ROSEMARY MAC CABE

And now for something a little different . . .

rosemary — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 10:00:59 +0000

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Porn, prostitution and good, old-fashioned sex

rosemary — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 08:30:30 +0000

There’s an excellent article in today’s Irish Times by Kathy Sheridan on the topic of the latest Ruhama report into prostitution in Ireland – I would recommend you all take a read, and then come back here and think about how much further pornography goes into our collective psyches, until all we have left are scenes from a movie. Where does real life come in?

Kathy speaks to an anonymous prostitute, who talks about how much more violent customers (I hate the word “punters” when used in relation to prostitutes; it smacks of dehumanisation, which is all well and good if you’re the one paying for it, but let’s not act like there’s no person behind it) have become of late. Younger men are coming in, she says, and being more aggressive, and more violent. Are these isolated cases?

There is a strong argument that says that men who go to prostitutes aren’t going to them for sex; I would almost compare it to rape, in a way, in that it’s not about the sex act itself, or the sex acts. It’s about the power – it’s about control. It’s about knowing that, for a certain length of time, you can, to a certain extent, do what you want to this body. In the case of prostitution, you have bought it; it’s yours.

Links can, and should, be made between sexual violence and pornography. There is no doubt in my mind that pornography glamourises violence in sex. It glamourises the idea that you’re doing something to this body – Susan Brownmiller would go further and say that, in all straight sex, the woman is the one being fucked while the man is the one doing fucking. When it’s all over, the woman is fucked.

But what about sex between consenting adults? Where does the violence come into this? We’ve all heard stories. Friends who hook up with men who seem to have come straight from a movie set. “He was just . . . a bit rough,” she’ll say, and we’ll all laugh and sip our cappuccinos. It’s become hideously acceptable for a man to be “a bit rough” during sex, especially if that man is a man you don’t know. So many scenes are told as if straight from a porn movie: he wanted to come on her face; he asked if she liked anal (really?! Do many women like anal?!); he smacked her on the ass, gently at first; he pinned her down; he said things to her that I wouldn’t even repeat here, and really, we all know at this stage that I have no shame. (But it’s not shame that prevents me, it’s disgust, to be honest.)

Where does it end? Is all porn bad? Should we be completely, 100% against the watching of human beings having sex with one another for money? Can we delude ourselves into thinking that any porn stars do it for the love of the job? Can we delude ourselves into thinking that this sex, the one on the screen, is anything like the sex that we want to have in real life? Or does one create the other? Which came first, the chicken or the porn star?

Sometimes, it’s the little things . . .

rosemary — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 19:53:19 +0000

This feels a little Dooce of me; I took this photo using the Hipstamatic app on my iPhone. I love the Hipstamatic app . . . and I love this photo. I love the fact that, in a built up area in Dublin 7, there’s a little rose garden with a bench in it. Thousands of roses, and a bench.

Anyway, what’s the point? It’s been a lovely weekend. Today, lunch with my parents – Aqua, in Howth, highly recommended, especially on such a cracking day. We watched people boating, and I wondered a bit what life would be like if I’d been born into a boating family . . . the lives of others, wha? Cast of Cheers on Friday were also awesome, followed by much dancing and, eh, making friends.

So this song is something like what my weekend felt like. How about yours?

Your face is a decent hiding place, but it gives your secrets away

rosemary — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 19:11:07 +0000

I just don’t know what to say about this. I have so much to say, and so little. It makes me simultaneously angry and sad. I like Eminem, and I like the song in a very basic way. The beat pleases me, and I like Eminem’s voice. I respect his rhymes. I like the bit about the windowpane. It makes my mouth taste like crying. And then . . . And then.

I know that I will never see him again, yet, still, I like the world better with him in it

rosemary — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 21:25:22 +0000

If this don’t mean nothin’ to you, well, then, it don’t mean nothin’ to you. If it means somethin’, then, that’s somethin’, ain’t it?

Hot damn, brunching in the city: a review of three brunch eateries in Dublin

rosemary — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 16:52:14 +0000

So, of late, I’ve found myself brunching a lot. I like to say “brunching” as if it is some kind of active thing. “Oh sorry, I can’t, I have brunching on Sunday” or “oh dear, I’ll be brunching right about then”, the same way other (more active) people talk about football or tag rugby*. I’ve also read Amy Sedaris‘s I Like You: Entertaining Under the Influence and can’t help but agree with her about the troubles with brunch. It kind of ruins both breakfast and lunch, and it’s a little too early to drink. Well, that last point is moot as I’m Irish, and it’s never too early to drink.

But, to the point. Lately I’ve been brunching more frequently than I used to brunch, which is to say, twice a weekend, although I generally frequent the same place: Avoca. However, last weekend I made the trek down the street to Odessa (Dublin’s favourite restaurant, according to the website, although can Dublin itself have a favourite? Dublin doesn’t have preferences, it just has rain and terrible traffic, and lots of arty things to do), and, today, I went to Chatham Brasserie for lunch, and now I feel extremely well-qualified to write a rambling blog post about which brunch is best.

