The Cheek

It's Aluminum, FFS... or maybe just tin foil... but I'm all for real chips and real beer. God save my waistline.

Subject
BRITS REVOKE USA INDEPENDENCE


A Message from John Cleese

To the citizens of the United States of America:


In light of your failure to elect a competent President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately.

Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories (excepting Kansas, which she does not fancy).

Your new prime minister, Tony Blair, will appoint a governor for America without the need for further elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire may be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed.

To aid in the transition to a British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:

1- You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary. Then look up "aluminium", and check the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just how wrongly you have been
pronouncing it.

2- The letter "U" will be reinstated in words such as "favour" and "neighbour". Likewise, you will learn to spell "doughnut" without skipping half the letters, and the suffix "ize" will be replaced by the suffix "ise".

3- Generally, you will be expected to raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels (look up vocabulary).

4- Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as "like" and "you know" is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication.

5- There is no such thing as US English. We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. The Microsoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take account of the reinstated letter "u" and the elimination of "-ize".

6- You will relearn your original national anthem, God Save the Queen.
July 4th will no longer be celebrated as a holiday.

7- You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers, or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not adult enough to be independent.

8- Guns should only be handled by adults. If you're not adult enough to sort things out without suing someone, or speaking to a therapist then you're not grown up enough to handle a gun.

9- Therefore, you will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous than a vegetable peeler. A permit will be required if you wish to carry a vegetable peeler in public.

10- All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap and this is for your own good. When we show you German cars, you will understand what we mean.

11- All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left with immediate effect.

12- At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables. Both roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.

13- The former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been calling gasoline) - roughly $6/US gallon. Get used to it.

14- You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called crisps. Real chips are thick cut, fried in animal fat, and dressed not with catsup but with vinegar.

15-- The cold tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not
actually beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as Lager. American brands will be referred to as Near-Frozen Gnat's Urine, so that all can be sold without risk of further confusion.

16- Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as good guys. Hollywood will also be required to cast English actors to play English characters. Watching Andie MacDowell attempt English dialogue in Four Weddings and a Funeral was an experience akin to having one's ears removed with a cheese grater.

17- You will cease playing American football. There is only one kind of proper football; you call it soccer. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full Kevlar body armour like a bunch of
nancies).

18- Further, you will stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host an event called the World Series for a game which is not played outside of America. Since only 2.1% of you are aware that there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable.

19- You must tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us mad.

An internal revenue agent (i.e.tax collector) from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all monies due (backdated to 1776).

Thank you for your co-operation.

When Ireland is Hampton Beach, NH

You would think I would tire of talking about the weather but New Englanders and Irish folk are endlessly fascinated by weather and since I am of both worlds, I fekkin' love it. Anyway, maybe global warming is to blame but we've had a spate of warm, sunny weather again. On Tuesday temperatures were the hottest recorded in Ireland since 1887. All the gorgeous beaches finally got some use and the newspapers were full of pictures of splashing kids and hotties in bikinis. lovely.

Went to a wedding up north last weekend that took place in a seaside town and damn, it was almost like a proper hot, New England, summer weekend. The seaside town was, like seaside towns everywhere, a main street morphed over time from quiet, sleepy, village, overlooked by mountains and on top of the sea, choc-o-bloc, with kids eating soft serve icecream and begging their parents for change to play the penny arcade. There was the local hardware store selling inflatable dinosaur water-wings and family-run hotels and little greasy spoon diners for your fried breakfast. Despite how diverse the world really is, it's comforting to know that from Wolfsborough, NH to Newcastle, Northern Ireland, little kids get icecream all over their faces and play ski-ball and run around on the beach while their parents nurse their hangovers with a platefull o' grease...nothing like eggy goodness with toast and coffee to help recover from a late night. The more things change...

Well, paint me brown and call me spud

I have truly become accustomed to my surroundings so it would seem. I am no longer reomotely surprised or disappointed by the weather here (last summer was a shock I tell ya) and have learned to expect to wear "trousers" and carry a jumper all year round. But that's not all. I have flipped, joined the darkside and embraced the world of the fake tan.

