To the Writers and Producers of 'Leap Year':
I went to a 10:20 viewing of this film, and despite my vain attempts to wash away the memories with a cheeseburger and a lot of Pepsi at the Hard Rock Cafe in Dublin for lunch, the bad taste you left in my mouth is still quite strong.
The opening shot of your film is of my beloved city, Boston. I actually had a glimmer of hope that this movie would turn out okay. Ten minutes and one million mistakes later, I was wrong. So very wrong.
Um, have you ever heard of a fact checker? It might be worth hiring someone to make sure you're telling a feasible story. Where do I begin. First of all, next time you film a 'Boston pub scene' make sure the actors are drinking Sam Adams. I mean, it's the small touches that count.
Aer Gaelic - nice touch. I know Aer Lingus would have probably charged you a shit load in appearance fees, but we need to talk about the plane. A tiny plane that seats two and two WOULD NOT FLY OVER THE ATLANTIC. It's too small. It would never happen. Even J.Lo probably has to stop in Iceland to refuel. It's science.
And when the flight suddenly experienced turbulence and the oxygen masks fell down - was Amy Adams flying Ryanair? And why was 'Dublin International Airport' closed? Because of turbulence? Or because it was raining? And do you realize how dumb it would be for Dublin Airport to close 'due to rain?' It rains every Goddamned day. And why the HELL would you divert to Cardiff and not Shannon? Or Knock? OR MANCHESTER!?
The whole premise of this movie is that Amy Adams wants to propose to her boyfriend on February 29th as per Irish Tradition. This is not actually a tradition. So Little Miss travels to Dublin, Ireland (oh don't worry, they included the 'Ireland' in their script so we wouldn't confuse it with the better known Dublin, Ohio, USA) to propose to her special man friend. After the flight is diverted, she lands in Wales and storms up to the Aer Gaelic desk and demands a flight to Dublin that night. She has to be there today. The hilarious airline staff tell her it's a no-go and she's forced to take a boat across.
So the boat goes from Cardiff....to Cork. But - the sea is angry that day and the boat is diverted to.....Dingle. Writers and producers - have you looked at a map of Ireland? I get that you have to throw in some hilarious scenarios as means to an end, but it would help a lot if you boned up on your geography. To get to Dingle, the boat has to sail pretty much all around the southern Irish coast. It's beyond absurd - it's totally unrealistic.
Moving on - Amy gets to Dingle and finds a cab driver who is also played by Matthew Goode, a British actor with the WORST Irish accent I have ever heard. I mean - he makes Brad Pitt's turn in 'The Devil's Own' seem natural. Why did you hire a British actor, Hollywood? Did Colin Farrell pass? Was Jonathan Rhys Meyers busy with 'The Tudors?' Was Cillian Murphy doing another film? You know, there are other actors in Ireland, and not just Liam Neeson. So our hero, Matty, takes Amy from Dingle to Dublin - but not without a few obstacles!
It's at this point we find out she has two days to get to Dublin. Sure makes her rush to find a boat to Ireland seem like a bit of a hasty move, eh? She could have just flown in the next day!
To make a long story even longer, it takes Amy and Matty the full two days to get to Dublin's fair city, but they make it there eventually. Sure, they missed their train (nice shout out to Iarnrod Eireann there) because it doesn't run on Sundays (FALSE,) and end up going to a wedding and then getting a bus to Enniskerry, where they sleep on a park bench. There is a panning shot of their cozy slumber bench, and a Dublin Bus stop can be seen. In case you were wondering, the Dublin Bus is a bus that would take them directly to Dublin. You have them wait for Bus Eireann instead. They get to Dublin City Centre eventually, are dropped off in Merrion Square and yet, walk through St. Stephen's Green to the hotel. When they finally reach the hotel, Amy's boyfriend spots here and, you guessed it, proposes. Boring.
I won't spoil the ending, but it involves her moving to Ireland to marry Matthew Goode and then them going on their 'honeymoon' driving across Ireland. And where did she get her GNIB card, I wonder? City Hall in Dingle? I doubt it.
Writers and producers, I could have written a better story about the contents of my trash can. And it would have been geographically accurate and feasible. CHECK YOUR FACTS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. And to those who haven't seen it: Save your money.
You failed, Leap Year.
Signed,
Liz
PS I did have great company, though.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
I Talk About Her A Lot...
