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Costigan Quist says he’s not taking the Ada Lovelace challenge. But I think he’s missed the point, and in my own rambling fashion, I’ll shortly explain why.
Before I do though, what is the challenge? Suw Charman-Anderson set up a pledge on PledgeBank, saying “I will publish a blog post on Tuesday 24th March about a woman in technology whom I admire but only if 1,000 other people will do the same.” Within a week, 1,000 other people signed up, and I can’t wait for 24th March, to read about all those amazing women! The pledge is still open to sign up, and there’s more about the background on the Finding Ada blog, if you’re interested.
Costigan says he’s not in, because the women he knows in technology are just as anonymous as the men. He says ‘all I can do is to say of someone “she’s achieved the same as a man, but she’s only a girlie – well done you!”‘. Which, to give him his due, he recognises as rather patronising  I think he’s missed the point big-time though.
“Blog about a woman you admire” doesn’t mean “blog about someone you think should be famous”. There’s nothing wrong with being an unsung hero – or heroine! But women have a greater need for female role-models than men have for male role-models. And Ada Lovelace Day is about showing women that there are role-models out there. A role-model doesn’t have to be someone famous, or even necessarily the top of their field. A role-model is just someone who occupies a role to which you aspire. It’s someone who does something that you would like to be doing, or gotten somewhere that you would like to go…
Ada Lovelace Day isn’t about saying “she’s achieved the same as a man, but she’s only a girlie – well done you!”. I don’t even think it’s about giving the women we blog about their 15 minutes of fame. It’s about showing the women who need female role-models that those role-models exist. It’s about showing the men who need a role model – male or female! – that there are role-models out there for whatever it is you want to do, or be, or have. Maybe they are famous. Maybe they’re completely anonymous. Maybe they don’t even know that they are a role-model to someone. But they’re there.
Maybe what they’ve done is stupendous. Maybe it’s fairly ordinary. A recent example I came across was someone desperately wanting to know if there were any women who’d gotten promoted to a particular level while they had a young child, because the person asking could only find male examples of people who’d gotten promoted to that level while they had a young child. And there were women who could say “yes, I have”. And that made a difference. They were doing the same things as the men around them. They got their fair due. But this isn’t for those women. It’s for the people who are asking. Who want to know if it’s even possible. Who just need, on whatever level, to know that there are women out there who’ve done it.
And Costigan, even if it’s only namechecks, knowing that there are role-models out there makes a difference, to many, many people.
After feeling awful all day Tuesday, all I wanted by dinner time on Wednesday was serious comfort food… Combine that with what was available in the tiny Migros on the way home, and what we came up with was a very basic, slightly square, calzone Tasty++!
2008 was an amazing year, but I have to admit I wasn’t as diligent with the camera as I had been previously. So as the church bells rang to herald in the New Year, I decided to try taking a photo a day, every day, for 2009.
For January, the aim is persistence. Keep taking photos. Take at least one, every single day. Post them to flickr on a regular basis – at the moment, I’m planning on once a week. After that, I’ll work a bit more on getting the best out of the camera, composition & art etc. If I make it that far If you want to keep watching, I’ll be posting them in the 365 – Photo a Day set in my flickr stream.
Wish me luck!
Kae has posted his thoughts on enjoying a drink. I can’t seem to leave a comment, but I think he’s missed a fairly vital point.
I’m all in favour of enjoying alcohol. Wine or sherry, cider or beer, champagne or cocktails. Red wine isn’t generally my tipple of choice, but there are apparently clear benefits to it for certain groups (generally, the over-40s – does that mean Kae has a better excuse than me? Maybe in a year or two  ). But know what you’re drinking.
The Australian guidelines in the general case recommend “no more than 4 (men) or 2 (women) Standard Drinks a day on average and no more than 6 (men) or 4 (women) Standard Drinks on any one day”. Kae seems to think that means 28 pints. But look a little closer.