The last time I used fake tan I was about twelve years old and had already turned my hair a horrifying shade of orange with sun-in. (Don't tell me you don't remember sun in. Every pre-teen girl was walking around with brassy orange hair that year pretending to be a California blond...) Apparently orange hair was not enough for me that year, I needed orange skin to match so I bought myself a bottle of fake tan and smeared copious amounts of it all over my pre-teen self. I, of course, didn't know to wash my hands after applying and my hands and feet turned an even brighter shade of pumpkin orange than the rest of my body which more closely resembled a bengal tiger with uneven stripes. Never again I told myself. At a time when I thought Bic perfume (pronounced Beec in a french accent and shaped like a Bic lighter) and strawberry lipgloss were the height of sophistication, even I knew that the fake tan was a disaster.

Either fake tan has come a long way or I've become a lot better at exfoliating and applying various creams and lotions... cuz I'm in love. I found this moisturizer with just a bit of fake tan in it and I'm using it to top up my real tan (and yes, I do have a real tan. It might not be hot here but the sun still shines from time to time. ;) ) I'm a brown goddess... Oh joy for small pleasures. Just like fiji it is, only colder and rainy and expensive.

Yank Spotting

I had the strangest experience... I am starting to be able to identify Americans on first sight and I have no idea why. I'm not talking about the obvious ones with pot bellys and two cameras around their necks loitering around the Guinness Brewery with shopping bags full of Guinness t-shirts. I was on the DART today (Dublin's commuter train) on my way home from Ringsend where I'm currently working when I spotted two Americans. The train was sitting at the main train station in Dublin while a million sweaty, rumpled commuters tried to get on and off the train at the same time. Amidst the crowd, I noticed a girl, probably around 8 years old and an older woman (presumably her mother) and right away I knew. They weren't particularly overwieght or overwrought with technology or decked out in Old Navy gear or reading a Dublin map so I honestly have no idea how I knew. The woman was pale and freckly with ginger hair and an Irish looking sunburn and the little girl was skinny and tan with light, sunbleached hair and brown eyes. There was nothing about them that obviously said that they were yanks and I was preparing myself to be wrong. Onto the train they tumbled with the disgruntled office workers of Dublin and sat right across from me. I waited for them to speak (sad the things you find to amuse yourself while commuting) and out came a little American girl accent and an American Mom (not a mum or a mam.) Spot on.

At this point, I get kind of a cozy feeling when I encounter Americans here - I mean your average, everyday Americans, the kind of people you'd see on the street everyday in any American city just going about their day. Sometimes someone will pass by me on the street and I get the same feeling I got today. I just know they're yanks. Maybe it's an earnestness in their faces or the casual way that they're usually dressed (more for comfort than couiture) or the way they seem to be taking in their surroundings. Was it the gangly kid legs with super white trainers on her feet, the sun kissed hair? Honestly I don't know. People are just starting to look American to me in the same way that you might say someone looks Italian or Jewish or Irish... Given the multi-ethnic nature of Americans, the identifying characteristics are vague but nonetheless there.

At sixes and sevens

It's been a while but believe it or not, I never get tired of disecting all the euro-slang I can get my hands on so here's another installment:

Butchers: Used in such colourful sentences as, "Giz a butchers at your tits love..." heard at 3am on the rowdy and drunken streets of Dublin. Translation, "Can I have a look at your breasts if you wouldn't mind." This is one more in a long line of cockney rhyming slang...somehow look became butch became butchers... I have no idea how but surely Tom does. I'll have to ask him and get back to yas. ;)

Class: This one is used nearly as much as brilliant and means essentially the same thing. "That new bike of yours is class."

Sorry: This one drives me crazy mostly because the first person I ever heard using it is someone whose presence is like nails on a chalkboard... Not a board game or an apology, this word is used by everyone, everywhere to mean simply, "What did you you say?" Example: "mumble, mumble, mumble." Response: "Sorr-y?" You have to lilt your voice up in a really annoying way at the end thereby making the mumbler think they just said something stupid or obscene. Hate it. Hate it. I'll stick to, "what," thank you very much.