Because she is awesome.
Fact: A child this adorable exists.
Play us off, Keyboard Darcy!
Fact: She is my niece.
Fact: She is smiling at my Dad, her Grandfather, who is out of shot.
Fact: I love her.
Fact: I miss her.
After dusting the floor, Lil D contemplates Pots and Pans drum practice.
Fact: A child this adorable exists.
Fact: She is my niece.
Fact: She is smiling at my Dad, her Grandfather, who is out of shot.
Fact: I love her.
Fact: I miss her.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
On Cats
I love cats.
How cute are they! And the kittens? Oh my stars - kittens! I love them. I gush about them and do the obligatory 'Aaaawwwww look at this little KITTY!!!' and then point at them with stars in my eyes.
See!? I'm not totally heartless!
When we were kids, we had cats. The first time we got them was in the late 80s, and we loooved them. We didn't all get them at the same time, but we all managed to have a cat. I call those years 'The Boom Years.' My older sister's cat was named Calico. Because it was a Calico cat. She named it. My younger sister Molly had Shannon and then a kitten she named Patches. My youngest sibling, my brother Mark, had a cat that was all gray. He named his cat Graveyard. Appropriate? Yes. The best name ever? Yes. Second only to Grape Juice, but she'll come later. I got my cat from a farm in the area. More like rescued it from a MEAN DOG that kept trying to bite it's ear off. That little dude's name was Scoop. We made up a lot of songs for Scoop. He was a good cat.
All these cats lived with us in harmony until eventually, they all took off (probably to the cat commune in the woods, but we'll never know. We had 2 acres.)
We had outdoor cats because my parents don't really like animals in the house, especially with 4 children. So the cats lived the high life outside, and got shelter in our shed during the winter months. We still provided them with food and water.
So once all the cats had taken off, we were sad. Because we liked the cats and now all we had to entertain us was The Oregon Trail. Not as fun.
One year, Kate's friend Jess got Kate a new kitten for her birthday. It was a black lady cat that Kate named October. October eventually got word of the cat commune in the Hermit Hut and probably took off to practice free love with other cats. A few months later, we found her in the shed with a trio of new kittens. It was obvious to us that October and Scoop had reproduced, because in the trio of new kittens was the exact opposite of Scoop - gray where Scoop was white, and white where Scoop was gray.
This Bizarro Scoop cat was named Tigger. Probably the worst name in our cat naming history, but there you have it. Mom gave Tigger away to Kate's friend Jen, and Tigger lived a long and healthy life.
Fast forward to the year 2000. At this point, Kate was living in Tampa with her future husband and they got a cat. An all-white cat that Jay named Grape Juice, which, for various reasons, really solidified his place in our family. They found out that Grape Juice had feline AIDS, and eventually, Grape Juice was no more. Around September/October of that year, they got another cat. This cat was to be known as The Greatest Cat of All Time. And I know this because I went to visit Kate in October and met:
Quincy.
I met Quincy when he was just a little bitty kitten. Quincy was a Manx which means he had no tail. One could argue this made him a more lovable cat. Quincy also purred like a jackhammer on a sidewalk. Quincy loved everyone and if he was a human, he'd be named Mike Anderson because he was the kind of cat/guy that everyone loved and everyone invited everywhere, and doesn't Mike Anderson sound like the name of the life of the party?
Quincy lived with Kate through thick and thin, and eventually, when I moved in with Kate and lived in her cellar (see - I have previous experience as a cellar troll), Quincy and I became the best of buddies. Quincy would scratch on my door in the morning to wake me up like a little four legged alarm clock. I in turn would walkie-talkie Kate to wake her up, and we'd commute to Boston for work.
Quincy once even saved our lives. Fact. We were in the living room upstairs and Quincy kept running up and down the stairs, stopping in front of us, staring at us, and then running back down the stairs. And repeat. We eventually were like 'What is it boy?' And went downstairs. The water heater was leaking! The cellar was slightly flooded! (Okay so it's not like he pulled us out of a burning building, but think of the damage he prevented by being the smartest and most loyal cat ever!)
Kate got another cat around that period that she named Dunkin (as in Donuts) but Dunkin had a bout with cat tranquilizers during a move from Florida to Massachusetts and was forever changed. He was a good enough cat, but hissed if he didn't know you. And when he sat in your lap, you were paralyzed with fear until he fell asleep or got tired of sitting on your lap and left the room.
