I know why you really read this...

Don't worry, I'd have to live her for 30 years before I would run out of new Irish slang for the blog. I'll take a break from discussing the meaning of life to bring you more of what you really want... Working in an office is an endless source of new slang... I practically have enough to write a book so here's a few of my new favorites:

Nosebag: Heard this one the other day while eating lunch with the co-workers and no, it doesn't have anything to do with white powder or American Psycho. One of the co's leaned over to the other and asked him, "Good nosebag?" In the great tradition of animal feed...I guess, she was asking him if his food was nice.

On the batter: There are so many ways to describe being on the piss in this place, it's truly amazing. Not sure where this one comes from unless it's a reference to the battering your head takes after a night of hard drinking.

A cuppa / A Rosie / Scald: In the words of Death Cab for Cutie, they're all, "different names for the same thing," that most important and ubiquitous drink, tea. Everyone in my office drinks at least three cups a day (and some as many as seven) so it's no surprise that there should be so many monikers for it. Several times a day I'm asked, "Anyone for a cuppa?" The less used cup of Rosie is one of those cockney rhyming things...A cup of Rosie Lee / Tea. I have absolutely no clue who she is and so far no one in the office does either...It's a mystery. A cup of scald is my favorite...so rough and ready and given how many times I burn the shite out of my mouth everyday, it's well apt.

Hummin: This one came up when we were trying to brainstorm a campaign for a bank at work and I found out that someone who's humming isn't necessarily singing in the rain. Said hummer is in fact just a smelly b*stard. Can be applied equally well to people or things... "That bathroom is hummin' since you've been in there." Quite a good one I think, especially for things that smell so bad, they're practically vibrating. I can think of a few people who fit the description but I suppose I won't name and shame you, ya smelly feckers.

Well, the list goes on but my lunch break doesn't so the rest will have to wait. Happy Tuesday, hope yer all enjoying yer nosebag and a cuppa.

The Grim Reaper at the Door

I don't mean to be morbid but I've been thinking a lot lately about mortality. I found out yesterday that my English Professor from Hampshire College recently died at the age of 40 from Leukemia leaving behind a wife and children and a life only half lived. Looking through the Hampshire memorial section, I found three women ex-hampshire grads who all died last September in freak traffic accidents within 5 days of eachother. All we're young, recent grads, 21 or 22 years old and apparently well loved (although not known by me). I'm currently waiting for news on another person, a family friend to find out the extent of the Cancer eating into him (and the Dr's seem to be stringing him along - but that's another story all together.) Heard an anecdote at work the other day about a woman from Donegal, 32 years old, who felt ill a few weeks ago and died of Leukemia within a few days, again leaving small children behind.

We try to fool ourselves. I suppose we have to in order to function. We have to tell ourselves it won't happen to us. But who's to say. I sometimes wake up in the morning and think, today could be the last day of my life and I just don't know it yet. I was reading the blog of a friend this morning who was talking about the nature of fear and how sleeping outside in the pitch dark with nature's sounds all around made her think about the rise of religion and superstition and all the rest of it. We need to think that we're not alone in the dark. We need to think that our teddybear nightlight is powered by more than just electricity and that our mother will protect us from anything that might be lurking under the bed.

It would be so much easier to believe in a god in the sky, to really believe in that old lady phrase, "It was just her time," to be able to look up and think that there is a master plan, a method to the madness but I can't help thinking, when I lie in bed at night that shit just happens, randomly and for no good reason. Children are left without parents, Parents are left without children, grave injustices are perpetuated all over the world by the hands of other humans or the hands of fate or just plain bad luck.

My question is this, How do you live with this knowledge? How do you go about the mundane details of your day knowing how fragile and precious your life really is? How do you let the people you love walk out the door, knowing the world is out there for better or worse? I've always been a sensitive, ruminating type person but I can't possibly be the only person who thinks about these things and millions of people get out of bed every morning without a god to hold their hand, myself included. For those of us who don't prescribe to a religion with a big pappa in the clouds, who live without that teddy bear nightlight, where do you find your meaning, comfort and solace? How do you make sense of the monsters under the bed who are so much worse than you ever thought they were as a child?

A Softer, Silkier Rain with half the fat and twice the fibre?

I should credit the following poem but to be honest, I'm not sure who wrote it. It came to me from my most fabulous mother who still manages to be the hippest 60something I know.

Hard Rain

After I heard It's a Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall
played softly by an accordion quartet
through the ceiling speakers at the Springdale Shopping Mall,
I understood there's nothing
we can't pluck the stinger from,

nothing we can't turn into a soft drink flavor or a t-shirt.
Even serenity can become something horrible
if you make a commercial about it
using smiling, white-haired people

quoting Thoreau to sell retirement homes
in the Everglades, where the swamp has been
drained and bulldozed into a nineteen-hole golf course
with electrified alligator barriers.

You can't keep beating yourself up, Billy
I heard the therapist say on television
to the teenage murderer,
About all those people you killed—
You just have to be the best person you can be,

one day at a time—

and everybody in the audience claps and weeps a little,
because the level of deep feeling has been touched,
and they want to believe that
the power of Forgiveness is greater
than the power of Consequence, or History.

Dear Abby:
My father is a businessman who travels.
Each time he returns from one of his trips,
his shoes and trousers
are covered with blood-
but he never forgets to bring me a nice present;
Should I say something?
Signed, America.

I used to think I was not part of this,
that I could mind my own business and get along,

but that was just another song
that had been taught to me since birth—

whose words I was humming under my breath,
as I was walking through the Springdale Mall.



Too bad I spent my day creating posters for a building society so that it can more effectively peddle its personal loans to entrepreneurs and suckers alike... "I'm only a pawn in their game..."

How Now Brown Cow

Okay so I did have a tan (a fairly dark one) and I did ask a question about Malaysia, but still...

