Mrs. C Wouldn't Last a Day Here

As a child of the 70's and 80's, the way I process events today still tends to get filtered through three different but intricately intertwined philosophies:

1. Bad TV sitcoms (my childhood even jumped the shark in 1985)
2. Bad popular music (I admit it: I had a couple of Huey Lewis albums. I live with that knowledge every day of my life...)
3. Recovering Catholic guilt

...most of the time, all three somehow work their way into my subconscious as I take the kids to soccer practice, empty the dishwasher, or catch the latest episode of Survivor. I bring this up, of course, because last night's episode drew heavily on all three of my childhood vices.


We saw the crest of Mick's forbidden pubes fuzzed out for the betterment of us all. I thank god each and every day that cave-dwelling, frustrated, overpaid losers with way too much power decide what I should and shouldn't see in the comfort of my own living room. Don't get me wrong - it's not like I have a huge desire to gaze upon the pubic pastures of Mick's treasure trail, but then again, what's the fear that drives the sensors to fuzz this out in the first place? Pubic protests? Racy riots? Supreme Court treasure trail trials?


Of course, it's MORE than OK that CBS shows us sea slug guts blended with rotting octopus tentacles and warm milk as contestants chew, gag, vomit and wince the slew down their gullets as chunky parts and pieces dangle from their chins.


Life was so much easier in those sitcoms from 30 years ago. There was no controversy, no sensationalism...heck, there wasn't even any thinking at all. But we get everything all twisted and tied up together today, and can't get past how things used to be. Where's the quick solution? Where's the problem that not only gets resolved within 30 minutes, but is never spoken of again - ever? Where are the khakis and blue button down shirts covering all those nasty private parts?


Yeah, yeah - it's a trade off. We get beautiful bodies, scantily clad model wannabees, taut sinewy muscle-bound hunks... But geez - all the cutest contestants are getting booted early, leaving us with...friggin' Russell!


Not much happened in this episode as nearly three straight days of rain forced the tribes to stay huddled up, shivering, under their sieve-like "shelters," with no opportunity to scheme, create drama or inspire some CBS fuzzing.


I searched for meaning that I could filter through my triumverate of philosophical engines, but for some reason my quest seemed to remind me of an experience Paige and I had in Ireland...

“Far-el.”

“Pardon me?”

“Far. El.”

It was our first hour in Ireland, and I was being corrected with how I pronounce my own name: Farrell (fair-el). We’d found a bed and breakfast (B+B) in Dublin after a long ferry ride over from England and wanted nothing more than to dump our packs and sleep. But the owner of the Marion House B+B was telling me that the way I had been pronouncing my name for the past 29 years was…wrong.

Well, who was I to argue? My heritage was Irish; the pronunciation had undoubtedly been bastardized in the hundred and fifty years since my ancestors had headed west to New York. Just give us a room; you can call us the Yeasty-McTwiddle family for all I cared.

Our acceptance and embracement of the Irish (and Gaelic) accent over the next couple weeks was fairly (farly) uneventful, until we had circled around the country and were finally heading back to Dublin. Due to our earlier stay, I called information to reach the Marion House again to book a room for one night before heading across the sea to Liverpool. It was high season, late summer, and most places were booked solid throughout Dublin.

I gave them my credit card number over the phone to seal the reservation, and we endured the travel day from Galway by anticipating the familiar, comfortable room and a nice dinner out. We were thoroughly exhausted by the time we made the long walk from the bus station in Dublin to the Marion House just as dusk was starting to set in, and stood gaping in disbelief when the lady answered the door and told us that she didn't have our reservation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I believe were the exact words she used. She asked if perhaps we had called the "Merrion House" instead of the "Marion House," which was on the other side of the town, and was actually a hotel instead of a B+B (and therefore much more expensive). We sensed looming disaster.

The hair-curlered proprietress quickly suggested we use her phone to straighten the whole mess out, so we trudged into her back office as we formulated a plan: Paige would take control, hoping to reason with some logical business person who would undoubtedly release our reservation without a fee, and shower ample apologies upon us for the unfortunate miscommunication.

We were so naïve.

“Hi, my name is Paige Farrell...” she began.

“Far-el,” came the voice on the other end.

“Oh, uh, yeah, right, Far-el. Do you have a reservation for a Far-el for tonight?”

“Let me check, please hold…” we held the phone, and our breath. “Yes, a double room, correct?”

