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Joseph O’Connor, author: “Having given up cigarettes, I’m now addicted to Nicorette chewing gum, so I’m going to try to give up that,” from The Irish Times’ review of “famous” people’s new year’s resolutions.
New year’s resolutions are the trickiest of resolutions, because the pressure is internalised – therefore breaking them often proves a moot point. If disappointing no one but themselves, only an individual with the strongest will power can resist the urge to cheat. But new year’s resolutions are cliched, we know this, and so 2009 is going to be my year to make “keepable” resolutions that affect my actions, my attitudes and my instinct for self-preservation which, in 2008, was almost non-existent and did not prevent me doing many things it should have.
But back to the present – I began a resolution of sorts early or, depending how you look at it, late. The photograph on the left may be a hint; my choice for quote of the day may be a stronger one.
I gave up smoking on Christmas eve, on a whim. I was shopping in Dublin city centre and I went to the pharmacy counter in Boots to pay for my shampoo; there is a shorter queue, as most punters don’t realise that paying for general items there is an option. While waiting at the counter (it was Christmas eve, after all, so expecting no queue at all would have been a bit remiss of me), I spied, at the back, displayed against the white plasterboard, the Nicorette display.
I have been smoking now, on and off (mostly on) for eight years; I started when I was younger, in an attempt to be older (the irony is not lost on me) and I continued when the smoking ban was put in force in an attempt to chat up men in the smoking area (sadly, often the best-looking lurk in the outdoors, beneath the usually faulty heaters in a cloud of tobacco smoke and whiskey). I started smoking in the day for something to do between meals; I smoked more because I enjoyed it, and it went particularly well with coffee. When I gave up caffeine, cigarettes replaced lattes; when I gave up smoking areas, it was a comfort on the walk home. I always had a reason to smoke, but a reason that never included the word “addiction” – ergo, Nicorette seemed an extreme solution for a simple problem.
And I have tried to give up, on countless occasions, for different reasons and, predictably, for different people. The longest I lasted was two months; the shortest non-smoking stint was a day or, probably, an hour. So Christmas eve, listening to Christmas carols and lugging heavy carrier bags from town to Rathmines, seemed as good a time as any to give in to the niggling voice in my head that told me that I was addicted, and that it was okay to admit that, and to stop saying “but I just like it” over and over again, a neverending mantra.
Since my first Nicorette, I can honestly say that not smoking has been easy. That’s not to say, however, that I don’t want to; I wake each morning yearning – more accurately, pining – for a cigarette. Before I go to bed in the evenings, I sigh and wistfully think back on the times when I would have my pre-bed cigarette (never in bed, I’d like to point out – that is sick and wrong). And then I chew a Nicorette, and the desire fades and is replaced by a certain sense of revulsion and a tightening of the throat.
I have slipped up once; I smoked one half of a John Player light (a bad choice, I know) and put it out in a fountain (at least I’m honest). Alcohol was involved – but it has been involved since and, I swear, doc, I’m still clean.
So I’m starting again: smoke-free. Soon enough, I’m sure, chewing gum will begin to irritate my nearest and dearest and I’ll have to give that up too, but for now, Nic is my close friend and ally, a comforting shelter in the cold. People were always surprised that I was a smoker; maybe being a gum-chewer is an easier description to reconcile oneself to.
World, meet Sonny. His name is short for Sonogod (“son of God”, duh) because Mammy Mac Cabe wasn’t down with calling him Jesus, which I, obviously, wanted to call him because I found him on Christmas Eve and rescued him from the dark cold of December.
I am torn between hoping to find owners for him – because we work Monday-Friday from 9-6, and I think he deserves more attention than that – and hoping that he has been abandoned because then not only will I have to keep him but it will, in fact, be my duty to do so. And now I’m in love with him, and the idea of giving him away is absolutely abhorrent to me.
He’s a playful dog, although experts tell me that he’s about a year old. He likes eating things – teddy bears, pop socks and stress balls, being his particular poisons. He barks for about three hours a day and today he taught me the invaluable lesson that dogs can, in fact, bark themselves hoarse. Who’d have thunk it?
