The Irish weekend papers in general, the Tribune in specific

I've been ragging on the papers of late, but I do want to mention two Tribune columnists I enjoy.  The first is Chris Binchy, especially when he used to do the restaurant reviews.  He introduced me to some inexpensive places I still go to.  I don't know if he wrote the review of Madina on Little Mary St., but it remains my favorite Indian in the city.  And it's by far the most authentic, if not the fanciest.  I don't know of anywhere else you can get a dosa or idlis, or come out paying less than 30 euro for a dinner for 2.  Granted they don't serve alcohol, but they do serve a great mango lahsi.

I also love the Tribune's TV reviewer Patrick Freyne.  He is very, very funny.  Wonderful, insightful reviews done with wit and kindness.  Worth the price of the paper.

The Irish weekend papers in general, the Times in specific

The Times is considered the ne plus ultra of Irish papers, although some people consider it to be a bit too proddy, and prefer the Independent.  Or so my husband tells me.  Take it up with him if you don't agree.  Anyway, he reads the Times, and especially enjoys it on Saturday, which is their Sunday paper, as they don't print on Sunday.  For the most part the paper is not too bad.  Good arts coverage.  Their political coverage seems more considered than others.  Their featured lifestyle columnist, Roisin Ingle, doesn't set my hair on end.  Usually.  

The same can't be said for their restaurant reviewer, Tom Doorley.  How do I hate him? Let me count the ways.  I think we have Ruth Reichl to blame for Tom Doorley's unbearable smug, perpetually self regarding voice.  I believe she was the first, or one of the first, to include a view of her personal life within her reviews.  She's an enticing, honest writer with a rich life and a real appreciation and knowledge of food.  She says "You can be a decent critic if you know about food, but to be a really good one you need to know about life."  A little piece of advice Mr. Doorley could benefit from.

While I always balked at his superior tone, the first review of Doorley's that drove me around the bend was when he reviewed a restaurant that had opened a few days prior, and was working out the kinks.  First of all, what critic would pounce on a restaurant so soon?  He's just asking for a bad experience.  It's a new crew.  There will be mistakes.  That's a given.  Why go in and critique it with the same standards you would a restaurant that's been in business for at least a month.  It was a horrid review.  This man seems to have some power and I am certain his review hurt this new restaurant.  Just mean.

A while after that, he writes that he was going to a restaurant on one side of the Liffey and yet couldn't get in.  This was either because it was booked, or one of the restaurants he was (understandably) banned from.  Now I just want to note here that his photo is published with his column and he advertises wine for local SPAR convenience stores, which have large cut outs of him toasting the unsuspecting customer (probably just in for a breakfast roll) with a glass of white.  Cringe.  Basically, everyone knows what he looks like.  But I digress.  So, he can't get into this restaurant so he goes across the river to a restaurant in a hotel.  One of those restaurants that are decent enough, and are there to serve the hotel clientele.  And of course he reams it in his review.  The restaurant is not putting itself out there as the next big thing.  It's been around for a while, so there's not buzz at all attached to it.  Why review it?  The only thing I can thing about is because of a looming deadline.  Lazy.

In Doorley's reviews, he makes mention of his wonderful (not) life.  He makes mention of his great friends.  He talks, above all, about himself.  Great if you're a good writer with an interesting life.  Not so great if you are a mediocre writer, with what seems like a rather ordinary life.  Of course a good writer can make an ordinary life seem interesting, but likely not in the course of a restaurant review, so perhaps it would be best not to try.  Also, Doorley's interest in food seems to come second to his interest in himself.  He has a lot invested in his readership considering him an expert on food, and life too I guess.  And wine.  Seemingly he's opened a wine shop, or somethings, and is often plugging it.  Or was a while ago.  I can't read him anymore.  It's more than I can take on a Saturday morning.

The Irish weekend papers in general, the Tribune in specific

What has happened to the Sunday Tribune.  There has been some horrid sort of makeover, making it look a bit more like the Independent, yet still trying to retain some intellectual cache.  It neither reaches the Indo's depth of trashiness (which I like and my husband abhors) nor really informs on any level -- rather just rehashes what's been said earlier in the week.  

They have this young, featured lifestyle columnist named Una Mullally.  I don't get her.  She has a weekly column in the insubstantial magazine, and it's usually a re-hash of what she'd read on Jezebel and other such blogs during the week.  Just a reordering of what's being discussed on line with no further insight.  No, forgive me, her take on things is more smug, snarkier than most.  I guess that's her original slant on the news.

Now the Sunday Tribune has also taken to publishing photos of their columnists next to their articles.  A woman named Clair Byrne, who is the most babe-like of the group, gets a massive photo, a full 1/3 of the length of a page of the paper.  Conor McMorrow, the political correspondent, has a tiny picture, and doesn't look too happy in it.  The aforementioned Ms. Mullally's photo is the most concerning.  In it, she is dressed like a clown, sans white face and red circles on cheeks.  She has on a purple shirt and black and white striped jumper and the effect is genuinely clown-like.  She was saddled with a bad stylist, was my first thought, and perhaps they'll change the photo down the line.  However this week I saw how wrong I was.

