Remedies for the Broken Heart

It's official: myself and herself have fallen out. Why? Well it's always the other persons fault, isn't it? That's not to say I haven't spent some long hours picking faults in myself and convincing myself that I definitely wasn't worth it really. But the bottom line is that here I am pushing 50 and single. I'm broken hearted. 

I always claimed you could only have your heart broken once, but I retract that opinion now. My heart feels like it's been ripped into a thousand little pieces of scrap and thrown to the dogs. Everything the day brings is a relict of what we were. The spark is gone out me. 

So I need to get over it, right? Well they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.  Sounds like a plan, but it's not as easy as all that, given that the only person in the country who found me in any way attractive is now my ex, so I need to find alternatives.

I've discovered drink. You see, strategically thinking, the only kind of places that I might meet an interesting woman to fall in love with would be rehab, alcoholics anonymous or the pub. 

And although I'm not likely to meet someone in my living room, I do feel that sitting there on my own putting down a bottle of red is a good start for my new life. OK, it wasn't a bottle of red, it was a bottle of Prosecco, and it was only because it was St. Valentines day and I'm allowed to wallow in self pity when I'm single on St. Valentine's day along with it being my wedding anniversary. (Note to self: don't get married on St. Valentine's day ever again.) Besides, not being a drinker, I needed to practice for going out and becoming a drunk. 

Last night I managed to make a good stab at it. We started with wine at dinner before the theatre, and then it was the one pub and another pub and then one more and then chips at 3am because I don't need to diet anymore seeing as nobody loves me. It's going to be a steep learning curve though. I'm struggling today with the flashbacks of me shouting, insulting people, and eventually asking some child for a snog outside the chippers. But I'll get there. 

Of course an alternative remedy would be to find God. That would mean that I'd never be alone anymore, and if it were a Catholic God I'd realise that it was oh so wrong to be gay and as a result of that  instead of looking for a new woman I'd concentrate on not finding one, and I might join the convent and that way I might meet a new woman. 

There are other remedies. I could become so obsessive about a new hobby that I forget about the joys of love, I could become bitter and harden my heart, so that I never love again. I could finish my novel. I could find virtual love on the internet. 

Thing is though, I'll probably just make all the same mistakes over and over again and fall in love with another woman who doesn't believe in me, or in herself. But until all that happens, I'll wait here in the living room to be discovered...

 

The Business of People

I'm in the people business. Communication, getting your message across and all that jazz. To some it's the crux of all business, to others it's fluffy stuff. The reality is this though - how you communicate your message decides a lot more than just the message. There are those who will tell you interpersonal communication is a nuisance. They wonder why they have to humour people when the message is xyz, crystal clear and who cares what the person receiving the message thinks? Others will argue that the message itself is irrelevant, it only matters that you know how to deliver it in a clear and motivating manner.
Me, I believe in a bit of both. But it's not as easy as that. When you work in a large corporation, especially an international one, there's more than just the message and how you deliver it, there's also corporate culture, political correctness and trying to say something in one sentence that will appeal to the mindsets of the 29 cultures you work with. And you need to do it by lunchtime.

But there's something else. There's being human. As a rule, I believe that we all have moments when we believe ourselves to be a culmination of the three wise men and Jesus combined and that our word is the last word and we need to spread it. And sometimes those wise people break all the rules that the business gurus preach, and even if they normally end up sounding blunt and pedantic, there are times that it's so damn human it's just that bit better than all of the gurus combined advice.

I worked for a nameless corporation once, where, as in most big corporations, the place is run by the tea ladies. One morning I was down for my early morning life advice combined with a cuppa from a nice safe plastic cup that passed all health and safety regulations when tea lady one informed me that someone on the night shift had stolen two pieces of corned beef from the fridge. (There were two tea ladies, and they operated a bit like a weather house. If tea lady one was in good mood, tea lady two would remind you that life was all fire and brimstone, but if tea lady two smiled at you whilst you were buttering your scone, tea lady one would shout across the canteen that didn't I tell her I was on a diet so why was I eating that scone and that she's only telling me for my own good.)
Well anyway, back to the missing two slices of corned beef. Tea lady one reckoned she knew exactly whodunnit. So she ignored all corporate guidelines with regard to processes and procedures in order to take immediate action. It involved a piece of paper, a pen and some sticky tape, and this appeared on the fridge:

