Happy 25th Wedding Anniversary, Mom and Dad!!!

There is a great scene at the beginning of Waking Ned Devine, a movie about a village in Ireland that comes together to fool the Lotto man into letting them claim the winnings. Jackie O’Shea and his wife Annie are watching the lotto drawing. Annie is in the kitchen eating a slice of apple tart, and Jackie is in the living room asking Annie if she’ll bring him a piece. She says no and tells him that if he wants it he’ll get up and get it himself. Suddenly Jackie starts shouting at Annie that he’s got the numbers. ‘Annie bring me my tart, would ya? We have the first four numbers!’ Annie, gob-smacked, comes out of the kitchen with tart in hand, and the two stare at the television. When the last number is read, Jackie starts shouting, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ but rips up the ticket and takes a big bite of apple tart. ‘Have we won?’ says Annie, still in shock. ‘No,’ says Jackie, ‘But it got me apple tart brought to me, now didn’t it?’

This scene always reminds me of my parents. Take this past Mother’s Day for example. The morning was a bit rushed since Mom, Dad, and I were getting ready to go up to UConn for Orlaith’s graduation. Orlaith and I planned on giving Mom her present later that day, so I waited to give her my card, too. I’m not sure if she noticed that I did this or not, but she spent the morning doing stuff in the house and going to Stop and Shop for last-minute groceries (and probably milk. We always need milk no matter what the errand is). When she walked in the door, Dad (who had conspicuously failed to leave her card at her spot at the table like he usually does) was just finished making the tea, when he said, ‘Did you get your card when you were out?’

‘What card?’ she says.
‘You’re Mother’s Day card,’ he answered.

I didn’t know what to do or where to look. I thought Mom was going to be mad. Turns out Dad still knows her better than I do because she just laughed and said something like, ‘No, all the good ones were gone.’

Mom and Dad met in a pub in Lourdes, France; two young lovebirds who had a date with kismet. They were there to do God’s work through the Knights of Malta, and God knows the spirits were flowing. She, the petite beauty with the quick tongue from the center of Ireland, arrived at the pub with the mutual friend (call him Yabba) to meet ‘a real character.’ He, the handsome blue-eyed joker from the Northwest, was holding court when the other two arrived. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a good moment for the two to meet, but she had seen enough to venture with Yabba to his hotel the next day for a proper introduction. Little did they know that the Joker was waiting at his hotel window with a bucket full of water. He poured it at what he thought was the right time in an attempt to get Yabba, but he missed entirely and soaked the Beauty.

And so begins the story of my parents, Anne (née Marsh) and Paddy Cunningham. They started dating officially soon after this incident (who wouldn’t?), broke up a couple of times (duh - what love story doesn’t have some good break-ups?), and eventually got engaged. A unique thing about their courtship was that for much of it, my dad was studying in England. They wrote each other letters (Real letters, not email; he to his ‘Dearest Annie’ and she to her ‘Darling Paddy.’ Mom, don’t freak out. I didn’t read the letters in the basement. You told me that on a drive to UConn one day), and talked on the phone when they could, though it was rare. When my dad asked my grandfather (also a real character) if he could marry my mom, my grandfather said, ‘You can of course, if you can live with her,’ both knowing full-well that my mom and my grandmother were in the kitchen laughing at the two of them.

Mom and Dad were married 25 years ago today, June 25th, and they’re still going strong. She still has her quick tongue and he’s still a joker. I called the house on Valentine’s Day this year on my way into Manhattan. Mom answered the phone, and I could hear in the background, ‘Who’s that calling the house on Valentine’s Day?’

‘It’s you’re eldest child,’ my mother said.
‘Doesn’t she know we’re watching Jeopardy?’ Dad said.
‘Watching Jeopardy?’ I asked. ‘Is that what the kids are calling it these days?’
‘Ha. Joke’s on you, Niamh,’ Mom said. ‘We really are watching Jeopardy and you’re father’s after missing final Jeopardy. You know how much he loves getting the answer to that one.’
Dad, unwilling to let the joke drop, said, ‘Would you tell her to leave us alone and call back in about 15 minutes?’

