Sláinte, Sickness and Student Affairs

Remember when I said I wasn't missing home? Well scrap that. And about that sore throat I referenced in my last post, well, it turns out that it's most probably tonsillitis. What wonderful news to hear three days before lectures start, right? So now I'm just one week into living in the big bad world of independence, and am faced with sorting out doctor's appointments and medication, frantically, on the last day before the weekend, in order to try to survive next week's lectures, which I've been looking forward to for months. Right now, I want to run home to mummy, let her work it all out, and mammy me by bringing me soup, and tea, and stroking my probably feverish head (what college student actually has a thermometer?).

But alas I sit in my empty apartment with no salt, no honey and no cuddles. My housemates are all either gone home for the weekend or out partying arís (mar is ghnáth), which means I'm admittedly a little on the lonely side (bad health does that to you), but at least I'm enjoying the most peace and quiet I've had in over a week. Main concern though: I really didn't buy enough ice-pops to quell my darn tonsils' tantrum.

In less self-pity wallowing news, I've now attended both of my course meetings, and I'm more than psyched to get down to it. The lecturers have explained explicitly that while yes, us art students may have a ridiculously low amount of lectures per week (nine, not even kidding), we are expected to put in a 40 hour week, what with reading, studying, writing etc. I've already gone on the search of English books - and I care not if you think it's a waste of money, the library only has a limited amount of copies, and do not want to feel under pressure to hand them back in, nor do I want to settle for retaining less information just to save a few bucks by getting a digital copy. Third year students are a fantastic resource, with many unwanted second-hand textbooks that they are willing to part with for a very reasonable price, but some books you just have to go all out and spend that large wad of money to attain them, sadly.

Agus mo chúrsa Ghaeilge? Buel, bhí an course meeting ar fad as Ghaeilge (just as I feared), ach thuig mé gach rud a dhúirt an léachtóir (pleasant surprise). But yes, tá sé fíor - tá gach duine (almost) atá ag déanamh an cúrsa sin after coming out of an Irish secondary school, has many Gaeltacht experiences under their belt, or at the very least has gone to a Gaelscoil primary school. But I could keep up thankfully, bhíomar ag caint as Ghaeilge ar feadh cúpla nóiméad tar éis the course meeting, and it was such a refreshing, but strange experience, to have that opportunity, and to feel safe enough to break in and out of Irish as I please gan bhreithiúnas (without judgement), with people who crave that opportunity too. I've been very concerned that I'd be completely out of my league, or that it would be just like the Irish oral practice we did in school, but now I've realised that mo chuid Ghaeilge isn't too rusty after all, and that the Irish Leaving Cert oral preparation was so restrictive and confined, not to mention leadránach and intimidating.

Until next time (probably not too far away if I keep this frequency up), I wish you (and me) dea-sláinte.

Packing Dilemmas, Holiday Excitement and English Boys

Packing is hard. It's not natural. How is a silly little lady like myself supposed to know what she'll feel like wearing every day for the next more than two weeks? C'est impossible! Nílim ábalta! I know some humans out there get their clothes ready days in advance, or at least the night before, and some of those inhuman humans can somehow pack confident in the knowledge that they aren't forgetting anything and have everything they need, but I'm not of these people. Yes, occasionally I know what I'll wear in advance, for an occasion! Not a whole fortnight... But usually I spend at least 20 minutes staring blankly into my wardrobe, completely dazed and incapable of choosing. There's never anything to wear. As a female, the words "I have nothing to wear!" being screamed every time I look for an outfit, are acceptable, and it is my right, as a lady, to have a mini tantrum or breakdown every time alongside this exclamation. Saying all this, le boif seems to think he's a lady in the clothes choosing department too... But no matter how many "should I bring a shirt and tie"s or "I don't know what shoes to bring"s he gives me, I have enough of my own packing dilemmas, I cannot play mummy and pack for him too! I don't mind his little clothes interjections every few minutes though, he is le boif after all, and a lovable one at that.

So, how about I help all you packing people out there with a few tips I came up with all on my own?

1. If you're going on a plane, pack at least 3 big bottles of nail polish remover, shampoo and conditioner, along with your machine gun, hand grenade and blades, just in case customs start giving you any trouble.
2. Also if you're going on a plane, don't bring your passport, nobody cares about them anymore, I mean technology has taken over, your iPhone will suffice.
3. Bring as many suitcases as you want, it's not like they charge you extra to bring another.

That's how aeroplane packing works, right?

Anyway, as you might have guessed, I'm not going on an aeroplane - oh, and the destination is England by the way - because ferries all the way. My favourite bit will be the 5 hour car journey in the Nissan Micra with us three kids in the back. It'll be so roomy. I can't complain though, le boif's family are pretty much treating me to a holiday, and even surprised me by extending the holiday so we can go to a Japanese festival (wannabe Japanese nut over here). Aren't they so cute?