I was at a wedding, less than 24 hours after landing in Ireland from Boston, I found myself in Belfast at said wedding schmoozing with people I sort of knew and plenty of people that I knew not at all. Tom's cousin had been showing off his Malaysian made suit earlier in the evening and pointing out how finely crafted it was. I saw another guy who had a similar looking suit (and a similar looking face - probably a brother or cousin of the Malaysian suit wearer) and I asked him if he also had his suits made in Malaysia...His wife (I think) looked at me in response and asked if I was Malaysian... Huh. I've been mistaken for many ethnicities...Spanish, Jewish, French but never in my whole life has anyone looked at me and thought, small Asian Island chain... To make matters even stranger, I was asked earlier in the evening by another wedding guest if I was from Belfast. An easy mistake, you might say, except this woman had heard me speaking more than a few sentences and unless she was asking me if I was from Belfast, ME, I really don't know how my Yank accent could have been missed...

So now I'm not sure if I'm exotic, ethnicity unknown in the eyes of the Irish or one of the locals...talk about Identity crisis. Tom's granny refers to me as the dark one (when she remembers me at all) but I think this is meant as a compliment or at least a simple descriptor to help her failing memory. How strange and somewhat wonderful to be exotic...except when I'm not... I think I better go research my family tree now... maybe I am actually Malaysian and just don't know it. I'd say cheerio in Malaysian except I don't speak it. So, uh, see ya all later.

a long holiday...

It just doesn't seem right to jump back into ex-pat blogging without some explanation of where I've been for the last five weeks and why I've been away for so long... Most of you already know that I flew back to Boston for September to get married (again - second time, same man.) Wedding planning is first and foremost, ALOT of work so my poor wee blog was deprived. Apologies to all who were waiting with baited breath for the next installment ;).

To make a very long story a little shorter, here are some of the highlights of the month and season o' the wedding:

The shower: A Barbecue where it didn't rain and we managed to eat dinner for 40 (even though there were less than twenty of us there.) Tom called on the telly and somehow managed to talk shit to Marina about her new voiture and didn't get his teeth handed to him (he was 5,000 miles away afterall.) Lorraine coined the term vagiterian...don't ask... and I found myself the new owner of red silk lingerie and a pepper grinder with multiple settings (among other lovelies...) I also ate my face off...did I mention that. Culinary deliciousness by mom and the ladies. You go.

The Hen: Margarita's and Mexican food. The introduction of long-distance friends and family into my local calling area...heaven. The Cantab lounge where it was the Chicken Slacks (Soul Revival) anniversary gig and involved amazing soul music, a wierd R&B belly dancer, a circus act, and more booze than you can shake a stick at.

The rehearsal dinner: Afternoon mani-pedi's with the ladies, my cuz, my bro's g.f. Between the hair, nails and skin, I've never been so groomed in my life. Grooming follow by Upscale Chinese food (Damn, I really did a lot of eating, no wonder my pants don't fit...) All the Irishies and all the Yanks in one place. Once again, more food than I even thought possible. Beautiful tall vases of flowers, a surprise champagne toast, c/o a most thoughtful and ever generous friend, cosmopolitans, and general good will going on between all present. This month was just a love fest. Seriously. The night was ended with more candle-lit drinks and a swap of family for friends... wine and good conversation and the first time my bro and his friends met up with some of my friends... A crazy mixing of worlds all round. V. Nice.

The wedding: A little breakfast with Tommy boy at our B&B and then more mad grooming, exfoliating, shaving, hair, make-up, and a mad dash from the cosmetics counter back home to don the dress, and all the rest of it...By the time the wedding day actually came, I was much calmer and the pre-wedding preparations were a (mostly) happy chaos which involved running around my crowded house in a bustier and knickers yelling, "just pretend I'm wearing a bathing suit." Thanks to extreme helpfullness on the part of my friend/photographer and M.O.H/Cousin, it all came together pretty damn well and we made it to the venue on-time and in Beamer style. I was well nervous about the ceremony but managed not to trip over myself on the way down the aisle and while I was more fancy-pants looking than ever before, I still felt like myself, no long trainy bullshit or veil over my face or drag-queen make-up. I had always imagined that I would be completely stressed out during my own wedding but I have to say, I had a fukking blast. It really was a stellar, stellar, day. Beautiful tall orchids in black pots, that dappled autumn light everywhere, people handing me delicious things to eat and drink and most importantly, the company of almost all of my favorite people in one place all looking relaxed and happy. I could go on and on and tell you about the Irish musicians, or the mojitos or the giant vase of lemons and sprays of yellow and green flowers but I'll save the details for my journal and not bore you all with them. Needless to say, it was a peak experience for me, and all the more so for being mostly unexepectedly wonderful. I was never one of those little girls who played bride or imagined my wedding day. I never really gave it much thought at all... but it is definitely something I'll look back at more fondly than I ever looked forward to it. It really rocked.

Post-Wedding: More eating (of course). A brunch the next day...something like a mini-wedding part two (or three?) with bagels and quiches and casual clothes. One last hurrah before people started catching flights back from whence they came. The day ended with a drive to the end of the Cape (Cod that is...) and a search in the dark for our holiday house. The week on the Cape was a very, "This is your life," moment where people came and went, Irish and Americans, family and friends, and we had leisurely dinners, and gorgeous bike-rides, swims in the crisp atlantic, sunbathing, picnics, walks through provincetown admiring art galleries and drag queens, raw oysters on the pier, barbecues, afternoon naps... I had forgotten how much I love New England, how much I love warm, sunny, weather and wild atlantic beaches and quirky New Englanders who are everything from whiskery, reticent, fishermen, to half-dressed flamboyant hippies, to sunburned tourists with melting icecream cones... I love it all. Really I do.

In the interest of not writing a novel and completely intimidating any potential readers, I leave it here, the hole in my blog writing sufficiently filled. I'm back in Dublin and attempting to get back into the routine of my life here... Alas, the party's officially over, time to jump back into life as a stranger in a strange land. I'll keep y'all posted.