So here’s to you Mom and Dad! Congratulations on 25 years of love, fun, and adventure, and here’s to many, many more!

The Subway: Dramatis personæ

On every subway ride there is a veritable cast of characters that must be present for the show to go on. Without them, something is missing, and with them, life is more interesting. Herein is a listing of my favorites and not-so-favorites in no particular order.

The Muffin Man
I see this guy at least once a week on my way to work and am almost guaranteed to land the spot right next to him. No matter what I do or where I go in the subway car, I always end up close enough to know this week he’s having a corn muffin rather than the blueberry muffin he had last week. Had he finished getting dressed before he got on the subway, he’d be well dressed. His belt and his shoes almost always match, but his shirt is rarely tucked in and his tie is tied, but not pulled all the way up. I can usually see the little tuft of red chest hair sticking out where the top button should be buttoned. Muffin Man is just under six feet tall with blue eyes, glasses, and ginger hair. Yes, I called him a ginger, and he is a ginger in the truest sense of the word. His hairstyle of choice is the comb-over, and if his naked left ring finger is anything to go by, he’s not married.

My guess is that he gets on the subway around 30th Avenue in Queens, because when the train gets to me, he’s only just begun his muffin. In my opinion, muffins are hardly the food of choice on a crowded, moving subway where you are guaranteed to have to stand unless you get on at Ditmars. But this guy has one every time. And every time he’s got his own little mess of crumbs all around him. He breaks off a piece, shoves it in his mouth, and then smacks his lips because the muffin is dry. After he swallows his first bite, he looks at his crumb-covered hands and rubs them on his pants, as if no one else on the subway noticed that he’s making a horrendous mess. Standing next to him, I get to hear the stomach-churning sound. The first time I witnessed this spectacle, I stared the same way one stares at someone who is picking his/her nose. You know it’s awful, and you know you’re about to throw up, but you can’t turn away. I’ve learned my lesson since, and if I’m anywhere near him, I turn the other way or stare into my book, concentrating so hard that I probably look like I’m searching for the meaning of life in its very pages.

The Happy Couple
Every subway car has one. The young couple, blissfully in love and completely unaware of anything going on around them. Not the Muffin Man. Not the sudden stop in the tunnel and the announcement that ‘we are delayed because of train traffic ahead of us.’ Not the stench emanating from the bum in the corner seat. And definitely not the fact that we are all seriously invading each other’s personal space.

They regard the crowdedness as an excuse to hold onto each other; the more crowded the better in their opinions because it means they can be closer to each other and not be as obvious. They only have eyes for each other. Literally. To the outside world they’re having a staring contest, and only the most talented couples can maintain eye contact and make the necessary shifts in position when the train gets to a particularly crowded stop, forcing everyone to do the ’subway shuffle.’ Every now and again he kisses her forehead, and when she dares to avert her eyes from his gaze, she kisses his shoulder. For the most part they are smiling, but when they do speak, it’s often in baby talk.

‘I wuv you,’ she says.
‘No I wuv YOU,’ he replies.
‘Awe. I wuv you more!’ she gushes.
‘I’ll let you win this one, but I get to buy you dinner,’ he wisely answers.

God help me if I’m standing between the Muffin Man and the Happy Couple. I’m almost guaranteed to lose my breakfast.

The Business Man
This is the guy who’s got his life together. Or so it seems on the 30 minute-ride from Queens to midtown. His shoes are polished, and they match the belt that matches the tie that matches the shirt that is fastened with cuff-links. His manages to hold his briefcase, the Wall Street Journal, and a Starbucks Grande Soy Mocha Frapuccino as well as the over head rail. He’ll never bump into you, even when the driver takes the turn into Queensboro Plaza as if he were driving a rally car, and he smells like heaven. Okay not heaven, but that really good man-scent that’s not Axe, but not quite Armani, either. He lets you off the subway first, but always manages to beat you to the next platform. By then he’s finished his Grande-whatever and has neatly opened the first section of the Journal. Even when you have all the space in the world, you can’t read the Times without spreading it all over the floor, but this guy doesn’t even get his fingers dirty from the ink. He’s practically perfect in every way, except of course for the fact that he’s still riding the subway and doesn’t quite have his own driver yet.