What’s a Standard Drink? In Australia, it’s 10g of alcohol. In the UK and Ireland, it’s called a “unit“, and it’s 10ml, or about 8g, of alcohol. I had a can of beer tonight. It was a 500ml can, of the local Hürlimann lager – 4.8% a(lcohol)b(y)v(olume). That’s 19g of alcohol – 2 Australian Standard Drinks, or 2.5 UK units.
The Australian guidelines, even without the SNAFU of assuming that a Standard Drink is what you get when you belly-up to the bar and ask for the usual, are fairly generous. But they’re not suggesting 28 drinks a week is ok – unless your normal drink is a small bottle of Bud Lite. Know your units!
The guideline amounts are up to 3-4 units per day for men (2-3 for women). If you convert the Aussie guidelines to units, they recommend up to 5 units a day on average for men (2.5 for women), and no more than 7.5 units on any one day for men (5 for women). The Australians recommend one or two alcohol-free days per week – the Brits suggest 48h of a break after a heavy session (binge drinking is defined as 8 units in a day for men, or 6 for women, although they do state that it depends a bit on the person).
But what is a unit? UK units are dead easy to work out, even if you’re not very mathematical. A litre of drink contains one unit of alcohol for every percentage point of alcohol by volume. So a 500ml bottle of Rekorderlig mixed berries (7%abv) is 3.5 units – a day’s allowance. A 75cl bottle of Moët (12%abv) is 9 units – better get some friends over! A 35ml shot of Absolut (red label – 50%abv) is 1.75 units – two of those, and you’re done for the night.
So by all means, have a drink on the way home (as long as you’re not driving – or cycling!), or a glass of your favourite with dinner. But don’t overdo it, and remember to give your liver a rest now and then. Particularly in this, the season of Christmas parties and overindulgence – know your limits! And a huge shout out to Dad, his department and many others like it, and the ambulance crews around the world, who have to deal with the excesses of the people who don’t.
I’ll never forget,
Standing. At attention.
Fists tight to keep from shaking.
Tongue pressed hard, against my teeth.
A statue, cast in uniform,
In a house too small
For so much grief.
Only my eyes,
Revealing my heart.
A statue, cast in uniform,
But blinking, too much.
Willing back the tears.
Searing, salty tears,
That washed my face
The night before.
Matching uniforms, a sea of black.
Three generations, father, son, granddaughter.
The belt I wore, my grandad’s.
Carried with the coffin, were
His medals and the flag.
The others wept and cried,
While we statues, cast in uniform
Shared my father’s quiet grief
Another year later, I look back at what I wrote about my Grandad’s passing. I woke up last night, in tears, remembering him. I’m not one for idolising squares on a calendar, but there’s something natural about anniversaries too. The seasons change, and we remember past changes. The years go by, and the events of many years add up.
Grandad died in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Stephen and I had gotten home from our honeymoon eleven days prior, and although we’d had vague plans to visit that weekend, we never did. I still regret that, in one sense – although I treasure the time that we had on our wedding day, it wasn’t the same as getting to spend time with him, just with him.
On the Saturday, we had resolved to visit – but we popped out to the Christmas market in Farmleigh first. We were there when dad phoned, and suggested that we go to visit Grandad. He was asleep, and likely to remain that way. We visited, and he seemed peaceful. There was a sense of foreboding, but how many times had I heard “I don’t think he’ll make it through the night”? And so we left, went home, just like normal.
The phone woke me the next day. I think I knew, when I heard Dad’s voice. I didn’t really believe it though. Stephen dropped me off at Trees Road. Eoin and Rosie were still asleep. It was strange to be back there, with the house seeming so empty. The three of us went over to Spiddal Road. We sat, and had tea, while the undertakers dressed the body. When they brought him back, and laid him out, we opened the window to let his soul join with the angels. Rituals.
I went home, and packed up – my laptop, and a 3G modem. My uniform, of course. I went to sleep in my own bed, as if everything were normal. And I cried, like I have never cried before.