The idea that somebody could have thrown him out of their car window – which is my suspicion, as he was found on a busy intersection of the N7, away from any nearby houses, seated on the path and watching, expectantly, for someone to pick him up – is becoming less and less hideous to me as his barking continues. But I’ve put too much work into him now; not only did I filthy myself, rolling around in the grass attempting to get the dog lead onto him in the first place, but I’ve now taught him (a) not to flinch when a human comes near, (b) how to sit – sometimes and only under duress, but he still does it and; (c) that love is unconditional, and that, even though he has tried on several occasions now to kill both my cat and our Christmas turkey, I’ll still rub his belly when he rolls over. It’s a beautiful thing, the love between a dog and its soulmate.
If this is your dog, comment on this post and I will get in touch. If not, then he’s accepting visitors evenings and weekends. Doggy treats mandatory.
This has been one of the best Christmasses in personal memory – but one can’t help but be acutely aware that this year may have been the most difficult for many. I don’t want to get into preaching via my weblog, but I think it’s important to remember what Christmas is about now – not necessarily Christian religion, but kindness, compassion and caring – and, of course, showing those you love why and how you love them.
So I hope it was a good one for you and yours – and have my fingers crossed that next Christmas will be a happier, healthier one for all and sundry.
Check out the video for my personal favourite of Abigail Smith’s songs – Oh Sam.
This video is, I feel, what I would want from my own music video; like music itself, it is representative of Abigail – who, I admit is, is a close relation of mine – showcasing not only her talents, but her appreciation for the arts in general.
Abigail is the one person in my life who, I think, abides by the advice of a young child I was recently told about: “Just be yourself.” (Faith, age five)
So, I began to type some queries into Google this evening, and my last search came up: “call girls Dublin”. I was doing some research. Belle de Jour has really got me thinking, is all I’ll say. In a recession, and all that. The thing is, it always seems so much more glamorous on d’ telly loike.
Case in point:
Other recent Google searches include: Kelly Brook (for the purpose of discovering why, all of a sudden, on December 4th, Kelly Brook became the reason people find my blog); Beyonce Knowles “Flaws and All” (Kate’s fault); George Bush shoe Iraq – which made me convinced that Georgie is in fact Superman, because nobody can dodge a speeding shoe like he can; prison tattoos; Celtic Ogham patterns; and, finally, Chuck Bass aka Ed Westwick (see below for reasons why). Google – the key to a woman’s soul.
Kisses, the new feature film by Irish director Lance Daly, is undoubtedly his best work – following Last Days in Dublin and The Halo Effect, which is also known as The Frying Game by movie insiders, due to the presence of Stephen Rea and its location – in a Dublin city chip shop. But I digress. Not only is Kisses Daly’s most powerful piece of work, it is one of the best, if not the best, Irish film to be granted national release in the 21st century.
The story aside – which, let’s face it, all the trailers will show you – Kisses is an evocative and powerful piece of work that not only tells a tale but presents the audience with familiar realities, some associated with place, others associated with humanity: the memory of a first kiss; the tangible resonance of a first love; the pain of a family in distress; and the fear of a predetermined future are all motifs that seem horribly familiar.
The beauty of the film, however, goes beyond the plot to those small tweaks that so often go unnoticed: the careful, cautious cinematography; a hauntingly restrained score; disturbingly natural performances from two young people whose acting experience is limited to what you see on screen – leaving them with all of the vulnerability and none of the often distracting “star quality” witnessed in so many other pre-teen showkids.
And what Kisses has, beyond all else, is the ability to stay with you. You’ll leave the cinema, remembering, laughing at choice lines (“How did you do that?” “I dunno, I just went for it.” “What?” “The kiss?” “No, you dope!”), savouring specific scenes, lighting, the beauty of a close-up shot for aesthetic’s sake, something that is done far too rarely. And you’ll think, as well, about how refreshing it is to see a film that is as close to reality as we’ll ever get – punctuated by shots of pain and humour, with none of the special effects that have begun to wear thin.
