Take This Pink Ribbon Off My Eyes…

Feminism.

I know, I know… My mind is exactly where yours is right now, picturing some ugly bird with a mole on her chin, in an unflattering outfit, holding a match to her bra, bitching about Playboy whilst simultaneously painting a picture of her vagina in a liberating expression of femininity.

Look, I am going to discuss feminism up in here. But… I don’t like that sanctimonious aul’ hag any more than you do. She’s extreme and impractical, either ignorant to or disregarding of the fact that she needs that bra to stop her boobies tippin’ down for a chat with her bellybutton.

Aussie Feminist, Germaine Greer said this about bras:

“Bras are a ludicrous invention, but if you make bralessness a rule, you’re just subjecting yourself to yet another repression. For some, the bra remains a symbol of restrictions imposed by society on women.”

Ludicrous?! I tell ya what Germaine, assuming you’re not quite a 32A, bin the bra and then go for an aul’ jog on the treadmill. Ludicrous still? Or proven essential?

Personally, I like to wear a bra most days. Not only that but I’ll take all the support they can offer me. Full-cup? Aye. Good, wide bone? That’s the ticket! Three clasps at the back? Sold!

But anyways, I’ve digressed. Feminism is an issue that makes most modern women recoil in horror and embark on a passionate denial campaign. That’s thanks to the stereotypical notions of feminists as cranky, man-hating, hippies striving to be artists, poets, scholars and feckin’ electricians.

I am not a feminist. I think women have come too far to still be playing victims. Modern feminism is little more than a justification for women to fight for something that is already ours, something that was given to us by women like Emily Davison, the suffragette who was killed in 1913 when she threw herself in front of the King’s horse at the Epsom Derby in a display of martyrdom for women’s rights, of which we had few.

But we no longer have few. The suffragettes of the 20^th century were the real feminists. The cause was real and the goal was immense. They changed the world. In the 1960s second-wave feminism exploded. The contraceptive pill was approved and a whole bunch of new issues arose. The hippies were ON IT!  They tackled sexism and workplace discrimination. Big things, you guys. Big things. The women of yesteryear made it easy for us. They fought the fight so we could reap the benefits.

Suffragette Emily Davison throws herself in front of the King’s horse at the Epsom Derby 1913

So why are we still whining?

We are currently in the centre of what is known as “third-wave feminism”. Now, under-informed and unenthusiastic about the movement, I can only speak from personal opinion. And my personal opinion is that these whinging broads would wanna take a step back and realise that women have never been so free. Neither have we ever been so powerful. 2012 is not the time to be crying about how difficult it is to be female.

Small yarn: My 20-year-old brother has been driving for five years. He passed his driving test first time. He drives a small but incredibly loud little Fiesta. And he is plagued by the guards. The kid is insured. He’s taxed. The car is NCT’d. He has a full-licence. He is, in all regards, completely within the law. Yet he is stopped by the Siochana frequently. His discs are checked. He is questioned. Sometimes searched. I, on the other hand, am 24-years old. I have been driving my little navy Yaris for two years. Like my brother, I am reliably law-abiding. Unlike my brother, I am left alone by the Guards. Rightly so. But the double standard, far as I’m concerned, seems to be gender focused. In the eyes of the Irish cop, a young dude like my brother has to be up to no good. Catching him on the roads provokes a full interrogation. I’ve been stopped on the roads once… Once… In two years. The guard made a bit of small talk, looked at my licence and sent me on my merry way. I’m a girl. Why would they bother interrogating me? It’s the lads they’re after.

Is not that sexism? Methinks so.

The fact is that we live in a time rife with strong women. Hillary Clinton. She came so close to being president that time. It’s gonna happen someday soon yo! A woman will be president of the United States. Lori Reynolds made headlines last year when she assumed the role of Commander of the USMC training headquarters at Parris Island. Julia Gillard became Prime Minister of Australia in 2010. More familiar faces like Oprah Winfrey, Ellen DeGeneres, Angelina Jolie. Women. Being. BOSS!

The music industry too is dominated by women. Gaga, Rihanna, Katy Perry, Lopez, Kelly Clarkson, Pink, Nicki Minaj and, my personal list-topper, Beyonce Knowles. Look at this:  Word. Don’t fuck with Beyonce. She brings it.

See, Beyonce’s got it right. Successful, beautiful, talented and savvy. She’s the biggest star in the world right now. She knows what she’s doing. Her priorities are set and all her ducks are in a row. She sang ‘Independent Women’ with Destiny’s Child and she meant it. Jay-Z has 99 problems but his bitch ain’t one. Beyonce shows us that you can have great strength and still be feminine. She voids the feministic idea that women should reject societal ideals; things like make-up, high-heels and embracing sexuality. Beyonce wears heels, she shows some skin and she runs the world (ish).

Women not to be fucked with: Clockwise L-R: First Lady Michelle Obama, President of the Indian National Congress Sonia Gandhi, First US female navy carrier-based fighter pilot Kara Hultgreen, Australian Prime Minister Julia Gillard, Oprah Winfrey, US Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton, Editor-In-Chief of the New York Times Jill Abramson and (Centre) Beyonce Knowles.