So many things happened on Monday. We sent off the death notice via laptop and 3G modem. Of course, the proof had to be faxed back, so we ran over to the priest’s house to collect the fax. Dad and grandma and I looked through the undertakers’ catalogue to find the plainest coffin we could. Who knew undertakers had a catalogue?! So many people arrived, comforted us, and left. Family and friends coming and going. Everyone with a story, of something he’d made, or fixed, or resurrected. Gates and washing lines and bikes and lecterns. Anything at all, he’d put his hand to. And even the scraps, the waste, were turned into something beautiful.
Eoin and I spent Monday night with Grandad, the window long closed. When Eoin fell asleep early in the morning, I couldn’t bear to leave Grandad alone, even long enough to go and get Colm. A family of nurses, all of them used to the night shift, it was my first time. I couldn’t sleep, even the next day, when they sent me to lie down in Grandad’s room. The whole floor of the room, taken up by a double mattress. Hardly room to take off my shoes! All changed – Grandad had been nursed in the front room, where there was more space. It hadn’t been his room for a while.
The cousins started to arrive. Tired, after a long journey. Nervous and shy of so many people who clearly knew them, but most of whom they barely recognised, if they even knew. Their parents, my aunt and uncles, so desperate for time with Grandad, with each other, trying to make sense of it all. The children eventually brought off to various beds, by their aunts. Bernie and Bernie, making sure everyone was looked after, making sure that the normal didn’t get lost in the abnormal.
How bizarre that I remember, but we had some really nice lasagne. Mourning food – thrown together to feed as many mouths as turned up, or pulled out of a freezer as a quick, easy meal when no one could think of cooking.
As the removers brought Grandad’s remains downstairs, the coffin in the hall, we whispered, with silent shocked laughter. He was buried two years older than he died! The plaque on his coffin, the wrong years inscribed. “Don’t let Grandma see! She’ll go mad!” And yet, what does it matter?
The ladies from the parish centre, making sure everything was arranged. Tea and sandwiches. Trying to figure out who would carry the coffin. Going down to the church. The young undertaker, his father’s apprentice, barely older than me, rearranging us by height. The coffin heavy, and yet the weight reassuring, comforting. So many more people at the removal. So touched by the presence of people who had barely met my Grandad, but who came out of love for me, or my parents, or my family.
Back to the house afterwards, everything a blur. Trying to organise the order of service, and give everyone a part. Practising the music, composing a harmony. The funeral service was lovely. Chaotic, we handed out the Prayers of the Faithful in a rush, halfway through the Mass, and the only one that didn’t go to a family member was the one about our family But the Brigade was as much grandad’s family as any of us. Dad’s eulogy, beautiful, perfect. It summed him up – a man, and yet more than just a man. A simple man, but a pillar of society. They don’t make them like him any more, so many people said.
The truth is, they don’t. It’s hard to believe a whole year has passed. Rest in peace, Oliver Plunkett.
A year ago today, I was married, and getting ready for my wedding. We had arrived at the registry office in good time, only to realise that one of the witnesses didn’t have their ID on them. Much rush and panic ensued, as they went to get it, the previous wedding party finished up and left in a cloud of feathers and sequins, and we frantically stalled, willing them back with our combined telekinetic powers! The civil marriage went smoothly after that, and we retired to dinner at home.
Mum had baked the most beautiful Challah, which we broke, and then it was time for grace. The natural choice was to ask our pastor, who was sharing dinner with us before we had a quick rehearsal. Of course, he’s always the natural choice – so as a bit of a joke, he suggested “let’s sing Kumbayah”! What a mistake, in our house – no one seemed to realise that he was joking! The joke was, of course, explained, and we enjoyed a lovely dinner. After the rehearsal, everyone headed off to their respective homes – but at 15T, the prep continued.