Yoke: Gotta love those words that can be used in so many ways to mean so many things. Examples: "Give us a look at that yoke," or "Where is that yoke-joker?" Can be used in place of any person or thing. Kinda like hoobajoo or thingamabob but not quite as cool.

Knock you for six: This must be one of those granny phrases cuz you only ever hear it on TV or see it in print ads. "The taste of this new fizzy, crap-filled shite drink will knock you for six." "The savings will knock you for six." Again, the origins of this one are a mystery but the closest Yank phrase is probably something like, "knockin' your socks off" (but definitely not knockin' boots unless there's something I don't know about fizzy, crap-filled, shite drinks on TV.)

In Fairness: Filler, like the word essentially, basically, in actuality... It's used to distill or support a point, and used at least as much as we say basically. Example: "Yer man was absolutely bolloxed last night and boked on his own trainers on the way home." Response, "In fairness, you also boked on yer own trainers on the way home so give a man a break." In fairness, this phrase is not used quite as much as the dreaded, "Sorry?"

Sarnie: Sambo, sandwich... not to be confused with a Shambo which is a *trademarked* sandwich shaped like a shamrock. Magically delicious.

Jammy: Used most often with that other favorite of all favorite Euro slangisms: C-U-Next Tuesday. Means something to the effect of smug, cheesy, lame. As in, "Look at that Jammy cunt over there in his new jumper thinking he's the dogs bollocks."

At Sixes and Sevens: There's the number six again for no notable reason that I'm aware of. Being at sixes and sevens seems to describe me a bit too much lately. Translation: Being at a loss, at a loose end etc... I'd rather be knocked for six thanks very much.

Hey Thanks Everybody

Am feeling well loved on me birthday despite being several thousand miles away from most of my favorite people. Got a few lovely, thoughtful pressies in the mail, several international phone calls, a few emails and texts and an off-key rendition of Happy Birthday sung to me last night by a bunch of very drunk buddies in a very loud bar. There was even a shot of goldschlager involved (cinnamon snot in a glass...mmmm) Even Tommy boy managed to get his very hungover self out to the Dublin Mountains today for a bit of a hike and some Irish seafood. Good lad. So, thanks very much everybody. It is well appreciated and makes turning t(h)irty (*gasp*) almost bearable. Cheers.

playin' baseball by the airport

playin' baseball by the airport
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

Getting out asses kicked is more like it but it was still a decent game. I'm actually one of the tiny people in the picture. Look closely... hint: I'm playing second base. ;)

Everybody loves an Italian girl?

The World Cup has descended upon Ireland (and the rest of Europe) like a medieval plague...highly contagious and completely incurable. And I admit, I'm feeling a little feverish. It's pretty near impossible not to be at least somewhat interested when every newspaper, television and radio presenter has something to say. The bookies are filled with people considering their odds. It's the talk of every barbecue and presented on the big-screen in every self respecting pub in Dublin. So, okay, I give in. I watched the Poland vs. Ecuador game (rooting for Poland of course as every third person you meet in Dublin is Polish.) I even watched a bit of the England vs. somebody-or-other until I got bored and left Tom and co. at the pub to go shopping. But not until last night, did I actually watch a game that was truly riveting. For that you need to actually care a little bit about the outcome.

I spent yesterday afternoon playing a softball tournament in the blazing sun (no complaints there) except part of our team was missing and we got our asses absolutely kicked. I had a great day personally, stopped some hardcore line-drives that came in my direction but those innings get long when you're standing in the sun and the other team is going through it's batting rotation over and over again. Rough. Anyway, after we picked our sorry selves off the field, we decided to go watch the USA vs. Italy game in the city centre. Italy was predicted to run-over the US like an SUV over a baby-carriage but hey, what's a little more defeat after being the big-time tournament losers.