Even if it's only across the water, to England, we're all still very excited. I have never been, believe it or not, and my fears of going are trying to remember which side of the escalator you're supposed to stand on, and which side to walk on (Ireland doesn't have any of these silly little rules that make sense, we don't like social unspoken rules, we like Guinness), that I'll get extremely lost and accidentally die, and that I'll fall in love with every single person there with an English accent. I'm a sucker for a cute English boy, ask le boif, and even he is worried about silly little me cooing, giggling and fangirling every time I meet a young fellow with a cute accent, especially his silly little friends! I'll try to restrain myself but I am a girl after all, you can't blame me. I will end up with an English accent after being there for a while though. Camouflage and all that jazz. Gotta be careful so I won't get the "no dogs or Irish" response my granddad did... I kid, it's not the 60s anymore. But I do tend to develop an English accent when chatting undilutedly to English people (and by undilutedly I mean only). My Japanese friend has ordered me to Skype her when my accent reaches its peak. Even Japanese girls love an English accent... I'd say le boif will get a top up on his little London-Irish accent (the Irish part obviously, I jest, I jest) and that'll keep me entertained for at least the rest of the summer. He'll just be stuck saying the words dance, France, girl and bad-ass for my giggles, but he's aware of these terms and conditions.

Just as I'm aware of the terms and conditions relating to le boif's clothes shopping, and over-excitement. I will be playing in suit shops all day, and I will be given at least one headache from rapid loud nonsense speak. But such is love, eh? I put up with his silliness, while he puts up with mine. Happy out.

Morrissey, Oscar Wilde, Irishness and Books!

Today, within my reminiscent fangirlings, I stumbled upon something that made me very happy indeed. Doesn't it feel marvelous when two things you adore associate with each other, all on their own?
Look at my Morrissey getting all cozy with my Osky! I'm so proud of him! Getting in touch with his Irish roots! As Osky once said "If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society here would be quite civilised." Now I know my Morrissey hasn't been the best boy in his outright denying his Irishness, despite his ma and da, and I don't forgive him for that, I'd give him a right telling off if I got the chance. But he entertains me, and at least he can appreciate a lovely Irish writer like my Osky. I know I may sound like a crazy patriotic Irish lassie, but I guess I am.

Apart from crazy Irishness, forgetfulness is a trait I carry at present, as I forgot all about my intention to blog, like a silly little lady. But we sillies get distracted with books, chats, and horribly sweet white wine. Also, due to the late hour (1am), we sillies apparently happen to lose our ability to ramble. So when all else fails, books!

Earlier this evening, my mother and I were engaged in the age-long debate of books: to break the spine, or not to break the spine. Having gone through phases of both, I am partial to being very gentle with my books, and under no circumstances creasing any part of the head-wrecking flimsy covers. Especially if the book isn't mine! I understand the argument that a book is for enjoyment, and that people like to use their books, and dominate by way of marking their territory, so to speak. I however, am of a different view:

             If I were a book, would I want to be used and abused? Certainly not. I would want to be treasured, stroked, and caressed as if I was the most precious thing to that reader, who craves every word in my sea of sentences. I would like to be taken care of with the utmost respect and care, and would not stand for being ravished or visibly used to the point where everyone can see I've been violated, and that I will never be my lovely perfect self again. I would want to remain forever young and beautiful (as I do in reality), while being secretly devoured with relish by a reader hungry for my knowledge. 

Such is my reasoning of my peculiar reading style.
Such is why you may see me peeking into my favourite book.
Such is why I miss the normality of hardcovers.
Such is why I could empathise with the narrator's laboured, pained fingers in Wild Swans, as my fingers began to ache also from the awkward position I had to assume in order to preserve the youth of the lovely chubby book's spine.

Such suches mark my goodnight.

Schlemiels and Schlimazels

A schlemiel spills soup on a schlimazel.

    What a fantastic sentence! A schlemiel is a Yiddish word meaning a clumsy or awkward person, who is prone to spilling soup. A schlimazel is also a Yiddish word derived from the German word 'slim' meaning crooked, and the Hebrew word 'mazzal' meaning luck, and translates to an unlucky, accident-prone person who is prone to getting soup spilled on him. Hence the sentence 'a schlemiel spills soup on a schlimazel.'
 
   Interesting eh? Yiddish is quite an entertaining language, it has some brilliant words, that sound exactly like what they mean. The onomatopoeia is amazing. To me, some of the words completely sum up what they stand for. Now, I don't speak Yiddish, nor do I know anyone who does, but I would love to learn it one day. I'm a bit of a language nerd. I'm studying French and Irish in school, but the Irish education system still hasn't figured out how to teach languages yet, sadly.
 
   I'm very fond of the Irish language, although not many people can say that. In my estimation about 80% of people learning Irish in school hate it, and nobody can speak it properly these days, apart from the very few Gaelgoirí left in the country. It saddens me really. As an Irish lassie, I'm quite patriotic and proud of my little island, and whatever we have left of our culture, since being invaded by Britain all those years ago, is diminishing to the point where I have to wonder, will there be any left? I believe the Irish language to be very poetic and beautiful, and while most see it as an unnecessary chore to learn it in school, I love it, and hope to learn it fully in college, and to become fluent one day. It's a tricky little language, because it's difficult to put into practice due to the lack of fluent speakers, but I think it's worth it. As the Irish saying goes "tír gan teanga, tír gan anam", meaning a country without a language is a country without a soul.
 
   I'm also learning Japanese at present, on my own, (it's not like I have the option of lessons where I live anyway) and I would love to study that in college too. Finding a career out of language is tricky business though, but I'm sure I'll get by.

I'll be a polyglot yet!