We don’t need angry old dolls bitching about porn and maternity leave, born into the wrong generation and tardy to the party by about forty years. Women, in the 21^st century, well, we’re alright. I’m a firm believer that if one plays the victim, one will be the victim. If feminists could just quit the moaning and look around they’d see that they’re fighting a battle that has already been won. The audience has celebrated and moved on and they are left behind, full of resentment because they seem to now feel that women deserve superior rights to men.

I don’t believe that radical expression and lingering on issues past is doing anything for women. But I do believe in independence, in confidence and in doing and being anything you want, regardless of gender.

In Pink’s song, ‘Stupid Girls’, she comments on the abundant examples of unmotivated, under-achieving, conformist girls whose life goals include having bigger boobs and marrying into money. These chicks are everywhere. They wanna be WAGS, they love fancy handbags and they play dumb to make men feel more intelligent. They spend their childhood wanting to be vets and then, somewhere along the way, a lack of inspiration and/or proper guidance they come to believe that one’s goal in life should be marriage, money and children. The ambition of being a vet gets replaced with one of just wanting a husband who makes a decent wage. The sound of their dreams gets drowned out by the deafening tick of their biological clock. These girls do just about as much for women as the modern feminists do, reiterating clichés of women, setting us back and standing as utterly useless role models for the confused generation behind us.

Courtney Love may be crazy like a fox, but she took the notion of femininity, turned it upside down and owned that shit! 

Have you ever read any of the women’s magazines like Cosmopolitan or Marie Claire? I think they’re behind this conflict between being a Courtney Stodden or a Tracy Emin. It was actually an article in Cosmopolitan that inspired this article/rant/nonsense. It was written by a dude who was giving out about men having to pay for everything on dates. Is he right or is he wrong? I’ve no idea really. But it made me think. In the same issue of Cosmo there was an article about how in order to succeed, women need to be pushier, like men. Few pages ahead, there’s an article listing the three things that men look for in a girl (1. you don’t flip out if you lose your phone. 2. you can sense if something’s wrong with him. 3. you tell funny, interesting stories about your day). Few pages ahead there’s an interview with Olympic athlete, Jessica Ennis. An article on how to firm up your body. Then an article called (and I’m dead serious with this) ‘What His Penis Wishes You Knew.’ Then an inspiring interview with “An Alpha Female”. It’s just all so inconsistent. Of course, it’s all silly fucking fluff really, but there are women who read that shit and think, “yeah, I wanna know what his penis wishes I knew!” We all know idiots like that.

When your shitty personality just doesn’t cut it, good old Cosmo has the answers!

But look, I’m not saying that I’m any kind of brilliant, independent, gung-ho maverick woman. I bought that magazine. And I read it cover to cover.

A few months back, I wrote a blog here about my second year in college when I lived with four guys. It was awesome. I loved it. I loved them. We had a blast. When the year was up and third year rolled around, I was in an apartment with four other girls. It was not cool. They did not like me. I did not like them. We did not have a blast. When all was said and done I concluded that men have it right with their approach. They just don’t give a fuck. A spade is a spade. They don’t feel hard done by as men. And they don’t care if we feel hard done by as women.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, why can’t we just be let be. I like being a girl. I like having long nails. I like styling my hair. I like high-heels. But I also like Discovery Channel documentaries. I like roaming the countryside with my dogs. I like video games. I believe in romance too but it’s not my be all and end all. I think if you take care of yourself, indulge your interests, chase your dreams and be the best you can be, the rest will come.

Life is what you make of it. It’s not about oppression. It’s not about discrimination. And it’s certainly not about gender. It’s time to forget feminism altogether, let sleeping dogs lie and seize the opportunities that lie in front of us. If he doesn’t hold the door open for you, it’s just because he’s a prick, that’s all. And you’re a prick too if you don’t hold it open for him. That’s gender equality.

This Is Not A Political Post, Right!?…

Last Christmas, while doing the obligatory round of festive socialising and seasonal drinking, I found myself having a conversation with a United States army soldier. From California, based in Germany and with at least one tour in Iraq under his belt, he enquired, as many less informed than he do, about the set of military dog-tags that I wear around my neck.

“Well, you’ve heard of Bowe Bergdahl, right?” I replied expectantly, intending it to be a rhetorical question.

I was met with a vacant look, astonishing me and indicating rather clearly, that this guy had absolutely no recognition of the name.

Bowe Bergdahl is a 26-year-old US army soldier from Hailey, Idaho. On June 30^th 2009, in Eastern Afghanistan, he was captured by the Taliban-supporting Haqqani network. His version of the story says he fell behind on patrol. The Taliban version says he was ambushed while drunk off base. Regardless, today, three years later and in a pitiful display of the lack of burden his POW status weighs on the shoulders of the United States military, Bowe remains the only US soldier in captivity.

Bowe (front right) in Afghanistan a month before his capture, May 2009.