So, without further ado, in no particular order:

1. Odessa

I went to Odessa with a friend of mine last weekend for early-morning brunch. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, and thought that brunch would be the perfect occasion over which to update one another in the intimate details of our lives and, of course, the lives of others. I had heard on Twitter that Odessa did the best brunch in Dublin; the Bloody Marys, I’d heard, were to die for, and its eggs benedict were just awesome.

So, of course, I chose neither of the above, and went for the full breakfast. Now, let me tell you now, when it comes to brunch, unless you are horrendously hungover, the full breakfast is never ideal. You feel a little like you are on holidays in a hotel, except you don’t get to back up to the buffet, and you’re not going to get the smug upper-class satisfaction of ordering crumpets or French toast or some sort of fancy import.

How was the full breakfast (which my companion ordered too; I could never be a food critic as I ultimately end up dining with people who order the same thing I do)? It was… okay. It wasn’t awesome. It wasn’t unbelievable. It wasn’t the best full breakfast I’d ever had. It was all fine, but it did have one thing that most full breakfasts don’t: a warm, slightly greasy croissant, placed carefully atop the sausages, bacon (back bacon – whoever thought back bacon was a good alternative to streaky bacon, like, ever, was seriously mistaken) and pudding, as if croissants were a good addition to a greasy fry-up. I ate it all, as I am wont to do with my meals, but I was left feeling a little disappointed. Still, I hear the French toast and eggs Benedict are awesome. 6/10

2. Chatham Brasserie

Sometimes I find myself dining with people who have it in their heads that they don’t want to eat carbohydrates for breakfast. I won’t pretend to understand them, although I will tolerate them for a short time; we were constrained by his desire not to eat anything fried or baked, and my desire to eat something fried or baked or, if possible, both at once. So we stopped by Chatham Brasserie, with a menu outside that read “French toast – with bacon” and “eggs Benedict / Florentine”. Sold.

I ordered the French toast with bacon, obviously, and my companion ordered the smoked salmon with poached eggs and muffins. When they arrived . . . well. The French toast was accompanied by that absolute enemy of my brunching dreams, back bacon, and the muffin was not toasted. What kind of black sorcery was this?! Whose decision? It beggars belief. Still, in the interests of research, we scoffed the lot. My French toast? A little soggy. Not enough maple syrup. BACK BACON. ‘Nuff said. His smoked salmon and poached eggs? The salmon was served complete with skin (I know this may be a snobby restaurant code for “good fish”, but who wants to eat salmon skin? No one!), the poached eggs looked alright and were deemed so, but, really, who could be expected to get over the fact that the muffin wasn’t toasted? Not us. 4/10

3. Avoca

Ah, Avoca, I wish I knew how to quit you. When Avoca opened up in Rathcoole a few years back, it was as if all of our Christmasses had come at once: at last, somewhere decent to eat and to buy pretentious country-cottage style housewarming gifts! Hurrah! What could be better? But, really, it was all about the food: broccoli, hazelnut and feta salad; dijon mustard chicken pasta; mushroom soup with more cream than you could shake a stick at in it, and so on. It was only after about two years that I discovered the brunch, which I have been enjoying ever since.

A fortnight ago, I took the same friend I brunched with this morning to Avoca on Suffolk St for brunch, and tried something I’d never tried before: the French toast, with maple syrup and AMERICAN-STYLE bacon. Thank the Lord for that. My companion, boringly, had the same – but Avoca also does amazing creamed field mushrooms on toasted cheese bread; the most delicious scrambled eggs on toast you’ll ever eat; delicious American-style pancakes with either berries and creme fraiche or bacon and maple syrup; the full Irish (with toasted cheese bread and Ballymaloe relish) and really gorgeous smoothies. Will I be back? Why did I ever leave? 8/10

* Funniest thing about tag rugby? The response of a friend of mine when I suggested starting an office league. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you 10 times, tag rugby is for geeks in the IT department who couldn’t pull a girl if she was on the other end of a rope.”

I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine

rosemary — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 14:43:08 +0000

I try to resist coming over all emo on my blog most of the time, but I’ll ignore any vague feelings of shame and self-reproach. Ain’t you lucky? I love this song from Marina and the Diamonds, although the video doesn’t please me hugely . . .

I think I like it because I identify with the lyrics to a certain extent, more about knowing who you are and what you want than about seeking fame. I just don’t really feel the need to please people any more, or to restrain myself because of what people might or already do think about me. Who gives a shit? Life may be short, but it’s the longest thing you’ll ever do so you might as well do it the way you want to.