I had previously made the serious tactical error of informing my parents that the loo in the attic (the main guest room, in our house) wasn’t refilling properly. With visitors due the next day, who would be staying in the guest room, now seemed like the obvious time to “sort it out”. So my father was dispatched. Unfortunately, my father is an emergency physician, not a urologist – and his knowledge of plumbing is generally limited to “stabilise the patient for treatment by a specialist”. But, with the night that was in it, this seemed to be an emergency. By the time the (clean!) water was spurting out of the tank and almost hitting the ceiling, I think we all regretted that triage! Nothing for it though, we turned off the water at the mains, and called my godmother’s husband (a real plumber), who promised to come over and have a look. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the part he needed, so he stabilised the situation, and headed home.
And so it was that peace was restored, we said our good-nights, and went to bed. But if that were the end of the story, I wouldn’t be blogging about it a year later. I woke up in the middle of the night, wedding nerves abound, and I could still hear the monster that had been chasing me in my dream. Hang on, I could still hear it? I heard someone coming out of my parents’ bedroom, and a few minutes later, the monster stopped his “Kkssshhhh”ing. The water pump, of course! Oh well, that’s alright so – I went back to sleep.
At a slightly more reasonable hour, I awoke again. Headed to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and noticed that the water pressure seemed rather low. Rosie turned up, and we agreed that she should have the first shower (since I was doing my own hair, but she was going to the hairdresser). I warned her that the pressure was low – but I wasn’t prepared to see her back in the hall, shivering in a towel, a few minutes later… “There’s no water”, she said. “You mean there’s no water pressure.”, I said. “No, really no water”, she said… Oh cripes! As I mentally inventory the neighbours, and try to figure out the subset of neighbours who are awake at 8am and who wouldn’t completely freak if I knocked on the door to ask if I could use their shower, we get dad back on the job.
Back to the scene of the original crime – the attic. Check everything out, it all looks fine. There was one valve that was a bit weird, maybe that’s it. So into the crawl-space I go, with dad coaching me through the wall… “Is that screw tight?”, “What about the other one?”, “Turn it left a bit?”. Nothing’s working. Hang on, didn’t we do something here last night? “Where’s the mains dad?”, “Does the tap work now?” – sorted! Back downstairs to turn on the water pump, and I hang around a bit, waiting for it to get up to a reasonable pressure. At this point, the order of things starts to get a little fuzzy – so bear with me…
While mum and Rosie head off to the hairdressers, I take a shower under a trickle of water. But at least I’m clean! Mum and Rosie turned up at the hairdresser, with appointments with the stylists who know them, know their hair, and know what to do with it. But of course, Gar never works Thursdays. And Aileen is off these two weeks! Why the appointments were accepted, only the gods may know. But at least no one’s dead – so off with the girls to another hair salon.
At home, dad’s moving the cars around, so that there’s room for me to get into his car, the wedding car. Mum’s car is out of the way, the little blue car is moved out too… But dad’s car, naturally enough (it’s my wedding day, of course!) won’t start. The AA man is very understanding, and hops straight on his motorbike to jump it. It starts up fine, and he heads off. Of course, we have to leave the car running now – otherwise, we might not get it started again!
The make-up artist arrives, and the photographer is only a minute behind her. Mum and Rosie return, we sort out the make-up, Ali takes some fabulous photos, and we all have a lot of fun. Mum heads off to the hotel, to check things out, where she discovers what she later described as a “coffee shaped pool of water”, right where we’re doing the wedding stuff. Three managerial types upstairs are standing around chatting, and inform her that yes, the coffee machine is broken, and that’s why there’s dirty water dripping downstairs. Mum manages not to launch into the mother-of-the-bride’s tantrum, and comes home again
At home, we’re wandering around the house, trying to find a mirror long enough to take a full-length photo of me looking at myself. It’s the one “posed” shot we wanted to get, but the only mirror we can find is the one in Rosie’s room – which has as a background such scenery as Rosie’s bed, and Rosie’s trinkets, and, well, it’s not particularly beautiful or serene…! Until we go into the dining room, and remember the big mirror on the wall there. It’s far too heavy to get down, so wedding dress and high-heeled shoes notwithstanding, I hop up on the table, where Ali gets one of my favourite of the wedding photos. Cheers all ’round, and mum, Eoin & Rosie head off to the hotel.