I can’t recall an exact moment I first learned of Bergdahl. But I can recall being struck by his story. This kid is just a little older than me, I thought. From a small town in Idaho, Bowe was just a young guy with his whole life ahead of him. He was raised by his religious parents alongside an older sister, Sky. He was described by friends as thoughtful, well-read and athletic with a talent for shooting and a love of skiing and martial arts. He had travelled Europe and worked at a local coffee shop in his hometown. He was just like any other young guy really. Everything about him was relatable. A son, a brother, a nephew. I found myself recognizing elements of my loved ones in him.

Bergdahl, in uniform, before his deployment.

In 2008, ready for a career and without telling his parents, he enlisted in the army. He was placed in First Battalion, 501^st Parachute Infantry Regiment, Fourth Brigade Combat Team, 25^th Infantry Division in Fort Richardson, Alaska. He deployed to Afghanistan in early 2009 as a machine gunner. His parents recall emails from their son, seemingly happy, describing the beauty of the country and the wonderful people.

On the morning following his disappearance Bowe was absent from roll-call at his outpost. Panic ensued as tracking dogs were sent into the surrounding area to locate him. Drones were also sortied in a vain bid to recover the missing soldier. Of course, they found diddly squat. Documents exposed on WikiLeaks in the aftermath of the incident, translate intercepted radio transmissions from the Taliban dated July 1st 2009, the day after Bowe’s disappearance. In the transcript, one voice apparently says, “I think he is a big shot. That’s why they are looking for him.” The second voice replies, “Can you make a video and announce it all over Afghanistan that we have one of the Americans?”. He is told that the video has already been made.

In the few years since his capture, the Taliban have released five videos of Bergdahl. One showed the American, bald and cross-legged on the floor, eating fruit. Another showed him in a pale shirt, noticeably thin and standing alongside a bearded middle-eastern man. As much as each video was riddled with propaganda, featuring Bowe, timid and obviously scared, deeming the war as “not worth the waste of life that it has caused both Afghanistan and the US.”, they also came as relieving proof that he was still alive and as such, were received with gratitude by those who cared.

Probably the most heart-breaking video, released in 2010 and presumably recorded in Pakistan, presented Bowe, wearing an army jacket, describing his life before his imprisonment and making a desperate plea for his freedom. He talked about his family and repented over not letting them know how much he loved them when he had the chance. “I love my family,” he said. “I haven’t shown it very well because, well, I’ve been pretty lost in my life and I don’t think I’ve given my family the love they’ve given me. But I love my family and I pray to God to see them again.” Described by his mother as, “the hardest video to take.” It was almost spine-chilling to watch.

 

In May of 2011, after almost two years of dignified silence, Bowe’s father, Robert Bergdahl released his own heart-breaking video. Stoic and composed, he spoke to his son’s captors, commiserating over their losses in the conflict and, astoundingly, thanking them for keeping Bowe safe. The video was affecting, not least for Robert’s grief-stricken message to his son.

“I pray that this video be shown to our only son. God bless you. We love you. We’ve been quiet in public but we haven’t been quiet behind the scenes. Continue to be patient and kind to those around you. You’re not forgotten. You are not forgotten.”

Last year I ordered a set of dog-tags. Stainless steel and encased in red, rubber silencers, one reads my details. The other reads as follows:

SGT. BOWE. R BERGDAHL.

06/30/2009

POW

AFGHANISTAN

The tags are not part of some political stance or even a means to try and convince myself that I’m making a difference. I’m not dumb. I don’t know this guy. He doesn’t know me. We’ve never met. I’d be very surprised if the news of some chick in Ireland wearing dog tags provoked the Taliban to reconsider the whole thing.

I guess I’m just attracted to the sentimentality of the idea that as long as this kid is alive, alone and thousands of miles from home in the hands of a terrorist organisation, at the very least it’s nice to think that someone, somewhere, keeps him in their thoughts. That’s all.

Bowe, here in an old family photo, describes his love for motorcycles in one of the released videos.

Like many, I’ve long been disappointed by the apparent lack of action from the United States to secure the freedom of their M.I.A. Regardless of the various different counts of the circumstances of his capture, Bowe is a Prisoner of War. He was kidnapped whilst in Afghanistan serving his country. And his country seems to have just left him there, attempting to make words speak louder than action.

I am signed up for Google Alerts on Bowe. It means that every afternoon, I receive an email with an assortment of links forwarding me to any recent mentions of his name online. I originally signed up in the hope that someday I’d receive notification of his release. Alas it hasn’t happened yet. As much as my breath is baited for good news, I am, instead, greeted with a daily plethora of links to stories summarising stalled talks between the US and the Taliban and word of remembrance events across the States.  The display of ignorance on the part of the American soldier at Christmas solidified my belief that Bowe Bergdahl, if not completely unknown to most, is viewed as just a tiny piece in a conflict much bigger than himself, and, certainly, just a small fish to fry in the eyes of the Obama administration.