You couldn't blame her. The fridge in question contained milk and butter that was a free for all, but if you took two pieces of corned beef that some day shift person had left for their lunch the next day, well let's face it, you were nothing but a nasty thief (at least in the eyes of the tea lady, and don't forget the power of tea ladies.) Some people philosophized. Could you be a nice thief? Maybe leave a thank you note or be a bit of a Robin Hood? Who cared. There was no more nasty thievery after the note on the fridge.
But then something happened. A manager in the organisation with an eye for politically correct signage, took offense, and it ended in a battle of corporate procedure versus one humans view of justice. He wanted the sign removed. She didn't. They met somewhere in the middle, which to me, always means they both lose. The sign was replaced by this:

It reads: Only Milk and Butter are for common consumption, everything else contained within fridges is the personal property of your colleagues. Please do not take or partially use other peoples belongings.
I'm not sure what the communication gurus of the world would say about all of this, I can only tell you what I think: if you ever work for a huge international corporation that is politically correct, values people, is driven by policies and procedures and also treats employees to free tea, coffee, scones and toast; don't go taking other peoples corned beef from the fridge. There'll be serious words...

Best Advice Ever

One of those annoying forums that I've joined on LinkedIn, recently asked the question: what's the best advice you've ever been given?' I assume it was meant in a corporate sense, but the first thing that came to my mind was this: children need the most love when they're on their worst behaviour. 

Of course, this piece of advice was very interesting to the mother of three badly behaved children, one of whom was prone to major tantrums, so I decided to test it out. It was a normal afternoon. My daughter had just thrown the TV remote control at the window because I wouldn't allow her to cut her own hair with a nail scissors. That the window had cracked as a result didn't seem to cure her anger, so she did the rigid back and the big tears move, before throwing herself on the floor kicking and screaming until she managed to kick over a cup that hence spilled cold tea onto the floor. This was the part where I normally either started to join in by screaming myself whilst dragging her to her feet, or alternatively by just bursting into tears and ending up on the floor too. 

The new advice changed all that. Whilst in mid-temper and preparing to throw a cup through a glass cabinet door, I swooped down like an eagle and picked up the child. 'C'mere to me', I said, landing us both on the sofa, 'you're my gorgeous girlie, and I hate when you're sad.' She tucked her head into my arm and whimpered. Then she fell asleep. 

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not an easy touch who'll let someone walk all over me, I just find it's easier to deal with the bad behaviour after the tantrum, so the empathy during the tantrum is an instrument to nip it in the bud.  It's also quite probable that my child was so traumatized by her mother being kind that it shocked her into never having a tantrum again. 

But I've edited this piece of advice to suit other situations, and I'll swear by it. I'd say: people need the most empathy when they are on their worst behaviour, or underperforming or just being difficult. Don't even analyse it, don't ask yourself why that person is acting this or that way, just be nice to them, be supportive, be on their side, help them. Believe me, you'll find it works. 

Besides, when people irritate or annoy you, are rude to you or make your life difficult, being nice to them in return will have an impact on that behaviour, and even if it doesn't it'll impact you, you'll feel better for not entering things at their level. 

I've a few more bits of advice that'll be on offer on my new business blog, which I'll let you know about once it's all set up. 

On the subject of tantrums though, I think this TV commercial also offers some even better advice...

  

My Day in Court

It's a bit like an extended family gathering: the judges, barristers & solicitors are the grown ups. They have that look of silent understanding that they are the world wisely stalwarts, pillars of society you might say. The Gardai, now they're another story. They sit giggling and chatting in rows like a bunch of teenage cousins, one trying to outdo the other with a smart comment or a jibe. Every now and then the judge will go 'shush' and they all shut up for a few minutes until the next bout begins. 

The defendants and the accused, well they are the outsiders who, for whatever misfortune, have been dragged into this family melee ( and pay attention to the word melee, it will reappear further down the page of this blog). 

