Despite its many shortcomings, IKEA holds a special place in my heart. It may be like one’s first girlfriend or first car, simply that it was first furniture store in my way when I needed to furnish a space. It could be because it was the cheapest place in town to get breakfast while I was a destitute postgrad. But I think it was because I really enjoy putting things together, making IKEA the drug pusher to my inner crack whore. After putting together my own stuff during postgrad, I pounced on any opportunity to put my friends’ stuff together whenever they furnished a new space. With each bookshelf, bed, chair, or stereo cabinet I pieced together, I noticed a pattern emerging.

It wasn’t that the directions were unclear, or all that difficult to follow. One doesn’t even need to be literate to make it through a set of IKEA directions. But with every piece save the three-piece wonders that one doesn’t need directions for, I noticed there was a point in every assembly process where I got stuck. It’s when I’m more than halfway but less than two-thirds done. It’s where the wheels come off. (Sometimes literally, in the case of a particularly sticky chest of drawers.) It’s the point when I look at the sad little man in the front of the directions and think that I, like the little man, might be able to solve all my problems by ringing IKEA and confessing that I have no idea how to proceed.

I call this the IKEA Point. I have gotten past it every time without having to ring IKEA, though it has sometimes required that I leave the room and have a cup of tea. Oddly enough, I have reached the IKEA Point in other sections of my life, and thanks to IKEA I have some confidence that I can get past it. I had a series of scares while working on my thesis and research proposals, for example, where I was convinced I would have to give up on LaTeX and retype everything in Microsoft Word. I got past it.

Lots of stuff in life doesn’t come with instructions, but some stuff does. Often those instructions are confusing, but it’s possible to get past it. Not a bad thing to remember, when facing down a room full of pine and you’re armed with only an allen wrench.

I usually like Christmas. A lot. This year a series of mildly irritating circumstances in the immediate runup to the holiday reminded me of all the stuff I really despise about Christmas.

I’m lucky that although I am technically a part of the retail phenomenon that is the problem, neither I nor anyone else in the shop feel the need to force Christmas down anyone’s throat. In general? I blame retailers for everything I hate about Christmas. Starting as soon as they possibly can, sometimes before Halloween, we are whipped into a frenzy of spending and preparing and stressing to create the perfect day, which nearly always falls flat because we are all of us human. After months of preparation, Christmas leaves people exhausted. This is perfectly timed, as people are thrust into contact with their extended families with whom they may not get along even on the best of days.

We are told to shop for everyone, regardless of whether they want anything or can use the token you’ve procured for them. We either abstain from shopping for ourselves, or we buy stuff anyway and feel guilty. And then we still binge shop the day after Christmas. There are even sales for facilitating this.

Meanwhile, as Dublin is hit with weather we’re not equipped to handle, some people are left stranded and unable to travel wherever they’d planned on spending their Christmas. It throws things into sharp perspective, when you’re out shopping at the last minute for someone you may not get to see after all. You remember that what you (and they) really want is just to be home for Christmas.

I am lucky in that I usually get what I want for Christmas, which is to be home. After the frenzy dies down and everyone is enjoying the results of their frantic shopping, I can enjoy being home. It’s a lot easier these days than it used to be, but I don’t appreciate it any less.

I hope you’re enjoying your Christmas, wherever you are, whoever you’re with, and whatever you’re doing.

Leprecon was fantastic, even though my work schedule interfered with any actual gaming other than the pub quiz. (We came in second place, but it was a good and fun pub quiz which is the important thing.) I finally made it to Goldsmith hall Sunday evening long enough to do a circuit around the main room then head across the street for a quick dinner with friends. After that I broke from the Leprecon party and hashed out the future of my weekly game, then met up with Himself for the walk home.

As far as cons go, I know nothing about how well it went or whether it was a Good Con. My part was essentially attending a party that went on for three nights. I love going out with my friends on “normal” nights, but there’s something extra special about the con setup where everyone in an extended social circle is in the same pub, and you can drift from group to group. I know none of this is news to people who have been here all their lives, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been to a Dublin con (9 years!). I got to hang out with lots of people I wish I could spend more time with, and that’s a good thing.

Crossposted at DixieStix.

Friday night I attended a staff meeting, my first with This is Knit. We went over the stuff that needed going over, then we broke out the wine and pizza and crochet hooks. Our all-star crochet teacher had agreed to come and teach us to crochet, as most of us weren’t that familiar with the technique and we decided it was time for all of us to broaden our horizons. They were duly broadened.

Saturday night we had belated birthday pints for the Wanderer and cb, who share a birthday. I hadn’t seen cb since Christmas, so it was great to spend time with him and the clutch of other friends who showed up. I think everyone had a good time; I know I did, and I’m pretty sure both birthday boys did. I don’t go out as often these days as I used to, but nearly every time ends up being a great night. This is one of the many reasons I was so excited to get back to Dublin.