Bowe, thin and anxious-looking in another propaganda video

Having said that, after a mild flurry of interest last year, when word spread that Bowe had escaped and spent three days on the run (apparently “fighting like a boxer” when he was found), awareness is on the rise again. This week, his parents have come forward in an effort to try and push the government into doing more to bring their son home. They revealed that secret talks between the US and the Taliban were recently brought to a standstill by the opposing side. The deal would have seen the transfer of five Taliban prisoners from Guantanamo Bay to Qatar under conditions of house arrest in exchange for the release of Bergdahl to the United States military. The Taliban rejected conditions of the deal and, in essence, walked away.

Five for one perhaps doesn’t sound like the fairest deal going but the bottom line is that as long as they hold an American citizen, the Taliban has leverage. While his captors might lack the sentiment that their Western opposition places on the lives of it’s soldiers, they’re not blind to it’s importance in this exchange. America wants Bowe back. The Taliban know that and it’s for that very reason that he remains alive today.

Speaking out last week, Bowe’s father, Robert, who has learned the Pashto language in order to communicate with Taliban members, said that he believed he was in email contact with an Afghan man who has information on his son. In reference to him and his wife’s growing frustration at the slow progess, he said, “we don’t have faith in the U.S. government being able to reconcile this. You don’t leave something like this to Government officials. Why wouldn’t a father do this? This is my job.”

The Government, however, is adamant that it is exhausting every possibility to secure Bowe’s release. Spokesman for the Defense Department, George Little said, “finding Bowe Bergdahl is a top priority, and we will not stop searching for ways to return him to his family and country.”

Another official said that as much as an exchange may sound like a straight-forward means to an end, “We’re not talking about real nice guys out there who are willing to let Sergeant Bergdahl walk.”

A poster of Bowe sits on display at the Defense Department Central Command Center in an apparent show of dedication from the US.

Regardless of the conditions under which he gets returned, the reprise in awareness of Bowe’s saga comes at a tricky time and brings with it a sense of urgency for two reasons, the first being the obvious. The 2012 Presidential Election in November. Bowe’s capture, imprisonment and attempted release negotiations have all happened under Obama’s presidency. Aside from the obvious fact that there’s a chance he may not get a second term in the Oval office thus throwing the proverbial spanner very much in the works, in the run up to the election, Obama is being careful. The last thing he needs is controversy. He doesn’t want to be seen to be entertaining the demands of terrorists. The second reason is the imminent withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan by 2014. Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan has been ongoing for over 10 years now and is largely known as “the forgotten war”. Public interest had gradually faded and global focus has changed. The withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan can only serve to heighten ignorance on Bowe Bergdahl’s plight.

“Every day I want to go home. The pain in my heart to see my family again doesn’t get any smaller. Release me. Please. Bring me home. Please. Bring me home.”

One can only hope that the candour of Bowe’s loved ones and the consequent revival of public concern will push those who need to act into action to secure his safe return to the United States. I’m still waiting on the Google Alert in my inbox in the hope that I can, someday soon, put my dog tags into an envelope and send them to him in Hailey, Idaho.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bring-Bowe-Bergdahl-Home/105831760749

Handy Work If You Can Get It…

“Tell me about the health issues you’ve had recently.”

Staring blankly across the table at the man I was paying €40 to read my cards, I racked my brain.

“I’ve always been pretty healthy,” I replied, almost apologetic at having failed to come up with anything that had ailed me in recent months.

“No, emotionally,” he made a second attempt.

Again, I hit a brick wall. I understood his logic. It would be a fairly safe bet to assume that the majority of the usual suspects that graced the curtain of his “psychic’s lair” would have had some kind of emotional turbulence going on thus provoking their visit. Alas, I was not one of those people and, having been informed that I was incredibly fearful of rejection and that I cry a lot on the inside, I was now concluding that this man was nothing more than a very good con artist.

I would like to clarify at this point that paying €40 to have my future told by a chain-smoking medium down the back of a pub in Mullingar was not my idea. It was my mothers. Inherently trusting and full of faith, she wholly believes in angels, banshees and the ability of those few to see the future. She’d been to this guy several times. Swore by him. Many do.

I, on the other hand, am innately more sceptical. I have little time for religion, UFO sightings or ghosts. In general, if you can’t explain it to me, it aint getting past the door. I once read a saying on one of those funny signs you see outside churches in America. It went, “Faith sees God. Intellect does not.” Accurate and witty. I remembered it. That’s how this scribe sees it.

Having said that, at the encouragement of my ever compassionate, entirely trusting and kind-hearted ol’ Mum to accompany her, I found myself sat in front of one of Ireland’s most renowned psychics the other evening.

Having agreed on the reading and aware that it came at a princely cost, I decided to try and open my mind a little. Maybe I haven’t got it all figured out. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ve heard many people raving about this guy, how he’s predicted deaths and illnesses around them and gave them lucidity on a lot of things.

Driving down there after work, with my mother doing some Oscar worthy acting in her role as ‘most-nervous-passenger-in-the-world’ for the trip, I will admit that there was a part of me hoping I’d be told something profound. Something insightful. Something that I might be kept awake pondering that night. Even just some form of reassurance that I’m making decent decisions. No such luck.