When we got to the bar, it was absolutely packed. Tom's Italian co-worker estimated that the place was made up of about 50% Italians, 20% Irish and 10% Yanks. Outnumbered once again. Tom asked me who I was going to root for but living abroad has made the answer only too obvious. To a european, I am only one thing, an American, pure and simple. To claim anything else as your own is simply comical and/or prepostorous. Who do you think you are? In the states, it is pretty much assumed that while you may be an American, you also carry with you another ethnicity or nationality. You're Italian-American, Irish-American, Russian-American, Jewish, African-American etc... Here, it doesn't matter if you can make a mediterreannean feast that would rival mama tuscany. It doesn't matter if you can step-dance or jig or play the bagpipes or pepper your speech with yiddish. If you sound like an American that's what you are. Unless you can speak the language of your ancestors, you're just freeloading. End of story. So. okay, I accept it. And I embrace that fact that yes, I am an American, first and foremost, shaped as much by my country of birth as by anything else, and god-damn it, I'm going to be proud of that fact.

Except there's a problem. When the Italians get rowdy, start talking with their hands and chanting at the top of their lungs over and over again, "Italia, Italia, Italia," it sounds sexy as hell. When the Americans (small in number though we may be) start chanting "U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A," we sound like frat boys or marines about to go kill a bunch of Iraqis. It may sound stupid but I really wanted to be able to be proud of my people, and not the people who left Italy 100 years ago but the people of my birthplace and yet... It's hard to have national pride when you hail from a country that is currently acting like a spoiled child on crack. Still I did my best.

And it was a good game to watch. They were an aggressive, feisty bunch of footballers (on both teams.) A few minutes into the game, an Italian player elbowed one of the Americans in the face and basically split his face open. The Italian was sent off (a red card) to the horror of the Italians and the American was cleaned up, washed up, patched up and sent back to play. Two Americans were later sent off for, "Bad Tackles," and the US got a game winning goal that was awarded and then taken away because one of the players was, "off-side" by about an inch. Not a dull moment I tell you.

Ultimately, the game ended in a 1-1 tie which seemed like a win for the Americans since everybody expected them to roll over and play dead. I suppose for us, that might be as good as it gets. If the Americans get eliminated, I'll start chanting Italia cuz it really does roll off the tongue, but until then I'm joining the frat. U-S-A in the house.

Who's yer Daddy?

Dad as the Lord Mayor of Belfast (as if!)
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

The Lord Mayor of Belfast?! Thankfully not, but he did get to don the big fishes robes and sit in his chair in the City Hall. We got the up-close-and-personal tour of Belfast City Hall because we got connections yo! (Tom's mother knows the people that know the people...or something like that ;) ) I even got a Belfast commemmorative coin (ye-haw) from an Ulster Unionist MP who was disarmingly nice... killing the cat with kindness perhaps? It was quite interesting to get the tour from someone who can talk about the queen mother and the lord mayor without a hint of sarcasm. Spot of tea perhaps? Amazingly, the unionist contingency of Nor'n Ireland seem to be under the impression that England actually gives a shit about them. S'pose it's no stranger than thinking that the 'ra really has the republican's best interests at heart at this point. At the end of the day it's all about the benjamins, or whose got the robes of power on or the key to the drugs trade and a little something extra for the family. Viva la revolution?

Gettin' my dance on

Gettin' my dance on at the Wedding o' Michelle
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

Just returned from Michelle's wedding with good pictures, some new buddies and the tell-tale sign of any great wedding, a wicked hangover. The guy next to me is Pete, one of the mad Belfast boys who has perfected the art of dancing like a mad thing and not spilling his drink. Good stuff. If you want to actually see the bride or any of the non-drunk, non-hairy chested members of the wedding entourage, click the pic