So the grown ups begin to mediate. First of all a Garda puts forward an appeal. A woman is appealing the fact that she has been disqualified from driving for three years. Granted, she was twice over the limit, she admits that, but she only had a ten minute drive home and her designated driver had let her down. Besides, the Garda points out (at the cost of the tax payer) this lady is a nurse, and doesn't she have an awful big mortgage and she needs the car for work, could we not make the punishment more lenient?  The judge is not impressed, he says he should really be sending her to jail. I'm on the edge of my seat as I listen.

I'm now at risk of causing one of the grown ups to bang down a hammer and shout 'order in court', because all of a sudden I'm bursting to jump up and shout 'so if it was only a ten minute drive, why didn't she call a taxi?' In fact, she could have walked.  But I don't. The judge doesn't grant leniency, but he does point out that he should be imposing a jail sentence but that in this case he won't. The reason - because she's a nice good girl, a respectable nurse, so he'll let her off. Not only do I want to jump up at this stage, I want to jump up and down on a pogo stick and ask the judge does that mean he'd send her to jail if she were a busker or a bar maid?

But then the next case comes along and all of a sudden nobody cares about the legless nurse who lost her wheels anymore.

The court hears how two brothers 'exchanged words' with a man outside a pub. Then one of them threw a punch at the man, then the man fell to the ground and yer man gives him a right beating. It sounds very black and white, just the thing for the law, a person in the right and a person in the wrong. But it starts to get messy. It seems the fight had more than fists, it had legs and roots and history and a rift between two families going back a generation. And as if it could end there, no. The two brothers, big lads, one of them a boxer decided to get reinforcement. So they went home and got their mammy. This is the bit where I'm on the edge of the seat again. Their mammy? Two fist fighting boxers pick on one guy, beat him up, and then go home to get mammy to come sort it out. And that's just what mammy did. Mammy drove the lads back to the pub and they got going on their victim again, whilst mammy had a go at the victim's wife. 

I'm expecting the judge to give this guy a spell behind bars and a hefty fine, but then the boxer lad's solicitor stands up. 

There were important points to be made. Theoretically, the man who was attacked actually fell to the ground and was not pushed by the boxer lad at all. This is because by the time the boys had gone home and gotten mammy, the other side had gathered a few supporters too, so what ensued was not one man attacking another, by now it was a melee (remember I said that word would come back?).  Things got mentioned, such as the fact that some members of these two warring families were first cousins, and that nobody was sure what exactly it was that started up the feud twenty years ago. Although the accused had a string of previous convictions, his lawyer pointed out how  he was a family man who was very keen for this feud to end. Strange way of initiating the end of a feud, but I was getting used to being quiet at this stage. 

The judge said that he should really be sending this guy to jail (with the nurse who should be getting sent to jail too), but that if they all agreed to go to mediation and get it sorted that he'd let them off as long as they gave some money to the guy who they beat up. The money was to make up for the fact that the guy had had to go through some operations to have a metal plate put into the arm that got broken during the melee. 

I decided that I should have been a judge, because just the night before, after listening to my two sons argue the same point for over two hours - it was more a heated discussion about who owns the earphones than a melee. So I told them to shut up and eat their dinner and that after dinner they were to stop talking about the problem and start looking for solutions. Not rocket science, but maybe there really is something about getting the mammy involved after all. 

Then case 11 was called - The State against Margaret Treanor...

Where's the Love?

Valentine's day is approaching. I'll be spending it with my children and ex husband on one of our polite 'let's play happy families' episodes. Coincidentally, it will also be our wedding anniversary.  Luckily, one of the few things that still connect us is a morbid sense of humour...

Well despite all that... some love tips...

My latest article for Galway Now:

 

They say that the best place to meet your future partner is at college. Considering that not everybody goes to college, I’m not sure I can agree. Besides, when I think back to my own college days, I was way too romantic and idealistic to even remotely fall in love with anyone who might have had a scrap of sense with regard to the harsh ways of the real world for which we would both be heading. There was romance alright, mostly short lived. There was always someone on the scene. There were even times that I woke up beside my new love, even if I could have sworn I’d gone home from the party on my own.