Of course, the client themselves play a huge part in defining how good these guys are. As far as I can make out, the majority of clients at this particular dude are middle-aged women, house and duty bound and crippled with regrets.

That was way harsh Tai.

Point being that the best part of the people that go to see psychics go because they’re looking for some kind of emotional reassurance. They go hoping to emerge fulfilled, hopeful and enlightened. They go, so certain it will put their mind at ease, that when Mr. MoneyBalls tells them that he sees a wonderful future in store for them and that their dead dog wants them to know that he’s happy on the other side with Granny and Paws the cat, they lap it right up. I mean, he knew that Granny was dead! And you never told him! He must be legit!

Or perhaps he just clocked you coming in all positive and accepting, took in your age, your clothing, your immediate persona and he made some generic but fairly accurate conclusions about you. He sees health problems? Maybe you had a chest infection out last year. Death in the family? Perhaps your great-aunt died just before Christmas. Travel on the horizon? Who doesn’t have travel on the horizon these days?

Sitting in the dark room the other night with the tatty old cards laid out on the table in front of me, I was determined to poker face my way through the session. He was gonna have to do this on his own.

He asked about the animosity on my father’s side of the family, wanted to know why there’s a separation there, why we don’t speak very often. I took a moment to correct my raised brow and duly told him that we were actually a very close-knit family and had, in fact, all been away together the weekend before. Not quite on top form there buddy. Go again.

“What about the recent death on your mother’s side of the family?”  … “Well, my grandmother died 12 years ago.” Ouch. Strike two. It really wasn’t going all that incredibly well between myself and Mr. MoneyBalls here in his curtained cave. My inner cynic was utterly frothing at the mouth at the realisation that it had been right all along. The naïve, curious side of me, however, was a tad crushed in the knowledge that my life really was in my own clumsy hands.

With a mutual recognition that this reading was turning out to be far from the best show he’d ever done, he got a little more specific. He told me he saw travel in my future. Right. No shit Sherlock, but okay. Apparently Australia’s not for me but I’d really enjoy South America or Africa. He told me he saw marriage. Again, doesn’t take a genius, but all right, I’ll take it as a prediction. He wanted to know why I thought I wouldn’t have children. Fair play, you took a risk, thought maybe I looked like someone who didn’t have much time for kids. But FAIL nonetheless. He told me I’d always come back home and would end up settling within 30 minutes of where I currently live. Game over buddy. My definite (vague) and intended (hoped) life plan dictates otherwise.

I reckon that was about the time he gave up on me. He’d gotten it wrong so many times it almost seemed pointless to continue. I wasn’t buying it. He knew I wasn’t buying it. He told me to enjoy my travels and the session was brought to an abrupt and slightly awkward end with a shake of the hand and the exchange of what I’ve decided is a sufficient amount of money to justify scamming vulnerable, insecure housewives from across Ireland for a few hours in the evening during the week.

There’s a medium in the UK by the name of Derek Acorah. Some might know him from his work on ‘Most Haunted’ in which he became “possessed” by a spirit called Kreed Kafer. Kreed Kafer was subsequently exposed to be a total fabrication and a rather obvious anagram of the words ‘Derek Faker’. Clever. A while back I watched a documentary featuring Acorah. He was accused of being a fraud, cold-reading his clients, throwing out non-specific statements, gauging reactions and essentially just allowing people to make their own assumptions. He had hoards convinced. In reality it was all just years of honed fakery and showmanship. Acorah, of course, was enraged at the suggestion that he might be a liar and denied everything. But like, come on. I am, however, giving Derek one more shot at pursuading me. He has predicted that he will be involved in a plane crash between the UK and Canada in 2013. He reckons he’ll be one of three survivors and will consequently need a walking stick. So… Yeah… Look out for that news… I swear, if that happens I will eat your hat (I like mine)!

Derek Acorah under the influence of Derek Faker… Wait…

Anyways, feeling both disappointed at the lack of any kind of philosophical insight into my healthy, loss-lacking, socially acceptable life and decidedly smug at the confirmation that good old, time tested logic always prevails, we drove home, with me explaining to Mum exactly why I had deemed the man a fraudster, in between bursts of trying to reassure her that yes, I could see that the car in front of me was indicating and I wasn’t driving too fast.

Moral? I dunno really. Don’t go see a psychic. Instead, maybe just… get on with your life and quit being so darned scared of fucking it up. Be graaaaand!

Here’s a link to the art of cold reading. Why not set up down the back of your local and charge innocent old ladies a fortune to come and be cheated? http://www.wikihow.com/Cold-Read

PS: In case you’re wondering, my eternally trusting mother’s reading turned out to be a much more insightful experience for her.

I Hate It When That Happens…

Have you ever stepped on an upturned plug and cursed the brat who left it there? Or gotten frustrated by a group of teenagers blaring music out loud on a bus? Have you ever been annoyed by someone reading a newspaper over your shoulder? Or fumed at stepping in dog shhhh (mess) on the footpath? Have you ever griped about how unhygienic it actually is to offer the sign of peace at mass? Or seethed at the sight of someone throwing rubbish out the window of a car?