When Ireland is Spain

Yes, it is. We have had nearly a month of unabating good weather. Sunny, bright, slightly breezy, low to mid 70's (I think. This whole fahrenheit to Celsius thing is still a bit of an enigma.) For Ireland, this is tantamount to Paradise. It's as if the moody, fickle stormy toddler that is Irish weather woke up one morning and had magically changed into Shirley Temple in the night. Good morning Sunshine. Inexplicable but so welcome. Amazingly, I have managed to get a good bit of colour and even the hint of a sunburn over the past few weeks. I've been able to trot out all my gathering-dust-in-the-back-of-the-closet short skirts and Old Navy five-dollar flip-flops. Truly a beautiful thing. Even up in Donegal last weekend where the weather is at it's most unpredictable, the sun shone strongly and the beaches were packed. All this great weather was in full effect during my parent's visit and I truly think that they don't believe that it actually rains here. They didn't even have to use their umbrellas. We spent the last day of their trip up in Howth (coastal, fishing town.) We sat on the pier in the sun, got fish and chips and ate them out of paper boxes while lying on the grass, took a stroll through the village and picked up oysters and salmon from the fishermen on the pier to take home and feast on that night. If the weather were always this good, I might never leave!

I have the measles and the mumps, a rash, a gash, and purple bumps...

Yes, I look like a little giraffe at the moment... and why you may ask? Well, I thought I might actually have the measles as I spent the other night projectile vomiting every last bit of bile from my system and lying on the bathroom floor in a sweaty heap. I woke up on Friday morning and Tom looked me deep in the eyes (very romantic) and told me my face was covered with little red dots. Uh-oh. Unfortunately, the life of the freelancer means no work = no pay so I dragged my spotty ass out of bed and went to work. Tom's office had an outbreak of the measles a few days ago (who gets measles these days! It's like telling someone you've got smallpox...) so I decided to go to the Dr. just to be safe. Unfortunately it's fifty euro to see the doc but seemed well worth it for peace of mind. Turns out, I broke a bunch of little blood vessels on my face from the Excorcist like force with which my dinner wrenched itself out of my stomach. Gross. Fortunately, my nicey doctor told me they should heal up in a few days. I have to go to a wedding on Monday so I hope I'm not looking like the elephant (wo)man by then. Otherwise, my face is going to match my dress. Pink with little flowers on it. Lovely.

Visitors and such

Been so, so, busy. Working like mad but finally got myself a holly-jolly holiday. The weather has been amazingly dry and sunny. The fam arrived yesterday and I've been giving them the Dublin grand tour. Today we went to the Powerscourt estate which is a huge and beautiful estate with Italianate and Japanese gardens and a gorgeous old mansion which has been renovated and filled with a lovely cafe and textile stores and galleries. Also took them to Glendalough to see the Wicklow mountains, two clear, clean, glacial lakes and a fourteenth century monastic settlement. From there we headed back to the city and hit up the Italian quarter for some most tasty red wine and crostinis. Am I a kick-ass tour guide or what. Unfortunately, the revolution was not televised as my digital camera shite the bed, so to speak. Damn technology. You will all have to use your imaginations. Tomorrow off to Amsterdam. Talk soon.

EuroVisions

For those of you not familiar with the EuroVision Song contest, let me enlighten you. Every year, Europeans (and Europeans to be) have the opportunity to win the Eurovision title by entering a song which is voted on by all of those europhone and sms text messagers out there in the EU and beyond. The song must not have been commercially released and the performers tend to be the unfamous, wicked-stepsister version of Brittany Spears singing in English or French with an off-key Lithuanian accent. Hit me baby. Yikes. They are notoriously cheesy. No one admits to watching Eurovision at all but I can guarantee that everyone I talk to tomorrow will know who won.

Me. I know who won. Not cuz I saw a single video but because I watched the entire tally of voting which consists of various people wearing too much make-up and too little clothing, reporting from {insert name of country here.} "Hello from the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia..." I switched it on cuz everyone who called me tonight assumed they were interupting me watching said Eurovision and that I would be less than pleased about being disturbed. So, on it went. And here is what I've learned: 1. German men should not dress up as Cowboys and present their votes astride a large plastic horse and 2. Cronyism is alive and well and living in Belarus...okay and everywhere else in the present and future EU... Romania votes for Bulgaria, Estonia votes for Latvia, Sweden votes for Finland, Bosnia Herzogovenia votes for Serbia votes for Croatia votes for the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia... Impartial, objective voting, no doubt. Strangely, Irlanda, land of insider trading if there ever was one votes for.... (drum roll please)... Lithuania?! I knew we had a large Eastern Euro population but who knew...

