) put a bullet in its brain.
A Driving Lesson
Only one lesson for me so far. In a parking lot. The car stalled five or six times (which, to my credit, wasn't half bad). It's easy to forget the clutch when you're attempting to switch gears, and it's quite scary when the car lurches forward and then dies. Personally, I think I'm just fine with an automatic, but apparently there's a certain dignity that accompanies the wielding of a massive phallo-centric tool in your vehicle. Admittedly, it does take a lot more concentration and focus, but my mentality is: why make things harder for yourself?
Unfortunately, I have an awful habit of making things harder for myself, so, my next lesson is on Saturday.
Shrove Tuesday (or "Fat Tuesday")
Again, it's probably just my ignorance showing, but the day before Lent starts everyone stuffs their faces with pancakes. Not the buttermilk, IHOP kind. No, these are the crêpe-y kind. The traditional pancake is stuffed with sugar and lemon juice.
I'm told that "shrove" is derived from the middle english word "shriven," which has something to do with confessing sins. I'll tell you one thing: the amount of pancakes I consumed on Shrove Tuesday was definitely sinful.
Saint Patrick's Day
I've nothing to say on this front, really. I imagine it's like Times Square on New Years Eve. I'm glad I did it, but I'll never do it again. If I am here for Saint Patrick's Day next year, I'll head up to Belfast instead. The proddie part, just to avoid bachannalia.
Belfast!
Right. I nearly forgot. Drove up to Belfast. No one thought blasting "Amhrán na bhFiann" at top volume was very funny. The peace wall isn't symbolic. No, it's literally there to keep the peace and is closed at 6PM nightly. There is a literal divide between the Catholics and Protestants.
I went on a really cool black cab tour and got to see some of the famous, politically-charged murals. I feel like Blogger is a safe place to say that the Bobby Sands mural looked a bit like Janis Joplin, but I'm not fit to judge, and fair play to Bobby Sands for his fight to end British imperialism. If you take a little skip a few streets over to the Protestant end in Shankill, there's a massive tribute mural to deceased loyalist Stephen McKeag. He used to drive around at night, shoot people in the head (rather brutally and seneselessly, I'd say) while singing "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." I'd say we have the makes for a horror movie here, except this stuff was real. Real life horror.
Matt Haig
I'll skip the part where I tell you about my near-nervous breakdown in December and fast forward to the fun bit, where my friend Phoebe and I got to meet Matt Haig, author of Reasons to Stay Alive and more recently, Notes on a Nervous Planet. He asked me where I was from. I said New York. I had to repeat myself several times, as he kept and he kept thinking I said "Newark." I was rather insulted because I'd rather be from anywhere than New Jersey, but then I realized he was thinking Newark, like, in England. Needless to say, we were both confused. It was a great night.
My First Night Club (Sort Of)
Coppers, notorious for being Dublin's #1 hookup destination, frequented by all sorts (it takes all sorts to make a sexually charged world, doesn't it) is a mainstay in the city, and people insist you go there, even if it's just for the "craic." I was tired of being told I had to go there so I could enjoy the novel experience of sexual objectification, so Phoebe and I went on a Tuesday night, paid the entrance fee, and enjoyed a completely empty dance floor. She hated it. I loved it. I'll never have to go there again.
My First Letter to a Politician
I have a weird obsession with President Michael D. Higgins and his two Bernese Mountain dogs. Michael D. is a renaissance man in every sense of the word. Former poet. Classy as hell. Looks like he works at Gringotts, and stands in line at the ATM just like the rest of us plebs. Several folks suggested I write to him with the hope he might pen me a note in return, as Ireland is a very small country and he'd surely get a kick out of the whole thing.
As of today, he has not responded to my letter.
Visited a Creepy Hospital to Collect Someone I met Once, and Posed with Jesus
I don't think this really needs to be explained, does it?
Okay, fine, I'll tell you.
I met "John Smith" at a pub in Temple Bar, which I normally avoid at all costs (both pubs and Temple Bar, which is very difficult to do in Dublin). John Smith was endearing in the way he made numerous clumsy sexual advances to a very sober and very unenthused Brianna. John Smith was rather keen to get Brianna's phone number, but I would not provide it. Yeah, I'll stop talking in the third person now. Anyway, John Smith offers me his business card instead. Turns out he works for an extremely popular company. Yeah. I could read John Smith's face like a book. I was promised a free lunch at aforementioned company. Poor guy was totally wasted and wouldn't remember a thing the next day. Thought it would be funny for me to e-mail him at work requesting the lunch.
As it turns out, John Smith is actually a very nice and sensible person, although not sensible enough to ask someone else to collect him after having his wisdom teeth pulled. He had very few contacts in Ireland I guess, so he asked if I could take him home, and I obliged, because I'm obviously insane. The hospital was totally dead. No one cared where I was going. I found myself wandering in the direction of the morgue before I found the room John Smith was recovering in. I read a book as he watched football and ate unpalatable Jello until it was time to go home. Then, we took selfies with Jesus, and I took him home in a cab.
And that was that.
Went [True] West
Phoebe runs a youth theatre group out in Kildare, and they were part of a national competition over in County Mayo. I tagged along and got to see the west of Ireland! I told my best friend that when he misses me and the distance seems enormous, just think that I'm simply on the other side of a very large room. When I got to Mayo and dipped a toe into the Atlantic, I called him and waved from the "other side."