-D.

The hardwork of being a girl

Fuuuuuuuuukkkkkkkkkk. I have been spray tanned, had my face prepped and primed and cleaned and coloured, had my hair coloured and sprayed and pinned and teased, had my boobs stuck into a madonna style bra that goes from my armpits to my waist in order to fit into a dress with a 27 inch waist. I've been moisturized and exfoliated and moisturized some more. The make-up artist at mac reccommended a 300 dollar facial to get rid of the "dead skin" and "fine lines and wrinkles" on my face (as if! 300 feckin dollars. They better fill my fine lines with gold leaf for that price.)

I guess there's a reason why celebrities look so good. It's a fulltime job and requires a bigtime pocketbook to look that sparkly. I feel like a mastercard ad: cut and highlight $200, wedding make-up done by goth guy wearing rainbow eyeshadow, $45. Nervous breakdown caused by wedding planning overload... priceless.

Why wasn't I born a boy? Shit, shower and shave sounds pretty fukin fabulous to me right now.

Why I hate Aer Lingus - Part II

I should have titled this entry, why I love the Shannon Airport - Part I but since I like to complain, I'll just gloss over the fact that the Shannon airport has free wifi which does actually rock when you find that your flights been delayed for an hour and you've already been waiting an hour for said connecting flight. Bast*rds. So, here I am in Shannon, been here since around 2pm and my flight was supposed to leave 15 minutes ago. Argh. So close and yet so far... I am actually dreaming of homemade pesto and tomatoes from my parents garden and yet... am surrounded by rambunctious American children, giant bags of tayto and cadbury vending machines, all conspiring to make me a) cranky and b) fat. I will do my best to love the wifi and stave off a desire to eat ten bags of crisps and someday, gawdwilling, I'll see you all in Boston. At least, I've managed to escape from the mid-western jesus-geeks student group I was traveling with from Dublin. The best shirt yet: GAP (in giant letters, not unlike the ubiquitous clothing brand of sweatshop fame). Underneath the words GAP, the phrase: God Answers Prayers. Well, jesus, if yer up there, can you get me to Boston sometime this century??? Onwards and upwards.

From A to Zed

Here's another batch of Irishisms for the foreign ear. I never get tired of this.

Naf - Usage: "That club sounds completely naf with its lads in track suits dancing to white boy hip-hop." Have to say I love this one... almost as good as manky, naf is used to describe something supremely cheesy, tacky or otherwise lame.

Gaff - Today is rhyming day. Don't ask me why I decided that naf has one f but gaff has two... but it's my blog so I get to do the spelling. The plaid carpeting in my gaff is completely naf so it is. I really do have green and orange plaid carpeting in my apartment and it is quite eye-catching - in a bad way. For those of you who've seen it, I apologize, for those of you who haven't, come visit. You can sleep in the spare bedroom with it's equally naf, nautical wallpaper.

In case you haven't copped on to the definition of gaff, mine is clearly a wonder of modern interior design. So much better than calling it an apartment or a flaaaaatttt.

Holliers - Just as I had embraced calling them, "holidays" and dispensed with the yankophile, "vacation," I find that I'm still out -o- the loop. Holliers, baby. The beautiful thing is that I'm actually on my "holliers" starting tomorrow when I fly off to warmer climates and an office-free lifestyle. I'm all for it.

Half-inch - More fun with rhyming. To "half-inch" is to pinch. As in, I'm going to half-inch Tom's suncream tomorrow when I fly off on my holliers to warmer climates and leave him to the cool Irish shores. In case you're incredibly thick, to "pinch" something is to steal / gank / obscond with items that are not rightfully yours.

Buck your ideas up - This one only really works if you have a strong Northy accent and an air of righteous indignation about you. It basically means, "Get it together... sort yourself out... catch yourself on." Example, if Tom thinks I'm doing the dishes after I cooked him the loveliest meal of the century he will be bucking said ideas up...

I didn't just lick that off a stamp - This one implies that the speaker can back up his facts, that it came from a reputable source. Heard spoken during a meeting by the most bad-ass, tattooed web developer while dropping f-bombs left and right and telling us wild stories of corporate conspiracies. This guy went on, no holds barred in a room full of suits throughout the wankiest marketing meeting ever. Fair play... or in American, you go. I'll take a geek over a marketing exec any day.

So there ya go. Pretty soon I'll be playing on the other side of the pond. Hopefully, you've learned your lessons well and when I half-inch the last piece of cake at our next dinner pahty, you can tell me to buck my ideas up.

cheers. see you all on the flipside.

It's a small world afterall...

Have had many six (or fewer) degrees of separation moments lately... the strangest being that I met one of my present co-workers over a year ago and we only recently figured this out. We were being being tortured by having to attend one of those ubiquitous "networking," events. From Ireland to California, these things are the same load of sh*te. Fingers foods and fake smiles and handshaking and self-promotion. Gross. I was being introduced to many by my companion (who it must be said was trying to be helpful) and I met my current co-worker in her previous job in another design agency. We were both pretty uncomfortable and immediately escaped to the snacks and wine table and set upon the mini-quiches and the glasses of wine and agreed that except for the mini-quiche, this shindig was indeed horrible. A few weeks into my current job, this networking debacle came up and a few minutes later, it all became clear. Stranger still, we never would have pieced this together had my current company not been doing work with my original companion who invited me to the networking whoredom. Confused? So am I. Dublin is a tangled web of people who all know someone's brother's sister's nephew and it's even more magnified in the little world that is design.