So it’s true that you meet people at college, but what about ‘the one’, the person who you want to share your life with? It seems that these days the ballroom of romance is no more. Gone are the days of men and women lined up along different walls of the dance floor waiting for the slow set. Nowadays we source our partners the same way we do our shopping – online and with a checklist. There was a time that it was surrounded with all sorts of taboos. Meeting somebody online was compared to the personal ads, and lets face it, even if nobody said it out loud, we all believed that the personals were for people who just couldn’t find a partner no matter how many dances they went to.

But it’s not really like that, is it? It probably never was. From the start, I’ve always found online dating to be a bit similar to shopping online. Not that I planned to buy a catalogue husband or anything. I’d love to have done something like that but I just wouldn’t have had the money to get exactly what I was looking for. No, it was just the idea of more choice, and being able to plan and pick out exactly what I wanted, rather than being faced with a tiny selection from what was on offer locally. So I started doing online dating before it was even en Vogue.  I had recently split up from my first husband (well, ok, my only husband, but first husband sounds a bit sexier than ex-husband). So I wanted an adventure, something to distract me, and I wanted to feel young again. My advert read something like this:

Bitter and twisted, cantankerous, middle-aged obese woman seeks young well hung Adonis of about 20 with plenty of experience please. One night only.

I was, of course, not exactly honest. Although my description of myself was , indeed, fairly apt, what I really wanted was distraction rather than a one night stand. And distraction I got. Within half a day I had received over one hundred offers. By the end of the week my inbox was full. I did have the decency to read them all, but only replied to about three. A few weeks and a bit of banter later I found myself meeting a young fella in a black shirt, not bad looking and a Northern accent to die for. I decided that this was the business. Better to be old and ugly looking at young and sexy than vice versa, but it didn’t seem to bother the young fella so we ended up going for the one night only with breakfast thrown in.

Needless to say there were enough people to tell me how foolish all of this carry on had been and how even serial killers can wear black shirts and speak with Northern accents. I know they had my best intentions in mind, but then again, so did my one night stand and serial killers have been known to lurk around dance halls asking girls out for the slow set. My point, though, is that when you search for love online you are more likely to find a better match, because as I mentioned earlier, you can have a checklist and tick all the boxes in advance.

It’s also true that you can’t believe what you read. Even my own self description was a tad untrue. You see I may be twisted, but I’m not really bitter, and I’m not all that cantankerous either come to think of it.

A few years after my online adventure, my brother met a woman through an online dating agency. The world of online love had become a lot more fashionable and seemed to be the norm at this stage. My brother and I being polar opposites, I can only guess that his online profile went something like this:

Serious academic historian, lots of college degrees and stuff like that. Vegetarian. Into yoga, politics and classical music. Would like to meet an academic woman in sensible shoes. No make up please.

In fairness, she has some great shoes and they were married eleven months after their first date. And come to think of it, he was definitely never going to meet her tripping over her heels while throwing up outside the pub at two o’clock in the morning, nor was either of them ever going to be found on the dance floor. So I’m right: online is the way to go.

Or is it? A few years ago I met my current partner when we were both on a parent’s association committee together. All that fundraising and bag packing and minute taking was enough to awaken passion between two second- time-rounders. It proves my counter argument which is that you will only find love if you are not looking for it. But if it crashes into your life and you can fit it in to a schedule you thought was full it’s even better. There is really nothing sexier than grabbing time out between the school run and peeling the potatoes.

So if you are still wondering where the love of your life might be hanging out, my advice is this: join an online dating forum and write a profile of not who you are, but rather, who you would like to be (this is because if you keep telling yourself that you are who you want to be, you will turn into that person eventually). At the same time, tell yourself that you don’t really have the time or the inclination to be falling in love right now. Then join a committee. You’ll be liaised within weeks.  

The bottom line when it comes to love though is that it doesn’t really matter where or when or how you meet your beloved. It only matters that it works and that you pretend to everyone else that you met in some exotic romantic place where you were swept off your feet. You then go on to live happily ever after.

As my elderly mother, who tends to get her words confused these days, recently commented:

‘I really don’t think it’s a bad thing at all that my son met his wife on the microwave!’

Two Nurofen and That'll be 50 Quid Please...