Pet peeves. I’ve got ‘em. You’ve got ‘em. Your Mom’s got ‘em. The postman’s got ‘em. You get the gist. Life is full of little nuisances and irritations. Unfortunately there’s very little do be done about them. There will always be something that just rubs you up the wrong way.

At the realisation that I haven’t posted anything here since March and with inspiration from a conversation I had with a 9-year-old after her shoe fell off when she was running, here is but a glimpse into the plethora of pet peeves that I battle on a daily basis…

 People Who Want The Red Sweet

Have you ever been eating a packet of Starburst (or Opal Fruits if you’re awesome) and someone asks can they have one? “No problem buddy, what’s mine is yours. Here ya go.”… “Oh, I only like the red ones. Can I have a red one?”

Excuse you?! Are you having an episode?! No shit you only like the red ones! EVERYONE knows that the red ones are the best ones. Matter fact, if Starburst did away with all the other colours and just sold packets of the red ones, that’d be juuuust fine. And it’d put a halt to those uncomfortable situations where people ask for the red one and you have to either shut up and give it to them whilst wishing you never made friends with them in the first place or rummage through your vocabulary to try and find a way to tell them “no” without sounding like an anal dickhead.

There’s only ever one or two red sweets in the pack. They’re precious and, least in my case, are always put aside to be enjoyed once I’ve grudgingly made my way through the poxy orange, green, yellow and purple ones. As far as I’m concerned there’s an etiquette to be followed if you want a sweet off someone: take what ya get and put some gratitude in your attitude!

Or just ask for any other colour but the red ones. Actually, here, you can just have all the other ones.

People Who Say “Ha Ha!”

I work with children. This means that on a daily basis I am subject to questions like, “are you getting a baby?” or comments such as, “My mammy says it’s rude to have a ring in your nose like you.”

It’s fine. You’re just a child. I’m not offended (I’m actually crying on the inside). It’s part of the joys of war. I’m not getting a baby, I just had a big lunch and eh, your mammy would wanna lighten the fuck up. Children are, by nature, explicitly honest. It’s what I love and loathe most about them.

There is, however, one phrase I hear more than any other that drives me up the wall and out the windows: “Ha Ha!”

I don’t mean “Ha Ha” as in that’s funny, I’m laughing. I mean “Ha Ha” in a mean, Nelson from The Simpsons kind of way. I forgot my purse! “Ha Ha!” I broke a cup! “Ha Ha!”  I tripped over a schoolbag and knocked my head off the radiator! “Ha Ha!”

Course, I’m not talking exclusively about children here. I love those guys mostly. Adults do it too. Immature, awkward ones who haven’t quite worked out who they are yet.

Thing is, when you trip or break something or fumble in some way, it can be pretty shitty and the last thing you need is some mean-spirited person making fun of you while ensuring that everyone’s attention is drawn to your mishap with a mocking, “Ha Ha!”

There’s no comback. Thanks for that.

Slow Drivers

To clarify, speeding is wrong. It’s against the law and 60% of the time, I never do it. But, and this is a big, Kim Kardashian but(t), slow drivers do my head in.

I’m late most of the time. If you tell me to be somewhere at 6 o’clock, I’ll be there at ten past. I realise that this is a pet peeve of a lot of people but I can’t help it. ‘Less it’s super important, I’m inherently guilty of punctual unreliability.

Anyways, as a result of this, I usually cannot afford to get caught up behind tractors and/or drivers who aren’t really sure where they’re going. When I should have been at work ten minutes ago, I need to be doing at least the speed limit.

It’s awful when you’re cruising along and you catch up with the old lady from down the road doing 40mph in 2^nd gear with her left indicator on since she left her house. She’s driving half way across the line and you can’t get past.

Fair play to ya for being mobile and independent at your age Mrs. Murphy but like, MOVE!!!

Texting While in a Conversation

Nothing says, “I’m not listening” like the clicking of the buttons on a mobile phone while you’re trying to talk to someone.

I appreciate that texting has to be done. I’m a habitual texter myself. But if you’ve ever been talking to someone and then you have to repeat what you’ve said because the other person stopped listening to reply to a text, then you know the frustration you feel.

Texting is a handy way to stay in touch with people, or to let your friends know important details of your day, like, that you just met their father in the shop. The texting itself is not what bothers me. What bothers me is when sending a text takes priority over having an actual real-life, face-to-face conversation with someone.

No, no, don’t worry, I’ll just stand here like a bolox while you smirk at your phone and furiously click in a reply while pretending to listen to what I’m saying. Matter fact, hang on, I’ll just text it to ya.

Odd Socks

In the words of Rivers Cuomo, “my fashion sense is a little wack.” I am perpetually to be found in a hoodie. My hair hangs loose. My shoes are often scuffed and my nails unkempt. I’m not exactly what one would call “put together”. It’s not that I don’t care. Actually no, that’s exactly what it is. I’d much rather spend my time ambling with the dogs or chillin’ with itunes than agonising over what I’m gonna wear or applying fake tan. Too. Much. Hassle.