The other night, I was out for a few pints. I arrived with my current co-worker and met up with his girlfriend who I had met before since she is close mates with someone who dates someone who works at another company I used to do work for. Other people from this other company were also there as was a coworker of my coworker's girlfriend (ha. Try sorting that one out.) This person turned out to be the sister of someone I worked with at yet another design studio and I had met her once before at a design lecture. It's a small island afterall.

more euros please

Sitting here in the office (have actually been working in one all summer) and just heard on the radio that Dublin is the 8th most expensive city in the world to live in... that's IN THE WORLD... shit. As I was going off to the bathroom to slit my wrists, the radio announcer said that this fact doesn't particularly matter as Dubliners are paid relatively more than people living in other cities... I dunno if I'm convinced. I think I should get a raise.

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.

Bon Jour Provence!

A mini-break has been scheduled at last. Can't wait. Tommy and I are headed off to the French Riviera this week. We fly into Nice and are staying in a hotel in Cannes. I'm planning to eat my face off, rent a bike and tour around the coast, drink lots of regional red wine, and check out a few sites including the Matisse and Chagall Museums in Nice. Good stuff. Needless to say, I'll be coming back with lots of pics for the blog. If anyone has been to Provence / Cote d'azur / French Riviera and has any tips for us, they would be well appreciated. If not, Au Revoir pour Maintenant... Talk soon.

(Do) Good things come in Threes?

Three months and counting...until the big three-oh (30). I'd like to pretend that this doesn't concern me, that it's just a number and I can cope perfectly well with change of all sorts...but obviously, that would be a big fat lie. There's something symbolic about thirty... as if it's the final hurdle to true adulthood and once past it, you can no longer consider quitting your job and backpacking through India, piercing your tongue, or wearing your hair in pigtails. Might as well just give up, sit back in my Ikea kitted out apartment, work late nights to further my, "career," and add to my wine rack. Except that I don't have an Ikea kitted out apartment, my career appears to be, "on-hold" and my commitment to it tenuous at best, and any wine that enters my house gets consumed before it could form any semblence of a collection. ...And therein lies the problem. I think I assumed that I would have it all figured out by now, that I would have published a novel, become the new basquiat or Beth Orton, won a gold medal in the Olympics, or at least turned into a jaded but successful corporate whore with a plasma screen TV and open-plan flat. Thirty always seemed both so old and so far away... and here it is. And I'm still broke, still renting, still trying to sort out a viable career that doesn't make me want to rip my hair out, and still waiting to be able to go into some yuppie wine-bar and drink expensive bottles of French wine without looking at the price tag.

I know, I know...poor me with my oh-so difficult life. I do realise that I've got it really, really, good in comparison to many and I honestly do appreciate that. But Thirty does give one pause and I really can't help but take stock and ask myself if my life is living up to my expectations (which admittedly are a little high.) I think I will raise my kids to be happy janitors. ;) When I was a kid, I really thought that I was special, that I would grow up to be an exemplary adult and I would change the world in some way or accomplish something really notable. Remember those books about Harriet Tubman, or Thomas Edison or the guy who invented penicillin that you used to read in school... and your teachers would give you that schpiel about how these people believed in themselves and distinguished themselves from the pack and all that cult of individuality stuff. Maybe they should have just told us straight up: You guys are not that special and most likely you will grow up to be middle managers or sell car stereos, or work in a toothpaste factory and the sooner you get used to that idea, the better. Oh and while we're at it, there's no Santa Claus and no Easter Bunny and someday a long way in the future, you will probably have no teeth and need to wear adult diapers. Maybe they should just get it all out of the way early and spare us the disappointment. ;)

On a more positive note, I suppose turning thirty makes me realise that, in the words of the prophetic, John "Cougar" Mellencamp, "your life is now." There's no putting off your dreams... so I guess I had better start writing my novel now. ;)

Happy Paddy's!

Hey All,

Hope that wherever you are in the world that the weather is better than it is here in Dublin. Lots to do but it is as they say here, "a duvet day". Open fire and a copy of The Quiet Man would be more appropriate that going outside.

Tom and I had a late night last night and so are getting a late start this morning. We decided to celebrate Paddy's Eve with Italian food and Russian Vodka...haha. Actually, we had a great, great night out. Went to Dublin's Italian quarter (very small but very authentic.) We went to an Italian Wine Bar called Enotecha Delle Langhe and oh, the deliciousness. Lovely, spicy, glasses of Italian Red Wine in big-bowled delicate wine glasses. We also had a board of crostinis: toasted italian bread with, pesto, or sweet roasted peppers, or tomatoes, or courgettes in a tasty, slightly garlicy mash. Yum. After that, we murdered a Caprese, made with the most luscious mozzerella, fresh tomatoes, greens, and garnished with proper olive oil and balsamic. Absolute Heaven, I'm telling you. The atmosphere in the place was great too. We sat at the bar but the place is small and packed with rustic wooden tables and even a sofa or two. Left feeling more satisfied than I have in a long time. Post-prandial, we went into Pravda, the Russian themed bar (like the People's Republic on a grand scale.) I had been there a few times but never noticed that they had a sizable Stoli collection behind the bar. Oh Stoli, how I have missed you. Nursed a Stoli vanilla and Coke in the upstairs bar and looked down into the main bar where they where showing the cheesiest leprachaun film I have ever seen. Top o' the mornin' to ya and all that fiddle-dee. Bryce and Michelle came out and met us and we found a table and just kicked it for a while. Good food, good drink, good company. Good Stuff huh?

Well, get out yer leprachaun hat and your plastic ass cheeks with pog mo ghoin (sp?) written on them. Yikes. Every other sad bastard in Dublin will be donning their pseudo-leprachaun gear and if you can't beat 'em, join 'em...haha. Have a lovely Paddy's and try not to drink any green beer.

A Very Long Engagement

the ring, the rose, the champers in a plastic cup
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

...or a very short one as the case may be. We may have been married for months but the engagement has just begun. haha. The ring we designed was finished last week and Tom and I took a hike up the Cave Hill in Belfast where I got my first look at it (along with a rose and some champers.) He even remembered the plastic cups. What a doll.