In between this guy and the Muffin Man is the Casual Business Man. This guy has the shirt, the shoes, and the cuff-links, but he’s drinking Dunkin’ Donuts and reading the New York Times sports section. His tie is in his back pocket, and he’s carrying a leather messenger bag instead of a briefcase. He’ll run you over to get out of the train, but wouldn’t be offended if you did the same to him. ‘To each his own’ is his motto, and he’s probably got tickets to tonight’s Yankees game. You like this one.

The Business Woman
She has some form of blonde in her hair, be it her natural color or highlights she just had done at that fabulous salon in SoHo. Her manicure is perfect, no matter the day, and she, unlike you, has woken up early enough to apply all of her make up and straighten her hair. You barely managed to dry yours and throw on some mascara. You really don’t know how she does it every day, and you vow to get up earlier the next day. She is reading this week’s New Yorker, while you try to hide the fact that you still haven’t finished the one from two weeks ago.

Sitting next to her is another woman who is putting on make up. This is the woman you really admire. You can barely get your eyeliner to go on straight when you’re standing on solid ground, and this woman has put on everything from foundation to blush to eyeliner to lip gloss, all with the aid of a tiny mirror no bigger than your pointer finger.

The Buskers
My favorite buskers are the three guys who sing du-wop on the N Train. I’ve seen them a few times now, and every time I see them, the short one smiles at me and says, ‘Hey there, Miss America.’ I could be out for a night on the town or sitting on the train after a long day of work, but he always says it and he always gets a smile out of me…and a dollar. They sing ‘Good Night Sweetheart,’ and their harmony is actually really good. I also like the guys who do flips on the moving subway car and never hit a single passenger.

The Tourist
Ah, to be a tourist in my city again! The khaki shorts, the socks and sandals, the fanny pack, the sunglasses, the camera(s), and enough maps to get you from New York to China on foot without getting lost. Sometimes I envy these people who get to see New York for the first time, but usually I’m just glad I’ve finally mastered the subway and can get around [usually] without having to ask for directions. Sometimes they ask me for directions, and I still get a kick out of being able to help them without looking at the map myself.

The Harry Winston, the Cartier, the Tiffany
No, not the people. The diamonds. Somewhere on every trip, no matter how short, there is always a massive diamond on some woman’s left hand, and sometimes she has a band of diamonds to match. I can’t help noticing it, and when I check on my fellow passengers, they’ve spotted it, too, and can’t get their eyes off of it.

The Child
Sometimes they’re cute. Sometimes they come in pairs. Sometimes they’re dressed better than you are. Sometimes they’re not speaking English. But at some point, all of them cry. Not wimper. Not sniffle. Not even sob. They wail as if the Devil himself were after them, and there is nothing you or their mother can do for them. They want to cry and they will cry. Tough beans, buddy. And when they are done crying and their faces and shirts are fully saturated in tears and snot, they will stand next to you at the door as you prepare to exit, the train will jerk, and they will fall face-first into your new. black. pants.

The Former Hook-Up
Former Hook-Up can range anywhere from the guy you made out with at the bar on Friday night to a former boyfriend (Honestly, Mom and Dad - What did you think I meant by Hook-Up? Get your mind out of the gutter.). The Friday-make-out sesh is easy to avoid. Hide behind your New Yorker or Business Man’s WSJ, and pray to God he doesn’t recognize you without make-up and heels. If he does and acknowledges you in any way, smile and wave, and pretend like you’re engrossed in the “Goings On About Town” section.

The Former Boyfriend on your car is God’s way of punishing you for despising the snotty-nosed child and being secretly jealous of the Happy Couple. If he gets on, say hello and choose a neutral topic like, say, the Mitchell Report. Smile and say, “Take care” when leaving the train. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. This is not going to be your day, so just go with it until you get to work and can eat a Milky Way.

Chuckblog
The odds of you bumping into the Former Hook-Up are much greater than bumping into Charlie, but if you are so lucky, be prepared to tell him you love his blog by clicking here.

I think I’ve covered everyone in that. Lots of people hate the subways for various reasons, but I’m still enough of a New York Neophyte to love them.