I know you're all on the edge of your seats now and you just simply must know whose country was graced with the 2006 Eurovision Song of the Year title... I know you wanna know so just admit it. And I know what yer picturing too. Some cute blond thing being backed up by Metro and the Metrosexuelles singing some drippy song about heartbreak with a hip-hop producer keepin' it live in the background... but, no. You would be wrong. The winning country: Finland. Again, you're thinking hot, tall, milk-fed blondies but again, you would be wrong. Think, Ozzy Osborne meets the Phantom of the Opera meets Bzerker from Clerks. Glam-pseudo-pop-metal dudes dressed as monsters singing with a mixture of gravelly basetones mixed with that, "I just grabbed yer balls and squeezed them, " heavy-metal yelp. Go team. Europe does have taste after all... If you happen to like biting the heads off plastic chickens and throwing them into an audience made up entirely of Greek Eurotrash. Now that's entertainment.

Brand Revolutionaries

Hi All,

Sorry for my long blogging absence. I've been ridiculously busy being the all-purpose freelancing bitch of Dublin. Have been booked nearly everday for the last month and I'm finally kind of settling into it instead of walking around in a state of total stress dealing with all sorts of new situations, people and expectations. I'll be a bad-ass businesswoman yet. Maybe I should start renting those 80's wall street movies...you know the ones with American Psycho type business men and woman with heels like daggers and shoulder pads like linebackers... I definitely need a bit of training on the ruthless front as I am owed ridiculous money at the moment and am struggling a bit to collect. Maybe what I really need is a heavy man, built like a brick shithouse, with knuckles dragging on the ground. He can pay a visit to my late / non payers and make them an offer they can't refuse...

I was walking into one of my many placements the other morning and what should pass me but a large truck advertising a marketing company. This was one of those trucks that is absolutely covered on every surface and the campaign gracing the panels of this one was: Richmond Marketing, BRAND REVOLUTIONARIES. If that wasn't bad enough, the truck was covered with red communist stars, various famous revolutionaries, and those iconic Workers of the World Unite characters with fists in the air. Holy good fuck, What balls. Karl Marx would absolutely turn in his grave at that one. This is, after all, a MARKETING company, as in ADVERTISING, as in, we have no souls and worship the almighty dollar (or euro as the case may be) and could sell Hitler brand petroleum products to Jews if we put our filthy, amoral, cute little minds to it.... hhhhmmmm. I'm sorry. Do I sound bitter. Is it because I am slowly being turned into a brand revolutionary myself. The next thing you know, I am actually going to start to care about whether that milk packaging I created really makes you feel like yer mom is giving you a big hug. It is somewhat ironic that I was attracted to design for its artistic and communicative possibilities, for it's independent, self employment options, for guerilla artists and Barbara Krueger type political message making, and here I am, making the benjamins for the big boys. Is there no escaping it? So glad to know that my life's contribution to this world is so meaningful and important... Just send me that fekking check please.

Lions and Holy-Rollers

Lest you think I'm about to enlighten you with some sort of Morality inducing religious parable, let me put your mind at ease... Read on without fear that Jerry Falwell might pop out of a dark corner to save yer soul (for a price of course.) Anyway, I digress...

The good news is that I have been working like an absolute slave lately. I am a freelancing whore available by the hour, day or week...haha. Got a weeks worth of work last week for a studio, then a logo design project, then more packaging design work for another studio, then a little project for DIT. It is lucrative as hell (or maybe just seems it since I haven't yet paid any taxes on it) but it's also a bit stressful going into new working environments all the time and trying to always be at the top of your game. But really, I'm not complaining. Have to say that I love owning my own time and can make my previous monthly salary at the Spoiltchild in less than two weeks of freelance work. Can't complain about that. I've also joined a softball team which had its first two practices last week so while not chained to my computer, I went out and ran around in the rain and attempted to catch flyballs hit by burly Irish men.