Better late than Never

red leaves
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

Click the pic for more Botanic Garden shots (which I know you have all been anxiously awaiting ;) ). You'd never believe this place is in the middle of north inner city dublin. Definitely voted the best place to bring a book and a snack and find some little corner to plunk yourself for an afternoon. Gotta love the life of leisure. (If only I could spend everyday this way.)

All Left Feet

Rioters like shoes. At least, this is what I have to conclude after seeing the destruction wreaked upon Foot Locker and Schuh during the Love Ulster Riots last week. The Irish Daily Mail (not the pinnacle of journalistic integrity but good for a few down and dirty pics) ran front page photos of rioters strolling out of Foot Locker, with armfuls of Adidas bags and Puma trainers. The shoe stores were more wrecked than anything else I saw in all the destruction.

Some of this shoe related bootie included 99 special edition Nikes (retailing for 100 euro a pair). Amazingly, instead of pairs of shoes, the stolen footwear consisted of all left feet which begs the question of what one does with a whole bunch of left feet. Maybe, someone is planning to use them to create a sculptural ode to Nike, or will it be a performance art piece on the Troubles in NI? "We're all left feet up here." Or maybe, someone is planning to start a shoe company for amputees? It is a mystery.

Pancake Tuesday

Okay so it's not as good as Mardi Gras but Pancake Tuesday is what we get around here and it's better than nothin'. Yup, so I bet you non catholics out there didn't realise that today is the day you have the freedom (and one could even say obligation) to eat lots and lots of fried, bready circles...flapjacks, crepes, pancakes... If it's got flour, eggs and butter than get to it.

This tradition apparently started because during lent yer supposed to give up all the good stuff (good stuff being, butter, eggs, milk and other yumminess) so on Pancake Tuesday (really called Shrove Tuesday) you're suppose to use up all the leftover dairy products in the house and feed everyone pancakes. It's also kind of a last hurrah. Eat up cuz lent is long(ish) and you won't be seeing anymore of this stuff until Easter (when you can once again, gorge yourself on chocolate eggs, chocolate bunnies, and other easter basket lovelies.)

It seems slightly odd how religion so often involves food rituals...whether it's fasting, not eating pork or shellfish, not mixing your meat and dairy or eating fish on Friday... Worship the food, or lack there of it. Is it a pagan thing? Is it that some of these things were practical at some point in history? (It just wouldn't do to have your congregation getting poisoned eating bad meat now would it?)

Well, I'm happy to join in and worship the food (just not the rules) and god knows, my pseudo-vegeterian self can easily live without the meat. (Shellfish on the other hand. Not a chance. A life without oysters is not worth living.)

In my foodie world, an appreciation of glorious culinary delight is enough of a religious experience for me. No one who's tasted a homemade warm piece of banana bread with butter or fresh pasta covered in bright green pesto can tell me that that is not communing with the gods. Thank you to the powers that be (if they be at all) for basil and bananas.

Well, since I'm not a Catholic (at least not a practicing one) I will not be embracing lent and saying goodbye to the eggs and butter but I'm happy to eat some pancakes. Bon appetit.

Up the 'Ra

Well, well, well... arrived back in Dublin today from a lovely but whirlwind trip to the homeland. Came back to find that the city has been rioting in my absence. God Dublin, Can I not leave you alone for 10 days without you wrecking the place?! ;)

The Orangies tried to march down O'Connell Street on Saturday (The Love Ulster Parade) and the hardcore Republicans (and some dodgy apolitical skiprats looking for a piece of the action) didn't take kindly to that...to say the least. In fact, they responded by blocking off the whole parade, throwing halfers at the garda, breaking windows, starting fires, looting, burning out cars and other such proactive and productive behavior designed to facillitate further peace and understanding between these two perpetually warring factions. Oh joy.

Amazingly, the Gardai didn't see this coming and decided not to move all the bricks, curb stones, pebbles, bits of cement and other debris which were piled up all along O'Connell street since the city is in the middle of doing some major road renovations. And yes, hindsight is twenty-twenty and all that but even my foreign ass could have figured out that leaving a whole bunch of potential weapons all over the road and scheduling a politically fraught march down said street might not be a good idea. And now the city is faced with a street full of smashed windows and debris.

Sinn Fein proper is distancing itself from all this debauchery and issued a statement before the parade instructing its constituents to ignore this, "Sectarian parade," and to essentially not take the bait and wreck the place... but like everything in Irish politics, there is Proper Sinn Fein and then there are break off extremist factions (criminals in disguise - in my opinion) like the Continuity IRA who refuse to participate in a cease fire or political negotiations of any kind... and apparently these are the peeps who encouraged skangerville to come out and stop this march by any means possible. But I can't for the life of me, understand how there can be a connection between shouting, "Up the 'Ra," and smashing in the windows to the Kilkenny Design Centre and Nassau Street Cafe... Do they have something against arts and crafts and drinking espresso? "Ah, for the love of the 'Ra, let's go loot Topshop and get ourselves a few new jumpers and while we're at it, what the fuck, lets burn out a few cars cuz ya know, that'll really piss off the brits." It is a mystery.

Don't get me wrong, I'm in no way supporting the Loyalist attempt to walk through the capitol city of the Republic of Ireland (which is notably NOT part of the UK). Bunch of inflammatory w*nkers in my opinion but free speech is free speech and the Nationalist / Republican front have unfortunately made themselves look like a bunch of thugs (which some of them no doubt are) with their destructive response. Sometimes you gotta wonder of it's in our nature as humans to try as hard as we can to destroy eachother and any semblance of civilisation. Feel the love huh?

