D.I.Why?

Halloween is nigh and it is one of my favourite holidays. I love dressing up and this year is no different. What is also no different is the Grand Canyon sized gap between the glorious costumes I have in mind and what my bank balance will allow. So this year I am going home made on Halloween’s ass. There is a slight problem in that D.I.Y and I isn’t a good match.

Do it yourself projects require certain traits such as patience, common sense, co-ordination and a little bit of luck – none of which possess.  Sure I’m creative, but only in the idea stage. When it comes to making something I’ll stick to toast, a mess or the occasional scene on a night out. In case you think I am being modest here is some evidence:

1.       Patience

Ah, patience and I were never particularly close. When I was about eight-years-old I was convinced that I wanted to be an archaeologist. My Dad bought me a do it yourself excavation kit and I was delighted. The aim was to unearth a tiny plastic dinosaur encased in a block of compressed sand. Equally little tools were provided and I began my mission. One hour in and I was in a rage. The block was thrown down the stairs and when it failed to brake, in the bin. My dream of being an archaeologist was gone.

Coming round to the tweens and at about twelve or so I bought a rubix cube. I was convinced I was an undiscovered record breaker in the puzzle department. After one day and the failed attempt of removing the coloured stickers to make it fit, I gave up. Rubix cube, meet the bin.

I would like to say that I developed patience over time, but no. I still want to hit someone when stuck in the lifelong queue at a store. Also, if it wasn’t for its hefty price and my mother’s inevitable freak out, my laptop would have been thrown at the wall a hundred times by now.

2.       Common Sense

I like to think I am a reasonably intelligent young woman. I did well in secondary school and am continuing to do well in college but I do not have an ounce of common sense.

It was clear from childhood that I didn’t do things in the sensible way. Academics were never a problem. However, in junior infants the teacher called my mother because she “found it odd” that while the class had their pictures of brown and black and white cows finished in ten minutes, I spent an hour making mine multicoloured.

Remember making that chain of little paper men in school? Well I was the one who lobbed off the last remaining joints. I ended up with a little army of paper loners while others marvelled at their unified chain of little paper people holding hands.

When I went from future archaeologist to future scientist, I caused more havoc. Another present of a D.I.Y electronic experiment where you must make a light bulb turn on went awry. I enlisted the help of my Dad and while he fiddled with the wires, I pushed the button and gave him a mild electric shock.

Throughout my life I have super glued my fingers together, gotten my head stuck in a ladder, gotten lost in my own neighbourhood and to this day if a door says pull, well, I will probably push.

3.       Co-ordination

For all my teens I danced and was quite good at it but somehow I still manage to fall over my own feet on a regular basis.

I have over turned a quad bike, fallen on a rusty nail, gotten a wooden duster between the eyes and fallen up more stairs than I care to remember. I’ve fallen down the flat escalator. I was the kid who could climb the tree but could not get back down any other way than by falling. My aim is terrible; I’m surprised I don’t struggle with the food in mouth combo.

In my defence, I recognise my weaknesses and therefore don’t tempt the fates by even thinking about playing sport. There has not been a recorded incident of me catching a ball since 2005.

4.       Luck

Whether it’s Murphy’s Law or not, luck has never been a great friend of mine. Of course, I am lucky to have the life I have but on the superficial level lady luck hates my guts.

If I was the only one running in a race I wouldn’t win. I’ve never won a raffle of any kind. I was narrowly beaten out of first place the Feis Maitiu poetry competition three years in a row, each time by a girl with a speech impediment.

I attract buses when I am walking near puddles yet they take forever when I’m standing in the rain. None of this has been helped by the so called ‘lucky’ bird poop on the shoulder which I’ve received a few times.

My own mother rolled over my foot in a parking lot as I was returning a trolley. I’ve been in four minor and one serious car crash....actually I think this might all just be down to my mom’s questionable driving skills. Still, I am pretty unlucky.

As I said this Halloween I was all ready to take on the task of making my costume. Where to head when looking for inspiration or tips on how to make anything? Yes, the internet. I began trawling through costume websites, YouTube videos and spent many an hour on SumbleUpon. 

Of course knowing me I was immediately distracted. “How to curl your hair using socks,” yup, I went there. I spent a night looking like Medusa and arose to find I had morphed into Shirley Temple. The bright side is I did get a lot of work done when I was too embarrassed to go outside. With a tamed mane I returned to college on Sunday where I would have plenty of time to avoid assignments with more ‘how to’ videos.

Firstly I had to reject a number of videos after the first minute. People were treating it like their arena tour in front of their crazed fans. “Hey! I missed you guys.” “Oh my gosh I’m so sorry I didn’t make a videos in a couple of weeks I know you guys were disappointed.”  Before the mention of a costume some of them rambled on so much I’m surprised they didn’t describe their morning’s bowel movement.

I wanted to keep the budget to a minimum so I looked for videos that used things I would already have in the house. “Five Amazing Costumes Using Your Little Black Dress” I thought I had found the answer but I was not amazed. Wear ears with your black dress, you’re a cat. Wear an eye patch and bandana with your black dress, you’re a pirate. Wear a pointy hat with your dress, you’re a witch...FAIL! I can be lazy but even I wouldn’t dream of such a lame attempt.