So all this is good stuff no doubt...but I still kind of feel like my head is going to explode. Spent the last three days (including Saturday) working like mad to get this packaging design done for a pitch on Monday. In between time was spent drinking whiskey with temporary co-workers... On Saturday afternoon when I was doing last minute bits and pieces at the studio, the managing director threw me the keys and the alarm code and said he was off and I could just finish up and lock up if I didn't mind. I suppose it's a great compliment that he assumed that I wouldn't abscond with twenty computers or all their secret recipes or what have you but it was a little freaky to have the entire responsibility for a large, kitted-out studio that I had never before attempted to lock up. Yikes. Mostly it went smoothly, I finished up and managed most of the closing up tasks except for one of the security locks which I just couldn't get locked. If they go into work on Monday to find all of their shit stolen, I suppose my freelance career might take a bit of a hit... ;) They already probably think that I'm a religious freak ;). I was in the studio a few days ago sitting at a desk across from this really nice girl (who stole me Cadbury chocolate from the front desk) when she sneezed. I automatically responded, as you do, by saying, "Bless You." One of those moments followed where you imagine that everyone goes quiet and stares and points at you. I guess Irish people don't say, "bless you," when a fellow cohort sneezes. They just ignore it. (Rude Bastards... ;) ) Anyway, given that they might think I'm the next Tammy Faye and they might get their studio ransacked, I'd say it's all gone very well....haha Here's to self-employment.

On the wild beasts front, I was out last night at the Market Bar with Michelle and Bryce telling them my sneezing story and Michelle was telling me her culture-shock tales from when she first moved to Boston. Soon after she arrived in Boston, she was out with a few of her new co-workers and mentioned that she couldn't wait to have a lion this weekend. Everyone was baffled. A lion? huh? She was actually saying that she couldn't wait to have a lie-in meaning that she wanted to sleep in but everyone thought she wanted to go to the zoo ;). Now come Friday, Bryce will say that he can't wait for a tiger or a mountain lion this weekend. Grrrrr. Must say, after my packaging and security related frenetics, I had quite the lie-in this morning. And amazingly enough, it's a beautiful sunny day. Time to run as far away from this computer as possible.

Hope you're all well.

Tramp Co

Ok, so it's actually Tram Co and is the name of a cheesy as shite bar in the student ghetto of Dublin but I've been thinking it's a suitable name for my local post office as well. By tramps, I mean not only women with ten children and make-up that would make a transvestite cringe but also the trainspotters-in-training in their dirty jeans looking like they might keel over and die any second. Not to mention the young disinfranchised males travelling in packs and the neighborhood busibodies who loudly complain about anything and everything. God, I love my neighborhood.

Today was tax day. Unfortunately, even moving out of the entire USofA does not exempt one from paying Uncle Sam his due. Since I am a woman of forsight and organisation, I was, of course, running off to the post office today with my Massatucky state taxes in hand desperately seeking an April 18th postmark. I arrive to find what appears to be a large crowd of the aforementioned demographic watching an older man trying to break into the Post Office. Somehow, the lock jammed and the post office had to hire some guy to literally crow-bar the door open. After a half hour wait in between a young blondie and an old lady with a crutch who literally tried to run me down to get a better spot in line, the lock was broken and like Metallica fans trying to get an autograph, we all squeezed in the door. Waiting in the que, I had in front of me one group of young rough-and-ready guys trying to cash their dole checks without proper ID, several screaming children picking up pieces of the crowbarred door and getting yelled at by their mother, and a good dose of cranky old ladies stepping on my heels to get their stamps. Oh joy. I did finally get my stamps and proceeded to put a stamp on the wrong side of the only envelope I could find in my apartment to hold my nearly overdue taxes because I was busy hating all humanity. Bastards. Maybe I should just give in, shoot some heroin, pop out a few sprogs, and draw my eyebrows on. At least I would fit in.

What do I know about Basketball? I'm Scottish!