BUT… No matter how baggy my hoodie, no matter how dishevelled my hair looks, no matter how chipped my nail polish or torn the bottom of my trousers, I will ALWAYS be sporting matching socks. Guaranteed.

Odd socks bother me. Can’t explain it.

In my house I operate a self-imposed “buddy box” policy. I have a box in the laundry room. Any socks that lose their buddy in the process of washing must be placed into the buddy box where they will remain unless and until a buddy can be found.

I aaalmost can’t believe I just admitted that. I know. Anality, thy name is me.

People Who Are Afraid of Dogs

A phobia is characterised as being an irrational fear as in coulrophobia, a fear of clowns (clowns are funny yo!) or triskaidekaphobia, a fear of the number 13 (thanks Nirvana/Friends).

If you’re afraid of dogs, look away now ‘coz we’re about to fall out.

Officially, a phobia of dogs is called cynophobia. Unofficially it’s called ridiculous.

Of course I’m speaking from a biased perspective, that of a lifelong dog lover. I currently share my home with two big pooches, both of who have a big bark and a non-existent bite. You call wool and pull and antagonize and generally fuck with them all day long and receive nothing but attempted licks and wagging tails in return.

There are certain animal related fears I can get down with. Bears, for example. Bears are massive and not near as cuddly as their teddy counterparts mislead us to believe. A fear of sharks is also fairly reasonable, thinkin’ we’re seals and chowin’ the fuck down with their 20 million teeth. A fear of apes is acceptable too. They’ll rip your face clayne off with their opposable thumbs while staring you down with their unnervingly human eyes.

I’ve never been bitten by a dog, ever, so maybe it’s easy for me to talk but I’m sorry, I can’t sit back and understand when someone runs terrified of an animal that has long been regarded as man’s best friend, an animal that helps the blind and disabled, an animal that serves loyally in both the army and police force, an animal that emotes and loves and obeys. I just can’t.

Yeah, yeah, every dog is different, yadda yadda. I’m about as immovable on this subject as North Korea is on the idea of being honest. A dog is as vicious as its owner makes it.

Tangled Ear Phones

You finish with your ipod. You remove your earphones and you carefully wrap them around the device and deposit into your pocket/handbag/glovebox. Two hours later, you retrieve the ipod for another private disco session and, hey whaddya know, the earphones are now an incomprehensible, tangled mess. What. The. Fuck?! I was so careful!

It’s one of life’s great, unexplained mysteries. The same thing happens with the wires at the back of the TV. Nobody’s touched ‘em since the TV was bought and still, it’s like a labyrinth of black wires back there. You need to change the scart from the dvd player to the playstation? You’re gonna have to just start at one end and work your way to the other to avoid fucking shit up. Just one of those things I guess but daaaaaaaamn it’s annoying!

Finding Just a Little Bit Left

Confusing title. What I’m referring to is when you come home from somewhere and you go to the cupboard to get a bowl of cereal and you discover that there’s only a tiny bit left. When you get up in the morning and you go about making the tea, you open the fridge and find two drops are left in the milk carton. When you go to use the bathroom and discover one sheet of paper left on the roll. When you take a shower and the conditioner bottle spurts out enough to do about an eighth of your hair.

To the person who uses all these things before me; just take it all. I see your logic. You don’t want to be the prick that used the last of the washing powder. But please don’t bother insulting me with the dregs. I have no use for the heel of the bread. Honestly, I’ll be less annoyed to discover there’s none left than to get excited and then realise it’s a useless amount. Just let selfishness prevail in this instance.

Being The First One At A Party

Noone wants to be the first one to arrive. You try and time it so you’ll be just late enough that there’s a few people there ahead of you. Problem being that this is a universal solution and thus, everyone’s late and you still risk being the first to arrive. My tip from the top is to wait until you’re late, and then just wait a little longer, then go.

Otherwise, you risk arriving while the “big lights” are still on, the music hasn’t been figured out and no one’s had a drink yet. You sit alone on the sofa, looking at the DVD collection while your host “jumps in the shower real quick”.

Being late isn’t about being fashionable. It’s about avoiding boredom.

Automated Answering Services

You know the ones.

A few weeks back I rang Vodafone. I was trying to unblock a SIM. I tried to do it online to no avail. I needed help. So I rang ‘em. For the life of me I could not work out how to get speaking to a real person.

Press 1 to do this. Press 5 to do that. Please log on to vodafone.useless to unblock the SIM. In the end I just rang the nearest Vodafone shop and got them to talk me through it.

If a company is going to use an automated answer service, an option to speak to a rep should always exist on the very first menu. That is all.

Trampolines

THEY’RE SO DANGEROUS!!!

Right, sure I s’pose that’s enough for now. Too many pet peeves and reading about pet peeves will soon become a pet peeve. Maybe another time I’ll get grumpy and moan some more. Or maybe I’ll balance the scales and regale you with a list of some of the best things ever (finding money you forgot you had/lists themselves).

There wasn’t even any fun pictures to look at this time. Fuck sake.