The other obstacle was the idea of ‘regular things you can find at home.’ Since when are a sheet of corrugated iron, satin bows and a wire coil something you just have lying around the house. To make matters worse this was my student house. I struggle to find tea cups never mind corrugated iron.  

I had given up on making my own costume until my friend Katie saved the day, helped of course by Hickeys and their reasonable material prices. The decision was cavewoman a brown sheet, a metre of leopard print and a horn necklace and all at a cool twenty quid.

Elspeth was the third roped in as she can actually sew and makes up a mile in the common sense department. So three friends agonised for three hours and some half decent costumes were created. Hopefully our workmanship can survive Halloween night in Limerick.

So, I say forget do it yourself, try R.I.F, rope in friends.

J is for Janna

I have begun the mountainous trek that is my Final Year Project and if I don’t arrive at the summit on March 29^th at 4p.m. I am screwed! I’m sure you can appreciate that as a journalism student, clear communication is a must for me when leaving messages and conducting interviews. Unfortunately, my name is making that increasingly difficult.

Saturday afternoon I was attempting to leave a message with an assistant.

“Okay so love, who will I say called?”

“Janna Murphy, he has my number.”

“Donna Murphy, no prob...” 

“No, it’s Janna Murphy.”

“Oh sorry! Gemma Murphy.”

“No, eh, sorry it’s Janna.”

“Jenna?”

“Janna!”

“Spell it for me.”

“Sure, it’s J for John....”

“Oh I am so sorry, I beg your pardon. This is John?”

“No, no it’s j-a-n-n-a, Anna with a J in front.”

“Oh sorry love, have it now, I’m not with it at all today.”

“No problem at all, thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome, bye now Joanna.”

It was the worst case of name misunderstanding in all my 21 years and at the worst time of all. The bad luck of course comes courtesy of the Murphy bit! So, full of self pity and not quite seeing the funny side of it at that point, I relayed the story to a girl who has been a friend of mine for nigh on three years. I got the last response I ever expected: “Ha ha! What a dope! But on a serious note, what is Janna actually short for?”

But even with all the complications and with classmates referring to me as Jana for three years I still wouldn’t change it. I haven’t met another one yet, well not one that spelled it correctly. To be honest I’m glad to have escaped the other choices of Freya and Deana! So Janna Murphy was settled on, middle name Maria. Originally, it was intended as Hannah after my great grandmother but not even my mom was crazy enough to call me Janna Hannah Murphy. 

I was watching X-Factor and I saw Luke Lucas. I wonder if his parents had plans for him to be in the public all along and thought it would grab attention. Think of all the famous people with one name: Cher, Madonna, Iman, Rihanna. You’d never hear of anyone buying an album form Dave, would you? A name surely is the first step in becoming a person of interest. Which I suppose is why Elton John has sold millions of albums instead of the songs of Reginald Kenneth Dwight. 

Names seem to predetermine the category in which I imagine people. If you gave a character the name Grace I wouldn’t imagine an unattractive, thick necked, female rugby player. I would think slim, polite, and perhaps a little meek.

You could argue that how much you like or dislike a name depends on the individuals you know who go by said name. I never met an Amy that I didn’t like, I never met an Yvonne who wasn’t pretty and I never met a Sean that I didn’t find a bit odd. Maybe these are great coincidences or maybe I have attached a subconscious reaction to the name.

When I was ten my mom fell pregnant with my brother and she had a really hard time picking a name. For a girl it was Leah that was a definite but for a boy it was a painful nine month process. My mother had three simple rules:

1)       None of his first cousins can have the same name. (Not so easy when the kid had 32 cousins at the time)

2)      “Nothing that sounds scummy” her words not mine. (Apparently, this ruled out Wayne )

3)      Nothing that sounded awful in a Northside, Cork accent....cue my Nana G.

Nana G is my grandmother who signs all cards, love Nana G. Quite gangster for an 85-year-old if you ask me. She had a Cork Northsider impression of most names that consequently ruined them all. Ethan was unacceptable because she decided they’d all say “Are ya eetin your dinner Eetin?” Anthony was pushed aside after the “Alright Ant-knee boy!” impression.  My mom’s favourite suggestion of Ben Jack McCarthy was crushed by Nana G predicting he would be teased and called ban-jaxed McCarthy for life.

My baby brother was born nameless and on the day he was set to leave the hospital this had still not changed. Then my mother did something hugely unexpected, something that had never happened in my lifetime. She left the decision completely to my step dad. This is the same Manchester United loving man who had wanted to call a baby Roy after Roy Keane.

On a lovely September day Matthew Padraig McCarthy was signed out of hospital. Most people thought it was a wise choice, a strong name, a bible name.  My step dad would say it’s the name of legendary Manchester United manager, Sir. Matthew Busby.

Mathew is a name I think that will stand the test of time others will fade with the old of now. Just think, in fifty years time nursing homes won’t cater for Marys, Pats and Frances’. They will be full of wrinkled Chloes, Megans  and Jaydens.

So no matter how much you agonise you can’t get it one hundred per cent right. I think you just have to give your name the best reputation you can.

Finally, when you finish reading this blog I would like you to have a minutes silence for the tragic Connor O Connors, Brian O Briens and Neville Nevilles of the world.  That, my friend, is child cruelty.