Inside Out

"And so it happened again, the daily miracle whereby interiority opens out and brings to bloom the million-petalled flower of being here, in the world, with other people. Neither as hard as she had thought it might be nor as easy as it appeared." - Zadie Smith On Beauty

Been doing a lot of reading lately, Zadie Smith, Jeanette Winterson, even some extremely depressing short stories about India which I put down after about 10 pages. As you can probably tell, I've got a lot of time to myself at the moment. Read the passage above and I thought it seemed so fitting of my situation right now. As difficult as it may be to imagine, I am naturally a bit shy. (My old co-worker called me a chatterbox...haha...I was just talking to try and cover up the vast expanses of awkward silences in that job...) Don't get me wrong. I really enjoy being social and being with other people. I actually really need and desire it but before I go out to spend time with people I don't know that well, I always get a little nervous and have to make a conscious effort to reach out and make friends. Maybe I just got too comfortable with the ones I already have. It's nice not to have to explain yourself, not to have to earn intimacy and trust, to be able to show up at someone's house and pull off your shoes and sit on the floor and drink a glass of wine in your socks. That said, once I've made the leap and met up with people it is, like most things, not as hard as I anticipated and usually a pretty good time.

Spending this time by myself can be nice. I've caught up on household chores, done a ton of cooking, taken long walks, went to the lovely Botanic Gardens, read all the novels that were piling up on my bedside table... but it also gives me a lot of time to think which isn't always a completely good thing. Quite easy to get wrapped up in yourself, to start thinking alot about your life, the past, the future... This last week has been quiet and mostly calm but right now, I'm really craving some noise... a room full of ladies drinking wine, eating snacks and shooting the shit. I could really use a good, cynical bitching session about someone's day, their crazy boss or mad mother-in-law or that Newbury Street / D4-head Biatch who stole their parking space. Maybe I just need a little humor / humour interjected into my situation. So many things in this life are made bearable by the fact that they can be made really funny. Maybe the problem is really that I need more people to tell my stories to. Or more stories to listen to. I suppose that's the point of the blog eh? But it is a little cyberspace impersonal and there's no laugh track, not yet anyway.

Well better to be in flux, between jobs, between countries, between cultures, between weddings (?!) than to be stuck in a really unsatisfying routine as had been the case for a while. Would be nice to have a little more expendable cash so I could fly me over some entertainment ;) but I guess it's up to me to make it happen.

Yay to Friday which means that there is human contact on the horizon. I'm off to meet Michelle for lunch (a fellow self-(un)employed-person) and later will be meeting up with Helen and Co. for some (what else) drinks and hopefully a bit-a-craic will be had. I need to get my bookworm ass out of this house.

Will give you all the job low-down shortly but that's a whole other blog entry for another day.

Lotsa-love to me faithful readers.
D.

Shiny Peppers in Clifton, Bristol

Shiny Peppers in Clifton, Bristol
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

...and lots more photographic loveliness. Bristol has the largest concentration of beautiful architecture that I've ever seen in one place...not to mention indoor and outdoor markets, picturesque neighborhoods, seriously old-skool English Pubs and the world's oldest suspension bridge. Pretty damn sweet.

Squids and Yo-Yos

Yes, it's that time...another installation of the foreign language that is Irish-English...and these really take the biscuit:

Slow Coach / Too Big for your Boots / Takes the biscuit: So close and yet so far...They're almost like our expressions but just a little bit different. Makes us look like a bunch of cake eating rednecks...Too big for our britches??? Slow Pokes??? Straight outta that gay cowboy movie...Ye-Haw.

On the Lash / On the Piss / On the tear: It wouldn't be right not to include a few new ways to discuss self-inflicted alcohol poisoning.

A few Scoops / A few jars: If one is on the lash they would be consuming these...well more than a few but you get the idea.

Well-Chuffed: Well pleased. Grand so.

Ah sure it'll be grand: Example: How 'bout that hike up Mt. Everest in our skivvies? Answer: Ah sure it'll be grand.

That's Us / Is that us?: Not a philisophical questioning of the nature of self but in fact just a statement replacing my coveted and much missed, We're all set. Thanks.

A bit o' rough: Heard it used on the radio by a northy guy, "Those English girls are posh and all they want is a bit of rough...and I realised that I am a bit of rough." mmmmmmm. The sexy builder with three days of stubble and a pair of dirty work boots on...also seen on Diet Coke ads circa the 1980s.

How's the form? Yet another way to say, What's the craic?

Not too Bad: This is the Irish "fine thanks." As in: "How's t(h)ings?" Answer: "Not too bad." As if things are always shit but you know, today they're not actually as bad as they usually are... A nation with low expectations????

Heart Scared: Scared shitless, completely freaked out... Boo!

Have ye no homes to go to??: As in: It's 3am and the pub is closed but no one's making a move to go anywhere...The nice way of saying...Get the feck outta here and go home to your beds.

Crackin': term to describe a hottie

HCH: Abreviation for a "High Class Hooker." There's been a two day debate going on on the radio about whether Dublin girls are a buncha HCH's. Or as Kanye would say, "Golddiggaz."

Come on to fuck / Shut up to fuck: Not as bad as it sounds... Just used for emphasis as in: Will you hurry the fuck up? or Shut the fuck up. Not a good one to use when speaking to foreign children...haha (good advice from the creative Ireland forums...)

And last but not least...

Squids and Yo-Yos: More slang for the coveted cash...Quid and Euros being twisted in new and creative ways as in: Give us a few squids will ye? or Why can't I win yoyo millions? (or if Tom is the one talking: Maybe we won yoyo milly's!)

If yer scundered by all these strange and startling uses of the English language...just keep tuning in for more expert translation from yours truly... ;)

Cheers.

Ze Darkness

I was dreading the winter weather this year, imagining lashing down rain every morning but I have to say that it's really not been that bad. There have only been a few mornings where I've had to bring the 'brolly. And stranger still, it has yet to dip below 40 degrees. I'm gonna be in for a serious shock when I visit Boston in February. The hardest thing about Irish winter is something I hadn't anticipated at all and that's the dark. During the shortest days - the sun doesn't even rise until 8:30am and it's pitch black again by 4:30pm. Thankfully, I've noticed that the sky is a lighter, brighter shade of blue in the mornings than it has been which gives me hope. I can't wait for Spring. I guess I'm in the mood for a new beginning. Although I've lived here nearly a year now, I really haven't settled in as much as I'd like. I've heard it said that it takes a year to really get comfortable in a place so I guess I'm looking forward to finding my stride here. Hopefully my next employment will be more well considered than my current one. I really made a balls of that one. The next time I'm about to make a really bad decision like that, can someone please talk me out of it!