Ms. Mullally wrote a 2 page article on her experience wearing black lipstick.  Yes.  Two pages.  In the weekend magazine.  Seemingly black lipstick in in vogue, so she thought she would wear it and see how people reacted to her in the streets.  Yes, this really took up two pages.  In short, people laughed and otherwise acted shocked or at least did double takes.  Ms. Mullally concludes that the lipstick was making people react to her like this.  However she did not take into consideration what she was wearing.  Yes, clown clothes again.  Underneath a tiny leather bomber jacket she is wearing what looks like an oversized warm-up jacket with primary colored stars.  Just something a clown might wear out jogging.  It's accessorized with a blindingly shiny gold bag -- oversized, with more than enough room for a wig, a fake nose, perhaps a pair of shoes with really big toe boxes.  Of course the photos don't show her feet, so I can just imagine what sort of treats lurk at the end of her legs.  Glittery purple Doc Martens?  Maybe red, high heeled boots decorated with white straps and diamante buckles.  A girl can dream, can't she?

I Just say no to running

As mentioned before, I often go off on a tear, reading people's weight loss blogs for inspiration.  In general, it's not the most interesting topic.  Most of them list what they ate, and what exercise they did.  Others are a bit better.  Some are utterly bizarre.  One thing many of them have in common is tracking their running progress.  About a year ago I got it in my head I would start running.  I looked up a couch to 5 k plan and began it.  Never having been a runner, even as a child I found it tiresome, I was delighted when I progressed to running 30 or 40 seconds at a time.  Even a minute.  A minute and a half.  And then, that was it.  I struggled and never went past it; lost all interest.  It never made me feel especially good and, quite honestly, I'm not in love with runner's bodies.  Too knotty and rangy.  OK, professional runners.  Ordinary runners look not too bad.

So, now I'm back to doing yoga, which I was quite expert at back in the day.  It keeps me supple, and helps energetically.  I've also started dancing again, which I was decent at back in the day, and which I love.  60 minutes of a dance class flies by.  60 minutes on a treadmill is torture.  And I like the way my body feels after a class, toned, upright, springy.

Letting Go

Besides the phenomenon of becoming invisible, which is strange and just starting to happen to me as I age, there's a great freedom of letting things go.  I've always had a set of things that I wanted to do in the future, like gardening and taking up running.  I enjoy planting tomatoes and herbs for cooking, and seem to do quite well with roses, dahlias and peonies, but any other gardening holds no interest for me.  Weeding and pruning.  No thank you.  When we make our move in a couple of years and get our own house, I can envision a small veg patch, a few flowers, perhaps a cherry and apple tree, and then lawn.  No little shrub arrangement that need constant vigilance or else they'll look overly bushy (like our present lawn), no fancy perennial borders, nothing that would require diligent weeding.

I have also dropped any desire to become a runner.  I don't run.  I never really have.  I might jog a across the street to escape being run over, and I might run for my life, but that's it.  I did try this 0 to 5k plan about a year ago and got about 1/3 of the way through, didn't really enjoy the process, and then let it go.  I will not be a runner in this lifetime.  Instead I've started taking dance classes again, and yoga.  My body loves it, my mind loves it and my heart is tickled too.

Returning to yoga has been a delight also, although last night's class heightened that feeling of becoming invisible.  I've always been a quiet person, but generally have made contact with others in the course of going about my business.  These days it feels like people look through me more often.  Now, I'm 46 and usually look younger, especially when my greys are covered with dye and I have a bit of makeup on.  Of late I've been talking to people and they respond to me differently, not really connecting.  There's a sensation of being looked through.  I discussed this with my husband last night, and he said that the TV series, Grumpy Old Woman, shown on British TV a few years ago, discussed this phenomenon.

I am aging.  I'm letting things go, not taking them on.  Grief, a stranger to me before turning 40, is now a companion, having lost friends, family members.  Even though I am a more efficient worker, and much smarter and confident now, I believe I'm experiencing some age discrimination in looking to re-enter the work force.  Of course dropping out in the first place to study buddhism isn't helping there either, but that's a another story.  

On the plus side, I enjoy being older.  I don't have to rush around so much grabbing for things.  Stuff matters so little.  What matters is confidence, kindness, laughter.

Susie and Coco

We've begun fostering dogs.  I live near a pound and it just got to me one day.  I love dogs, but until recently one has been enough for this family.  But now there are three, including the fosters Susie, a terrier mix, and her baby Coco.  They both are adorable and cheeky and loving and fairly well behaved.  And I can't fathom why their previous owner left them in a cardboard box at the pound.  If Susie hadn't clawed her way from the box they would have suffocated.  In any case they have a family who wants them, and someday soon the rescue people will take them from us and bring them to their new home, where I hope they settle in well.  While I won't miss the chaos of chewed shoes and the innards of stuffed animals strewn about, I'll miss them.  Very much.