A few weeks ago my daughter had a bit of a dose on her. She decided she needed to see the doctor so I was left in an awkward situation. You see if I didn't bring her, I'd be a bad mother neglecting my daughter and in twenty years from now it would probably come up for her in therapy. So down we headed and let the doctor tell her what I could have told her myself 'Take two Nurofen and that'll be 50 quid please'. Well of course I never get to say the 'that'll be 50 quid please' piece, but then again, my daughter wouldn't see any of my advice as being worth tuppence. In a way, in this case, it did save me money though, because she was happy to take the tablets and head into school due to some pressing social engagements, as one does have at 13. But it wasn't all a waste, you see if she didn't go to the doctor I would have had to suggest she stay at home, and then I would have to stay at home to mind her, and that would mean taking an unpaid day from work. Well that's how I wrote off the 50 in my head to help me get over the pain of handing it across the reception desk.

There's something not very fair about doctors fees. Not long before that visit I'd been there with my son and his consultation was a long and difficult one. We were over an hour with the doctor, but it still cost the very same price. I was embarrassed leaving as I could see that the waiting room was now full of people whose appointments had all been delayed because of us, and possibly to recover that lost time the doc might now rush through people showing signs of heart attacks and just say 'two nurofen and that'll be 50 quid please'. There should be different rates, depending upon how long it takes, but this is Ireland, where our pride in not being bureaucratic leads to a system that is run on the basis of 'ah, whatever you can get away with'.

So here I am writing this blog in bed, down with a throat virus similar to the daughter's one and I have a dilemma. You see I've had this dose now for a whole week and it's just not going away. I suppose I have to hand it to the doctors really, I thought I knew the cure but I was wrong. You see I believed that if I just ignored it and kept going all week it would just go away, but now the cruel mirror on the wall and a little torch tell me that I'm doomed, white spots have found a home in my throat, I need an antibiotic. But maybe it will just go away on it's own, so I tried to cure it with whiskey and a day in bed, but it's stubborn. Unlike my daughter I don't have any pressing social engagements, but I do have a week at work coming up that I can't miss, and don't give me all that 'oh, we're all replaceable shit', because there really is stuff on, especially tomorrow, that I can't miss.Believe me, if I don't show up for work tomorrow, the whole corporation will collapse, it will have  a domino effect on world recession and the Dow Jones index will turn into the abominable snowman. So even though it's easier to spend 60 quid (weekend rate) on 'take two Nurofen & an antibiotic', it annoys me that I have to be told by some doctor what I need when it's pretty obvious that I know. The chemist are happy to sell me medication that contains codeine over the counter but I have to pay 60 quid to get a note from someone to say its ok to give me an antibiotic.

The other problem is this, I can't afford the doctor to say that I can't go to work, because then you're getting into a legal thing. If you have a sick-note, you are obliged to stay at home. Whereas if I don't have a sick note, I can come in sick, do the important stuff and then go home sick. I've just had an idea though, I'll ring around a few friends and see if they have any old anti-biotics lying around that they never finished. That'll sort it.

Anyway, I need to save that 60 to make up for parking tickets and other unfair bills from our corrupt system. Last week this c*** of a traffic warden put a ticket on my car even though I didn't even park in the loading zone. I dropped off the kids and pulled in at it. Then jumped out of the car to give a kid money he forgot. The whole thing happened in about 3 minutes flat, and there was yer man putting the ticket on my wiper as I pulled out. But similarly to the guy who clamped me down at the long walk a few weeks ago, I managed to get through the whole ordeal biting my tongue and not calling either of them any of the names that I felt they were, nor did I shout 'I bet you're hung like a prawn', even if I did mumble it within earshot. The thing is, the punishment does not fit the crime, and it is only when I go to the doctor or get clamped or see them charge a fiver for a bunch of rosemary in tesco that's imported from Israel when most people don't realise they have a whopping big rosemary bush in their garden, only then do I miss the German bureaucracy, or let's say, only then do I understand it as being the price you have to pay if you want to do things right.
Even if it means that people become crashing bores, at least everything works properly. I suppose that's another dilemma though: go live with crashing bores and everything works, or stay in the land of the parochial hall where it's all great craic and sure don't I know your cousin Jane's husband so I'll look after you, so I will.
Oh God, I just feel another blog coming on about cronyism. Being bedridden is not good for the bitter and twisted mind.

The Lesbian Thang...