Oh yes, there were sweet, sweet kisses from the start.
Go on – you know you want to! What exactly is Beyonce’s new song about? It seems straightforward: single ladies, if you like it, put a ring on it. One could happily assume that Beyonce is referring to, respectively, your relationship and your ring finger. Because, in case you didn’t know, Beyonce herself got married earlier this year and is now what Bridget Jones might refer to as a “smug married”. And now, in her wedded bliss, she is inviting others to join in – get married, “put a ring on it” and find out what life is all about!
So, let’s take a look at the video, shall we, and see in what aesthetic form Beyonce is preaching from high upon marriage.
A-ha, I see. A perfect example of marital bliss. Apart from the obvious question, being: How lucky is Jay-Z?, there are a few more worth contemplating. Namely, how did Beyonce Knowles, the most successful solo star to emerge from the biggest R&B group of the 1990s, Destiny’s Child, come to reach this message? How did she go from penning hits like Survivor and Crazy in Love to this meaningless tripe? Which is the conclusion I’ve come to, given that she can’t seriously be advocating that everyone who is happy in his / her relationship go engagement-ring shopping quick smart, lest the object of his / her affections gets bored with them and decides to disappear and launch their singing career as a leotarded, Grace Jones wannabe?
If Destiny’s Child was about girl power, then Beyonce, the solo star, should be about woman power; instead, she launched her new album with the marketing tool of a double personality. On stage, you see, she’s Sasha Fierce: sexy, powerful, feisty performer. She could kick anybody’s ass, wouldn’t put up with being short-changed, never mind sexually discriminated against, and is proud of herself in every which way. Off stage though, she’s different. You needn’t worry about her standing up for herself or causing a ruckuss because, in her everyday life, she’s just Beyonce – she loves bunnies, kittens, and wishes she were a boy so she could “turn off her phone, and tell everybody she was sleeping alone” or something to that effect.
One could safely assume, again, then, that Jay-Z, the lucky devil, married Beyonce, and not her terrifying alter-ego. So he gets the looks, the hot body, the dancing ability without any of the pizazz. A-ha, she was right: he’s lucky he put a ring on it when he did.
I know this was a few days ago, but it wins, hands down, because . . . well, just because.
This evening I went to see Changeling, starring [a very skinny] Angelina Jolie as a woman who loses her son, and then has to wage war against an LAPD that tries to convince her that another child – shorter and, incidentally, circumcised – is her son, returned to her, safe and sound. Case closed.
Opinions on the film (which will be compiled in the coming days and published right here) aside, the most striking aspect of it, and something that touches me personally each and every time I witness it, was the response that men in power have had, and continue to have, toward women who are, for want of a better expression, making a fuss.
Women committed to mental asylums for daring to speak out against the system; women who are brushed aside as being “hysterical”; women whose opinions matter much less than those of their male counterparts. This is not a historical phenomenon – we see it each and every day.
Today, the mechanic who fixed my car and looked past me, speaking to my father as though, by his very maleness, he would better understand how to go from here; the man in the bank who “broke things down” for me, explaining why my application had not been processed; the man at work, in the elevator, who asked me if I was on work experience in the company. Would he have asked this if I had been wearing a suit? Or would he then have assumed I was an “alpha-female”, all dressed up with no balls to play with. Can we ever get it right? Would anyone care if we did?
And then there are the tears. Do women cry more because they are genetically predisposed, or is it because we have been raised in a culture where, for us, crying is acceptable? A male friend of mine recently cried at a wedding; as the couple said their vows, his eyes welled up, and as they finished, his face was a beautiful shade of vermilion. The girls thought it was “cute”; the men declined comment. I, on the other hand, was the only female with a dry eye in the church. Not because the wedding wasn’t moving – but should I have to defend it? Should he? When will we give over assigning roles to one another and allow us to be individual and express ourselves outside the boundaries of our sex?