Irony, thy name is… Me?

I am your archetypal daydreamer. I mostly wander around with my head in the clouds carelessly minding my own bidness until something provokes enough thought that I feel like I have to come down for a minute to say something about it. Well today I read an article that roused me from my mental hibernation (the article was published on heckin’ Sunday like!). It was called ‘The Voice of The People’. It was in Sundays’ ‘Life’ magazine with the Independent and was written by a guy called Declan Lynch.

The subheading read: “There’s a reason why everyone doesn’t have a voice and a reason why bloggers are just bloggers.”

Now, usually I’m not one to give a shit about what’s between the two covers of a magazine that comes free with the Sunday paper but this dude implicated me. He implicated and he criticized me and any other person out there who has the audacity to flaunt freedom of expression in the form of… A blog!

The article wasn’t directly about blogging really. It was about how we have become a nation of uncertain nitwits who call for a referendum at the first hint of a political decision needing to be made. That’s all fair enough but Declan pointed the finger. A bold enough move when you’re pointing it at the majority.

Basically, Mr. Lynch griped sarcastically for a few hundred words about how blogging has become so popular in recent years and how it’s killing “real journalism”. He reckons that because anyone can write a blog, the integrity of the journalistic vocation is, essentially, being shit on by every Tom, Dick and Harry with a laptop and a basic ability to type/form an opinion.

The first conclusion to spring to my mind upon reading the piece was that there was no way in hell that the scribe was below the age of 40. You know that TV show that used to be on BBC called ‘Grumpy Old Men’ where people like Bob Geldof , Jeremy Clarkson, Rory McGrath and the like just sat there and grumbled about things that they didn’t understand? That’s what it put me in mind of. It was like listening to an old man giving out about how it’s far from blogging he was raised and things, of course, were better when he was a buck. And BINGO, further research tells me that Declan Lynch was born in 1961.

Here in Ireland, we’re terrified of change. Kind of the point of Mr. Lynch’s story in the first place. So it’s hypocritical enough to see the article pan out as the words of a middle-aged man who appears petrified that his job might be at risk to some, in his own mocking words, “desperado” with a blog.

The thing is, in one respect, I can appreciate where he’s coming from. I can see why he feels that his professional toes are being stepped on by the simplicity and freedom that the 21^st century and the internet culture provide. There is, no question, an abundance of personal blogs out there covering just about every topic you can think of and laymen with too much time on their hands are behind a vast majority of them.

In another respect, however, I feel that Mr. Lynch is an intolerant old stick-in-the-mud who has a dislike for modernism and the fact that it is now possible for everyone to have a voice regardless of whether they’re endorsed by a publication or not.

I have a degree in Journalism from Dublin City University. I spent three years earning it. About a year and a half into my studies I came to the realisation that, while I loved to write, I had very little interest in resigning myself to a life limited by word counts, deadlines, uninteresting subject matter and the brutality of editors. The reality of the profession was revealed to be a million miles from the idealistic reason I got into it in the first place. Where I wanted journalism to be a craft; something you could be creative with, an outlet for originality and flair, I was thumped in the face with a reality of ruthlessness, confinement and censorship. I finished my studies, graduated with the rest of my class and, while most of my peers ventured off into the cut-throat world of professional journalism, I ventured into the unexpected but wholly more gratifying terrain of childcare, where I today remain.

Point being? That not everyone who writes a blog is an uneducated imbecile who doesn’t deserve a voice, as Mr. Lynch not so discreetly implies. I take exception to the notion that just because a person chooses to write on their own terms it makes them less of a writer than someone who gets paid to roll out mundane “inverted pyramid” style news articles for a broadsheet paper. While a payroll journalist gets the freedom to write about whatever the editor decides, the blogger utilises initiative and crafts something. The blogger has the creative independence that the paid reporter can only hope to someday earn professionally and the blogger can generate as much attention for their work as any byline can for theirs.

The fact is that, as much as old school “I used to have to walk a mile in the snow just to get clean drinking water” grouches like Mr. Lynch are loathe to tolerate it, the internet is the future of communication. Matter fact, it’s not even the future. It’s the present. This month, Encyclopaedia Britannica announced that, after 244 years in print, it would now only be available online. I mean, I love books (I refuse to ever have a Kindle, for example) but if that’s not one of the final nails in the coffin of the printed word, I don’t know what is. Also, here’s a link to an article listing all the major news stories that were broken on twitter (by the layman) before anywhere else: http://www.techradar.com/news/internet/10-news-stories-that-broke-on-twitter-first-719532

In his tirade, Mr. Lynch alleges that “being good is not the point anymore.” Well, I respectfully disagree with that principle. Being “good” remains an essential component in any piece of journalism whether it comes in the form of an article, a column, a blog or even a tweet. Regardless of the encompassing accessibility of blogging to anyone with a notion to be heard in some way, good writers remain; There are people out there who are perceptive, creative, witty, outspoken and ingenious. They write, undiscovered and unappreciated. But doing it for one common reason: A love of writing.

And what’s wrong with that Declan Lynch?