Lindsay Lohan and Ellen de Generes, yes, we all know they're gay, but had I known that Cynthia Nixon from 'Sex and the City' was gay, I probably would have watched the show just to see a woman who I might have had a chance with if I were a celebrity lesbian and not a going-to-seed suburban lesbian.
You see when I was growing up, I lived in a lesbian free world, well at least that's the colour it was painted. At best, being gay was a deviation, one  that meant your parents could have checked you into the asylum for, and mine would have been quite likely to do that.
So last night when I got asked the question that I always get asked, the one that is always preceded by 'would you mind if I ask you a personal question, and don't answer this if you don't want to... but what made you change from being married to being gay?'
Well, repetitive as it is, I'm always glad when people do actually ask me about it. Living in the west of Ireland isn't exactly San Francisco, and despite the fact that we are slowly coming out of the caves, it seems to me that rather than embrace diversity, we silence it. Despite all of our new laws and regulations and the whole gay marriage thing (I still don't know why gay people want to live like heterosexuals, but anyway), a lot of the people who I meet, have never met a gay woman before, so the reaction can be anything from ostracizing me, running a mile from me, considering me to be very strange indeed, and a host of other things that silences any mention of my gayness. And the silence hurts.

Cynthia Nixon &Rojo Caliente  with their son Max

The answer, by the way, is that because of the lack of role models and all that, I wanted to be a heterosexual lady. I wanted to be 'like everyone else'. I waited until my early twenties before I ever ventured into a gay bar, and somewhere between then and now, I met a nice respectable man who I thought it was a great idea to get married to and be 'normal'. Well that was all twenty something years ago. Of course it didn't take long for the truth to come and hunt me out. Since then things have happened in the world that I never could have imagined: people are not allowed to smoke in pubs or hit kids anymore, and lesbians are all over the telly; attractive ones even.
But still, last night in a Galway club, that ingrained Irish guilt complex couldn't stop me from feeling so wrong for admiring the great legs and the flesh coloured tights of the three singers. There's just something very sexy about flesh coloured tights - I believe they are now called 'nude' rather than flesh coloured, but that doesn't make any difference. For me, flesh coloured tights are a mix between 1950's cocktail parties and school teachers. They scream for hands on them. They're like ice cream wrappers to a child, they make silk purses out of sow's ears. But still, I suppose clubs that are frequented by twenty-something year olds in search of a standard heterosexual adventure don't expect women pushing 50 to lust after the sheer satin flesh coloured tights of the singers. Not that I would have made a move on any of them or anything like that, I just felt wrong, guilty, almost a pervert. I felt lonely.
But then I thought: a guy wouldn't feel bad about it, and isn't that why they have dancers in the club in the first place, so I let myself off and spent the rest of this morning's hangover feeling bad about other painful banalities and also wondering why the hell I live in the west of Ireland where I'll always be something of an outcast. Well there is a reason, and that is because someone has to do it. I guess there needs to be a lesbian visibility, one that stretches from the Galway suburbs all the way up the N17 as far as Tuam. Not that I go around waving the rainbow flag or anything, I'm just here.
There are three things that really drive me mental though.

1. The assumption that because I'm a lesbian I fancy every woman on the planet
2. The assumption by straight women that if they decide they want to try it out with another woman, they only need to come to me and I'll take them on for a night 
3. And this is my pet hate - the assumption that because I'm a lesbian, all I ever think about is sex with women (and true, there are times I can't deny that), and that the only thing I ever do with my partner is have sex.  Believe me, there's a huge difference between wanting sex with a woman and falling in love with a woman or living with a woman.  

So for that reason, now that I know Cynthia Nixon is gay, I've decided she's hot, because that means she's 'in the club'. Women who have sex with other women are ten a penny these days, but ones who actually have the balls, pardon the pun, to commit to another woman in a relationship, well they're in a league of their own, and more importantly, they make me feel like I'm not from Mars, just from the west of Ireland. When I see photos of Cynthia with her wife it looks like it might even be normal, and then I actually feel that maybe it's ok to be gay after all.
Guess I'll just have to wait another 40 years for it to come to Galway, by which time I'll be decrepit and disapproving of all that sort of carry on. Sigh...