Spoken in a loud pub in the financial district of Dublin by a slightly tipsy scotchy bemoaning his loss in the fantasy basketball pool. Ah well, maybe ya had to be there. Well, it's been too long my fine friends, but here are a few more linguistic gems for your coffers...

Rapperbait: Hoodlum, Hooligan, Skanger, Skiprat. There are so many words for these little scoundrels...I do wonder why??

Wingnut: Someone with ears like our old friend Steve-o of auto-defenestration fame. Ears like satelite dishes. Ears like this wierd guy on the North American Sports Network whose ears are not only huge but also pointed oddly forward as if they've been ripped off Reservoir Dogs style and sewn back on. yum.

The Jacks: Les Toillettes of course. Don't ask me why.

Giz us a...: Used in many a northy sentence as in, "Giz us a fag." Translation: I'd like a cigarette please (not a gay man thank you very much.) In case yer still confused, it's Give us a fag. The royal we in effect. Me and my imaginary friends.

Manky: Something that's icky, bad-tasting, slimy or otherwise gross. Like Irish cooking...haha.

Yous: What would seem to be grammatically incorrect English is widely used and I fear, like all the rest, slowly sneaking into my vocabulary. Usage: "Would yous two ever shut up. Yer doin' my head in," or "What would yous'uns like for yer dinner?"

Fierce: Used mostly in the South I think. Usage: "That man is fierce tall" or, "I've a fierce thirst on me." (For what, you might ask? But really you should already know.) Up north it would be a powerful thirst instead of a fierce one. Buncha parched lads in these parts.

Pong / Pongy: Smelly, smelly. Usage: That lad has a pong on him...he's a pongy fecker.

Poxy: Little, insignificant, shite.

There are so many but I hear them, tell myself to write them down for future blogging and then have another whiskey and forget. Alas, that's all yous get today.

French Drivers = NYC Cabbies on Crack

Yes, it's true. They drive like absolute maniacs. After realizing that the cars would swerve between lanes like they drank beer for breakfast, that mopeds and motorbikes would appear out of nowhere like loud flying hairdryers and that noone seems to know what their indicator it for, I gave up the driving to Tommy. Once the stresses of driving were firmly on Tom's shoulders (poor lad) we had a grand time. The southern coast of France is kind of like a southern Spanish mountain town, a tropical island and South Beach, Florida all rolled into one. There is money, money and more money everywhere...giant yachts the size of small oceanliners dot the coast. Cannes' main boulevard is a who's who of high-end retail, omega, fendi, prada, louis vuitton etc... etc... But if that can be overlooked (cuz I'm not particularly moved or awed by riches) the natural surroundings are amazing, the people are much friendlier than Parisians and the geographic proximity of Italy means that the food is divine. In the spirit of South Beach, Art Deco is also alive and well on the French coast...from typography to architecture to landscaping, it is Art Deco heaven (if yer into that which I am.) And all of this Deco-ness was interspersed with timeless French architecture with it's wide wooden shuttered buildings with ornate wrought-iron balconies. Add to the mix, the mediterreanean influence of the red tiled roofing, the tropical plants in terracotta pots, ornate mosaic tiling and marble sidewalks and you have the South of France. A melting pot of loveliness. My only compaint is my own gluttony. When it comes to cheese, I have no brakes...There were thin crust pizzas covered with gooey mozzerella and fresh vegetables. There were salads with thick slices of goat's cheese. There were cheese plates with melting triangles of brie (and a whole baguette to spread it on.) There was creme caramel and creme brulee with a perfectly caramalized, crunchy, sugared crust. There was fish with creamy sauce and fresh herbs. There was gelato, hazelnut flavored and honey and pine nut flavored and plain old chocolate flavored. And it was all love and all good. In addition to the olive oil, and pistacho nougat, and apricot jam, and ceramics and sunglasses that I brought home to Ireland, I also brought home the world's worst dairy induced stomach ache ever...I may have to go on a vegan detox now ;) but hell, it was worth it.

One of Many Artists on the Square - Cannes, France

Saturday Market in Cannes
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

Click the pic to see Cannes, Saint Tropez, Nice and Monaco. All stunning.