On a good note, I'm going to join a casual softball team this spring and the cliquey North Dublin Ladies in my yoga class are actually starting to talk to me now that I've come back for a second semester. Assuming I find a job with less of a commute and more of a social atmosphere, maybe I'll even make a few friends of my own...Imagine that. ;)

I went to a leadership training this week that stressed how important it was to have a bit of craic at work...you know, banter, going out for a pint now and then, eating lunch with someone other than your computer, a bit of goofiness, a christmas party...whatever works. And it is so true. I realised that the jobs I've loved most all had great people and a somewhat social, positive atmosphere.

Well, Here's Hopin'. Please send out good vibes (or sumthin') that I won't become the chronically unemployed, broke as a joke, hermit in this town and that my luck is about to change...

On the Up and Up

I am full of blogging guilt...I've neglected my lonely wee blog for nearly 10 days now...whoops. Well, since I will be leaving my job in 8 days (but who's counting) I'll have lots of time to blog my little heart out (as long as blogging continues to be free cuz I'll be broke as a joke in no time ;) ) Am really looking forward to having a bit of down time and to be bidding farewell to my three hours of commuting every day. I'll miss my cheese and tomahhhhto toasties at the Black Bull on Fridays but when I'm lying in my bed on Feb 1st at 8:07am (instead of sitting on the commuter train) I don't think I'll mind at all.

Am still hoping to win Euro Millions so I can spend my days lying on the beach drinking Mojitos but barring that, I suppose I will have to either become freelancer extraordinaire or get myself another 9-5pm. sigh. I'm such an office bitch. Heard the other day that one has more likelihood of being in three plane crashes than winning said yoyo millions (and thankfully the probability of being in even one plane crash is quite low.) But a girl can dream right? Sugar Daddy where are you?! I simply must work on my tan (and I'm not talking tan-in-a-can here. ;) )

Spent the weekend in Belfast which was surpisingly relaxing. Ate pizza, went for a hike, helped Tom's mum make a veggie lasagna for her book club...Am I becoming too domesticated these days? Shit, I hope I'm not becoming more Desperate Housewives than Sex in the City. I'd rather be Miranda than Susan (who bears a frightening resemblance to Michael Jackson if you look closely) anyday. Well, nonetheless, I got my cook on this weekend (and my eat and drink on as well of course...)

On Saturday afternoon post-hike, Tom and I went into the city centre and finally, designed and ordered an engagement ring...nothing too fancy mind you and no diamonds (just can't get into those) but I think it will be lovely when it's ready....just have to wait four to six weeks. After exercising Tommy's Visa card, we decided to check out this new fancy-pants bar called The Vaudeville. The whole place is full on Art Nouveau...It's like Rennie MacIntosh Tearoom meets a whore's bedroom...lotsa curves, red and black chandeliers with lots of little lampshades, super high ceilings, mosaics, faux-marbles, floor to ceiling mirrors etc.. etc.. The whole effect is slightly tacky but kind of cool. And they have tasty passionfruit martinis to boot. yum.

So starts another week. I'm off to lie on my bed with the electric blanket on full blast reading the Sunday Times...mmmm. Hope you're all well and keepin' warm.

I'm yours

Was walking around city centre today on an errand to pick up a print project at a shop along the quays. It was spitting on me all morning - that light misty rain that just makes you feel damp and frizzy - but it was warmish and I had my ipod so I was enjoying being out and about.

Had some time to kill before the train to Drudgeda so I took myself shopping...well, window shopping anyway. The closest I came to a purchase was a red pleather studded belt that was the enticing price of four euros - but do I really need a red pleather studded belt?? Penney's (nearly) strikes again. While I do love my red, pink and white striped velour track bottoms purchased for six quid at Penneys, they don't always come out with stunning gems such as those... ;) (They're kind of hideous but I really do love them...pure cat in the hat.) At the moment, they have a (not so) charming line of baby tees out for spring that only someone under 14 yrs. old or over 300 pounds ever seem to be seen wearing. You know the kind I'm talking about...T-shirts with two strategically placed peaches, t-shirts that say, cutie pie or maneater, or what are you lookin' at? But today's gem was one that said, "I'm his because he appreciates perfection." Ironically, it seems that the further from perfection that a person actually is, the more likely they are to wear that t-shirt. Skanger - o - matic. Not to get all analytic on y'all but don't you think it's a bit odd that the phrase is I'm his? You would think that if one were in fact the picture of perfection (whatever that is) that you would be claiming this perfection appreciating man as belonging to you, not the other way round. Come lick my boots fecker. (I own you, you sad little worshipping, foot licking man who realises that I am in fact way out of your league but appreciates my flawlessness and therefore I will allow you to do all my cooking and cleaning for an occasional snog.)

I should probably be asking myself how my time came to be spent pondering the grammar of t-shirts purchased by illiterates. (You would have to be illiterate to wear some of these shirts, I'm telling you.) Maybe I should go back and buy the one that says 'Geek' or how 'bout, 'Desperately seeking social contact with people who don't smell.' I'm just sayin'.