Dad and I are instructed to stay behind, take it easy, let the others get down to the hotel and get everyone seated and ready. I have a glass of water, we head out to the front to say hello to the neighbours. I learn that while high heels on cobbles are bad, and high heels on grass are worse, high heels on cobbles with grass in between the stones are absolutely the worst of all! Once it’s time to head down to the hotel, I open the car door. Or at least, I would, if it weren’t locked. Where’s the key? In the ignition, of course. (Remember the car wouldn’t start earlier, and we had to call the AA? So taking it out of the ignition isn’t really an option.) Dad runs back in to get the spare key, and locks up the house… I’m standing beside the car, breathing in the fumes, and thinking “man, there’s some serious fumes here… I’m going to smell of petrol, and not my beautifu… ARGH! Where are my flowers!?” Dad is dispatched once more, sets of the alarm, grabs the flowers, fixes the alarm, I’m in the car, and down to the hotel.
At the hotel, Ali takes a few more photos of dad and I in the car – and then we notice one of my friends, trying to upstage the bride The doorman brings dad and I a glass of champagne as we wait for her to head in and take a seat. Rosie and Mark come out join us, and we all head in. We had a beautiful celebration, a wonderful day, and really enjoyed having all our friends and family around to share it with us… (They never got to share the cake, but that’s a story for another day!)
The moral of the story, as far as I can tell, is that if everything is going wrong, and the world is crumbling around you, it’s time to relax – and have a glass of champagne! It’s been an amazing, exciting, tricky, fantastic year. To all my families, and most especially to Stephen, thank you for this year – and here’s to next year!
One of my Joost friends twittered the other day, with a message that I think bears repeating.
It doesn’t matter what happens to the banks, the economy, my job/house/savings. Every one of those things could disappear, and I’d still be better off than most of the world’s population.
With the Irish Budget announced yesterday, and the “economic climate” we can’t get away from, there seem to be a lot of people very worried about what the future holds.
What have you done today, to make the future better for the people for whom your worst nightmare is better than their greatest hopes?
It’s six weeks since we landed in Zurich, and just over three since we moved into our new home. We’ve been to Ikea five times, and have lugged home two sofa-beds. We’ve unpacked sixty-something boxes in our 4.5 room apartment, and ordered twenty UK-Swiss plug adaptors. We’ve gotten bills for seven months of DSL (which we have to pay) and an hour of an electrician’s time (which we don’t). We’ve gotten six chairs, three shower curtains (for our two showers), four “serving wagons” (to make a kitchen workspace), three standing lamps and a light fitting (there were none in the apartment – just bare wires hanging out of the ceiling). We’ve bought monthly transport passes twice, and had our tickets checked once.
Edit: Photos of our apartment (pre-furniture) are now available! No mum, it’s not still that tidy
The instructions for the pizza said to put it on a baking tray in the oven for ten minutes, at 180°C. Hoping to avoid dirtying the scarily-clean Swiss baking tray I had bought earlier today (because there was no way I was going to dirty the terrifyingly clean tray provided), I put some baking parchment on the baking tray, and put the pizza on the baking parchment, before putting the whole lot into the preheated oven.
There was a funny smell of burning, but I presumed it would pass. As I turned to go back to the sitting room for a few minutes, the smell continued, and intensified. I looked back at the oven, wondering what could be causing the smell… Could there possibly be some (shock, horror!) crumbs, hidden somewhere behind the dazzling clean oven fittings? Orange, I thought. Yellow, I thought. Those don’t belong there… Flames! What on earth?! The oven’s on fire!
Actually, not quite. Just the baking parchment, burnt in a nice pizza-sized circle in the bottom of the baking tray. Stephen put out the flames without destroying my pizza, and we cleaned up the ash. And so we come to “Weird things about Switzerland #203: Baking parchment that goes on fire when you put it in the oven”.
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