The embarrassments of life: 1-5

rosemary — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 20:50:20 +0000

I don’t embarrass easily, but there are a few things that I’ve done that mortify me to my core, namely:

1. When I left an office job I languished in for six months, I printed off every single email I had sent or received while I was there. On single-sided A4 paper. I have them in boxes in the attic in my parents’ house and, despite the fact that I’m sure those boxes are full of pure comedy gold, the fact that I printed off emails mortifies me beyond belief.

2. When I was 19, my boyfriend at the time got me a teddy bear for Christmas from The Teddy-Bear Factory. He had a voice box inserted in the teddy’s chest that, when pressed, said, in his voice: “I love you so much. I will never, ever leave you.” [Untrue, for the record.] But that’s not the embarrassing part. I brought it to my cousins’ house (they’re all older than me, the youngest was about 25 at the time) and somebody sat on it.

3. I was in the choir in NUI Galway for three years. (Insert obvious joke here re: embarrassment.) We went to Italy for a competition and, while there, the conductor of the choir was in my room, which I was sharing with our vocal coach, for a chat. I had a shower and came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around me, and stood at the door of the balcony talking to them for a few minutes – a few minutes during which another choir member decided it’d be hilarious to pull my towel off. It wasn’t. At least not to me.

4. I asked Pat Kenny what “sodomise” meant. I was doing my work experience in RTÉ radio, and my job was to open the letters from members of his adoring (read: crazy) public. I read one letter, twice, then turned to Pat and asked, plain as day: “What does sodomise mean?” He referred me to the secretary.

5. A friend of mine – a relatively new friend, I might add – gave me a key to her house, in case of emergencies (we were neighbours at the time). One day I called over to say hi, and while on the way there, met her husband, who told me she was in the house. When she didn’t answer the door, instead of waiting it out, like a normal person, I thought, “well looky here! I have a key!” and let myself in. As soon as the door shut I realised how insane it was; I lingered in the porch for a moment like a murderer, then made my way into the house saying “helloooooo” in a terrified and mortified voice. She was in the bathroom, and when she got out, she screamed as if I was Freddie Krueger himself. She’s since moved house, continent, in fact, and I spend at least 10 minutes every day attempting to convince myself that it’s not because of that single erroneous and utterly mortifying decision.

Why am I so obsessed with me?

rosemary — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 17:17:48 +0000

Here’s a little self-adoration for what feels like a Friday but is a Thursday afternoon . . .

How old are you? Twenty-four

What’s your motto? Regret nuffink (in a Cockney accent, just because)

Name a special day for you February 18th

A hotel The Great Southern, Galway

What scares you? Loss

Where were you born? Dublin

Where will you go for your next vacation? New York

What do you think about New York? Shouting “taxi”, eating pancakes, carrying bags filled with beautiful things . . .

What’s the first thing you do in the morning? Stretch

What’s your favourite body part? Eyes

What’s your favourite thing about being a woman? Our prerogative to have a little fun

What do you do on Sundays? As little as possible

What was the last thing you bought? A pair of peep-toe ankle boots from Topshop

Where do you live now? Stoneybatter

What are your current frustrations? Nobody wants to watch The Ewoks: Caravan of Courage when I want to watch it. Oh, and instability.

via Capture the Castle

His ‘n’ Hers: a love story

rosemary — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 12:52:15 +0000

This is a story of him and her; or, more accurately, this is a story of her. Ken Wardrop‘s documentary, focusing on the women of the Irish midlands and how they see their men, emerged with not so much a fanfare as a quiet, slow hand clap. There were articles in national newspapers. There was talk of how this documentary was a must-see, a must-attend. Then there were reviews; there were surges of people, filling cinema screens; there was Michael Moore, talking about His ‘n’ Hers on his website; then there was the title of the bestselling Irish documentary of all time.

I first saw His ‘n’ Hers at a preview screening my housemate tipped me off about. I didn’t quite know what to expect – which is usually how I like to approach films. Sometimes trailers can give too much away; I like, you see, to be surprised. To say that I was surprised would be an understatement.

His ‘n’ Hers is quite possibly the most affecting film I’ve seen in years, perhaps since I first saw The Notebook, which had me in floods of tears, although now I can look back on those hazy days of youth and feel something approaching shame. (Point to note: if you ever find yourself in a position where you consider reading The Notebook, have a cup of coffee and cut your nails instead.)

There’s not much I can say that hasn’t already been said, and better than I could do it. I will say that it made me rethink the value I assign my relationships, and made me determined to impress upon my parents that, no matter what “inconvenience” they perceive, they can call me 40 times a day if they feel that way inclined. I won’t mind.

It also made me consider the value of the men in my life and the effect they’ve had on me. So thanks, boys (in no particular order): Dave, Lenny, Eoin, Seamus, Allen, Niall, Brian (I’m picking you up from the airport, remember), Grattan, Mac D, my Dad, who taught me that you don’t ever truly get old, even though your body does, and Eddie, my grandfather, who taught me the value of being able to do the Crosaire and that, no matter the time or age, love matters. If I’ve forgotten to put you in, it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten you.