It can't be good if you don't feel bad

Okay so people are known to overindulge come the holidays...too much Christmas Pudding...too much strong ale...or whatever else you choose to eat, drink or smoke come December, but apparently we are all supposed to pay for it come January. I know this is a somewhat universal phenomenon (at least in developed nations celebrating winter holidays) but it seems the debauchary and penance are on a whole other level in the olde country - at least in this olde country. The Christmas holidays are long (most people have about 7-10 days off) and Christmas is a BIG DEAL, followed by Boxing day which is just an excuse to keep Christmas going a little longer (not that I'm compaining about any of that.) Point being, that people really get into it...it being Christmas...as well as turkey, ham, stuffing. potatoes (roast, boiled, mashed - usually multiple tatty dishes at each meal), lager, wine (red, white, mulled...even a white zinfandel if yer lucky ;) ), Christmas Cake, Christmas Pudding, Christmas Trifle, Chocolate biscuits, even the occasional (or not so occasional) line of coke, handful of pills or other mind-altering bad boys if yer that way inclined. It is the time to indulge with a capital I. And if I thought the indulgences were extreme, the time to repent is just as intense. Every single billboard between the train station and home is telling me how to, "lose a jean size in two weeks" (just eat crunchy nut cornflakes twice a day - you might be toothless but at least you'll be skinny.) Last night, there were three different documentaries about food, the Detox Diet, Super Size Me and my favorite, a documentary about people who can't stop eating... The first thing I saw tonight when I got off the train was a sign announcing the debut of a book called, "The Family GI Index." Ah, just what every family needs...Honey I think your blood sugar is too high... And my favorite morning radio show read off a list of the top twelve worst toxins to ingest - with the number one baddy being "fizzy drinks," - phew at least there's one thing I don't drink (unless you count the all those jack and cokes I drank last week.)

So, Repent sinners, put down thy chicken leg...get yer fat ass on ye olde treadmill and commune with whole grains and flax seed oil. Catholic guilt is alive and well. I expect this to last about a week before that Guinness arm starts gettin' a wee bit twitchy and you just can't help but exercise - your right to party...up goes the pint, down goes the wallet...hee hee. Happy New Year Everybody. And put down that cookie. ;)

Spotted Dick (no custard)

Spotted_Dick
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

and Microwaveable too!

Spotted Dick with Custard

No, this is not some horrible venereal disease you learn about in sex ed. but is in fact, a (supposedly) desirable and tasty dessert. I was wandering the aisles of Asda (which I recently learned is owned by Walmart...booooooo to the evil empire of Sam) and I came across this unlovely sounding dessert in the freezer section. It looks like some kind of cakey thing with raisins (or should I say sultanas as they are known here.) I just started laughing out loud and until Tom came over to see what I was looking at, all the other people in the aisle probably thought I was off me rocker. But, really. Do you want to eat spotted dick??? Truth really is stranger than fiction.

Alcoholism is alive and well and living in Ireland

Well hello all,

Hope everyone had a happy-scrappy holiday season. (Mine is still in full swing.) Love that vacation time.

Christmas in Ireland was as good as it possibly could be (given that I'm away from home and my peeps.) I made Christmas eve dinner (Lasagne of the vegetarian variety, stuffed mushrooms, salad, brownies) and nothing was burnt or frozen or otherwise debacled. Food was delicious if I do say so myself and Tom's family (+ Christopher and Danny) seemed to like it. It was nice to give a little back considering how often I'm fed and watered by Tom's parents.

Christmas itself was fairly mellow, pressies, tasty dinner, plenty of wine and various relatives and friends "calling 'round," to say hello and have a drink or a snack and a bit a craic. I got some lovely presents including a day at a spa in Dublin from Tommy...mmmmm Think I'll avoid the facials though ;)

Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing day nights were all, proper, "piss ups," translation - nights out on the drink - although I make no attempt at this point to keep up with either the drinks or the late nights and took myself home in a taxi on Christmas night around 1am. Didn't want to turn into a pumpkin or anyt'ing... Boxing night was the best night out by far as a good 20 of Tom's friends all congregated at the Spring and Air Brake (strange name for a club eh?) and there were kickass DJs (one being a lady DJ amd good as shit.) It was nice to see all of Tommy's peeps as I think I've met them all by now and can be a bit more relaxed hanging out. have really enjoyed seeing Christopher (who used to live in Boston) and Gavin (who we visited in London) and some of Tom's other friends who I've become kinda fond of.

The down side of all this Christmas revelry is exactly that. Everyone uses the holiday as an excuse to get absolutely blocked. I am by no means a teetotaler (sp?) but it's a little excessive even for me. It's also strange to see the older generation off their heads...I have seen so many of Tom's friends parents in full drunken merriment which is just, well, odd. Or maybe what's really strange to me is how normal that is to everyone else. I realized the other day that I have never seen my own parents or their friends (with a few notable exceptions) really, properly, speech slurring, staggeringly drunk. No doubt, I have seen them indulge in a few too many glasses of wine and get a little bleary-eyed and talkative but this shit is on a whole other level. That said, it is pretty amazing, the honesty you get from people when they've been on the drink all day. It does give me a bit of insight into this culture and this world and some of the people in it. And it can't be said that Belfast don't know how to party. The craic is present and accounted for. It is a world where your most lively night on the piss would be undistinguishable from its landscape and notable only for the hangover (and maybe not even for that.) And it's on those days, that I feel most keenly, that the way I see and experience this country, is through the eyes of a foreigner. That I am different somehow and experiencing things from an entirely different angle from those around me. It does sharpen the senses (except when it dulls them...another shot maybe???) I can't say it's not interesting.

FYI, went out to one of the locals last night and did pub quiz with Tom and friends and one of the questions asked was, "In what US city does the drama Ali McBeal take place?" A question made for yours truly. It takes place in a wicked pissa city dude. I'll leave it to you to figyah out which one. All in all, we came in Second Place and won ourselves ten quid (which was quickly spent on you'll never guess what.) Have to say that I have become a big fan of pub quiz...might have to start being a pub quiz geek...haha. Just don't ask me any questions about East Enders or Manchester United. Kylie who?

Hope you're all enjoying this winter break and have yerselves a happy new year. Oh and of course, Happy Birthday Megs as today is yer day. Hope it's great.

Charlie Brown Christmas Tree

Charlie Brown Christmas
Originally uploaded by di_juice.

In da house...