I’m very close to being done with the third log cabin block for my sock yarn leftovers blanket. I never photographed the second block, but I finally draped this one over a chair and took a picture for y’all:

The next block will be dominated by Koigu in the middle, as I’ve been swapping sock yarn bits with a friend. I’m excited about getting it started, and about retiring this block. It saw me through my thesis writing, and a lot of the stress of moving here. It deserves to rest a little while with the first two blocks.

I haven’t been blogging as much on Cobweb lately; when I end up blogging things that aren’t solely about knitting, I’ll crosspost them here. Otherwise, I’ll sequester them away at DixieStix so those who are not fibre-inclined don’t need to wade through endless knitting content.

I used to think that if I won the lottery — a small jackpot, enough to live on but not necessarily the “buy a house on every habitable continent” win, I’d take a lot of time off and teach knitting. I have not won the lottery, but I have fallen ass-backwards into a small-time teaching gig. It’s funny how these things work.

I say small-time because I don’t teach enough to pay the bills. It is just enough, however, to fund my knitting habit until we *can* pay the bills with real income. It’s incredibly satisfying. I love talking to knitters, and I love helping people with their craft. I didn’t expect to be implementing Plan B quite like this, but I can’t say I’m unhappy about the way it’s working out.

To sum up, things remain good with the sole issue of still being jobless and beginning to worry about when that will end. I still love the rain, I have warmed up to my new flat, I am knitting so much it astonishes even me, and I haven’t been kicked out of my Vampire game.

Also, Bane (the kitten) is made of cute.

That was him a week ago. He is larger now, but just as cute.

“Sneak into your own building, Dixie?”

I live in a multi-stor(e)y apartment block in one of the oldest parts of Dublin. The building itself isn’t that old, but the medieval church across the street and the remnants of the old city walls against the building are. I live on the 2nd floor (3rd if you’re counting in American). The ground floor is a car park, and it contains the phone and cable switches as well as the electricity meters for the entire building.

The car park does not appear to be owned by the same people as the rest of the building. As a result (either of this or of matters I am still unaware), tenants are not allowed in. Not only are we not entitled to spaces, we may not hold keys or contact the building manager about getting in. The standard way of getting around this is to hover near the entrance to the car park until someone exits, then nip in and deal with your business.

As someone who has grown weary of living like a rat student, this is feasible but galling. I should not have to sneak into a section of my own building in order to do responsible tenant things like read my electricity meter (for the purpose of putting it in my own name) and set up phone/cable/broadband. Additionally, it should not take me a week and a half and scores of phone calls to determine that the building manager’s name and phone number will be withheld from me because I am not the owner of a flat. Especially when the likely result of gaining this information will be that I must harass my landlord to make the same calls, then pass that information straight on to me so I don’t have to pester him anymore.

I’ve rented a lot of places, but I’ve never had such a difficult time getting things sorted out.

In any case, while the past week has been full of adventures, I shall not speak of them now because I have a limited amount of time online and business comes before pleasure. Neither the Wanderer nor I have a job yet, but hope springs eternal.

Dublin and I have been dating for a very long time. The first blushes were heady with all the excitement of young love, and the lengthy separation had all the drama of a long-term, long-distance relationship. Finally, Dublin and I are moving in together. It’s good and exciting, and I think Dublin is as excited as I am that we can be around each other all the time. We’re certainly in a sort of honeymoon period, and I realize that immediately afterwards is the time when we discover each other’s embarrassing habits , dirty laundry, and so on. But it’s been good so far. Surprisingly so.

The passengers behind me giggled. “Sure, I’d love one,” one guy replied. “I’ll take a gin and tonic,” another called.

And so on.

Of course, you need proof of address to get a PPS number too. They recommend using a recent bank statement. For a moment, I thought I was in a classic Catch-22 situation. Upon a moment’s quiet reflection and a quiet reminder that Ireland is a good and reasonable place, I stumbled upon a solution.

The Social Welfare office will not bat an eyelash if you show up with your passport, residency card, and your Irish spouse’s proof of address. I brought my marriage cert to provide the crucial link between me and my spouse, something I considered necessary given we have different surnames, but the civil servant waved it away and said “We don’t need your marriage cert, this is fine.” Apparently being able to place your hands on a piece of mail is both necessary and sufficient for proving one lives in Ireland.

Then again, it might have been that the mail I chose was a confirmation letter regarding the wire of money from my American bank account to the Wanderer’s Irish one. Wires are serious business, as was the quantity of money being wired. (Pro tip: If you’re wiring money abroad, verify the receiving bank can deal with foreign currency and wire the money in your home currency. The rate will be better. Free money is a good thing.)

The stars have been aligned for me this week. Registration was painless and almost enjoyable. The weather has been sunny and mild, even straying into Angelino levels of lovely. And when I showed up at the Social Welfare office armed with hours and hours of knitting, expecting to queue behind hundreds of dole/welfare recipients signing for their cheques, there was no one there save a cheerful civil servant who watched me take a ticket, then called me over. The entire PPS number application process took about ten minutes, and that was only because I took the time to fill out the form in legible block capitals.

Now I really don’t have an excuse for not finding a job.