“Well, there appears to be a terrible mistake that the information operator made…” Paige proceeded to explain the whole story, attempting to give them an opportunity to understand the honest mistake made by the information operator earlier that day when we had called asking to be connected to the Marion House. But they adamantly refused to care and chastised us for attempting to make them. They told us that it was £80 (about $130) a night there, and that if we cancelled our reservation they would still charge our card £40, case closed. Paige explained further how we had called the operator for directory assistance and she must have mistaken our American accent and given us the number for the Merrion House instead of the Marion House. The bitter old lady on the other end of the phone actually laughed at Paige and said, "No. NO ONE would ever mistake 'Merrion' (Mare-ee-un) for 'Marion' (Mar-ee-un)."

Stunned, Paige resorted to the crying routine (usually a stellar and reliable tactic), but the Merrion House wench would have none of it, and hung up. I was absolutely livid. I immediately called back and reintroduced myself, “Hi, you just spoke to my wife, my name is Farrell…”

“Far-el,” the bitter old callous hag adamantly replied.

I began calmly, wanting as much to simply straighten this whole thing out as I wanted to hear her deny logic to enter into the equation. But she jumped right in, “Nobody would mispronounce ‘mare-ee-un,’ not even foreigners.” Acid bubbled in my throat.

I asked her if she’d ever seen the TV show "Happy Days."

“Excuse me?” she spat.

“Happy Days, you know, with the Fonz and Richie?” She was silent. “You know Richie’s mom? Mrs. C.? Her first name is spelled ‘m-a-r-i-o-n’ and pronounced ‘mare-ee-un.’ They live in the U.S., just like us. Furthermore, we even reserved under the name ‘Fare-el,’ not ‘Far-el.’ It’s actually pretty easy to see how accents can cause honest miscommunications.”

She was quiet for a good ten seconds, and then finally said, “I’m completely booked and I’ve had to turn people away many times today. Sorry. It’s £80, or £40 if you cancel. Good bye,” and hung up.

We stood there in shocked silence, but agreed on the spot that there was no way we were going to patronize any place that didn’t show the proper respect for such an American iconic mom as Mrs. C. Thank god that the proper Marion House had a small space for us to sleep in that night: a tiny alcove literally big enough to fit one single bed with absolutely no floor space whatsoever. Since we were leaving first thing the next morning and were physically and emotionally spent, we were grateful for the opportunity to take it.

It took awhile to put all the negative feelings behind us, but we were able to do so by immersing ourselves in a towering microbrewery nearby, gently calling to us from within. Although we had agreed that we had no choice but to accept the £40 fee that was being unfairly forced upon us, I couldn’t let it go, and slipped out at one point to make a quick phone call.

“Hi, is this the mare-ee-un house?” I innocently asked.

“Yes! Would you like a room?” she proactively offered.

“Do you have multiple rooms available by any chance?” I probed. “My party may need three or more…”

She nearly kissed me through the phone, “Yes! We have as many rooms as you need!”

I hung up, not sure what I had just accomplished. Sure, I’d proven her a liar…and a cheat, and not a very nice person on top of that. But I was still paying £40, and Mrs. C’s honor was still in an unfair state of disrespect.

I didn’t feel very good about myself. Had I really expected this whole episode to be tied up with a nice red ribbon like a thirty-minute sitcom flanked with an inane life lesson as a definitive ending to it all? Was I that delusional? That immature? That removed from reality? What was the lesson I was learning?

Later, back in the brewery as we sat there talking, laughing and enjoying some live Irish music, a bartender approached our table. “Interested in doing a free whiskey tasting?”

“Uh, sure, I guess,” I answered, not really knowing anything about whiskey. But in the moment, I stepped up to the plate - actually a placemat lined with 6 full shots of different kinds of whiskey, surrounded by a table of half a dozen additional patrons doing the same.

Unfortunately, as they attempted to explain the process over the din of blaring music, I guess I just didn't hear them say, "You only have to taste each sample." I, on the other hand, proceeded to shoot the first four in a row before one of the guys leaned over and asked me if I knew what I was doing.

Wasn't it obvious?

But I was in Ireland. With my girl. In the moment. I was happy. And through my haze, I looked up and saw the Fonz smiling at me with his thumb in the air…


You see, sometimes there just isn't any life lesson. No bows. No learnin'. And that's OK. It's a hard lesson to learn when you plod through the trial and tribulations of every day life...or the constant scheming and glorious backstabbing of Survivor Samoa. 


Just look for that bone they throw us every now and then.


Mick's pubes. 


Natalie and Ashley's near lesbo experience on the beach. 


Shamwow's bitter extradition. 


Take it when it comes, don't be shy, don't beat yourself up, and then look past your need for meaning for the approval that's always waiting for you if you just open your mind enough to acknowledge it...

Until next week,

PB