So my point is this. While I don't care for dogs and that clearly has ruffled a lot of feathers, and while I don't care for 99% of other animals, I love cats.
So this one is for you, Quincy. You were a great cat. Even though you died a few years ago, you are never far from our thoughts. May you rest in peace.
How cute are they! And the kittens? Oh my stars - kittens! I love them. I gush about them and do the obligatory 'Aaaawwwww look at this little KITTY!!!' and then point at them with stars in my eyes.
See!? I'm not totally heartless!
When we were kids, we had cats. The first time we got them was in the late 80s, and we loooved them. We didn't all get them at the same time, but we all managed to have a cat. I call those years 'The Boom Years.' My older sister's cat was named Calico. Because it was a Calico cat. She named it. My younger sister Molly had Shannon and then a kitten she named Patches. My youngest sibling, my brother Mark, had a cat that was all gray. He named his cat Graveyard. Appropriate? Yes. The best name ever? Yes. Second only to Grape Juice, but she'll come later. I got my cat from a farm in the area. More like rescued it from a MEAN DOG that kept trying to bite it's ear off. That little dude's name was Scoop. We made up a lot of songs for Scoop. He was a good cat.
All these cats lived with us in harmony until eventually, they all took off (probably to the cat commune in the woods, but we'll never know. We had 2 acres.)
We had outdoor cats because my parents don't really like animals in the house, especially with 4 children. So the cats lived the high life outside, and got shelter in our shed during the winter months. We still provided them with food and water.
So once all the cats had taken off, we were sad. Because we liked the cats and now all we had to entertain us was The Oregon Trail. Not as fun.
One year, Kate's friend Jess got Kate a new kitten for her birthday. It was a black lady cat that Kate named October. October eventually got word of the cat commune in the Hermit Hut and probably took off to practice free love with other cats. A few months later, we found her in the shed with a trio of new kittens. It was obvious to us that October and Scoop had reproduced, because in the trio of new kittens was the exact opposite of Scoop - gray where Scoop was white, and white where Scoop was gray.
This Bizarro Scoop cat was named Tigger. Probably the worst name in our cat naming history, but there you have it. Mom gave Tigger away to Kate's friend Jen, and Tigger lived a long and healthy life.
Fast forward to the year 2000. At this point, Kate was living in Tampa with her future husband and they got a cat. An all-white cat that Jay named Grape Juice, which, for various reasons, really solidified his place in our family. They found out that Grape Juice had feline AIDS, and eventually, Grape Juice was no more. Around September/October of that year, they got another cat. This cat was to be known as The Greatest Cat of All Time. And I know this because I went to visit Kate in October and met:
I met Quincy when he was just a little bitty kitten. Quincy was a Manx which means he had no tail. One could argue this made him a more lovable cat. Quincy also purred like a jackhammer on a sidewalk. Quincy loved everyone and if he was a human, he'd be named Mike Anderson because he was the kind of cat/guy that everyone loved and everyone invited everywhere, and doesn't Mike Anderson sound like the name of the life of the party?
Quincy lived with Kate through thick and thin, and eventually, when I moved in with Kate and lived in her cellar (see - I have previous experience as a cellar troll), Quincy and I became the best of buddies. Quincy would scratch on my door in the morning to wake me up like a little four legged alarm clock. I in turn would walkie-talkie Kate to wake her up, and we'd commute to Boston for work.
Quincy once even saved our lives. Fact. We were in the living room upstairs and Quincy kept running up and down the stairs, stopping in front of us, staring at us, and then running back down the stairs. And repeat. We eventually were like 'What is it boy?' And went downstairs. The water heater was leaking! The cellar was slightly flooded! (Okay so it's not like he pulled us out of a burning building, but think of the damage he prevented by being the smartest and most loyal cat ever!)
Kate got another cat around that period that she named Dunkin (as in Donuts) but Dunkin had a bout with cat tranquilizers during a move from Florida to Massachusetts and was forever changed. He was a good enough cat, but hissed if he didn't know you. And when he sat in your lap, you were paralyzed with fear until he fell asleep or got tired of sitting on your lap and left the room.
So my point is this. While I don't care for dogs and that clearly has ruffled a lot of feathers, and while I don't care for 99% of other animals, I love cats.
So this one is for you, Quincy. You were a great cat. Even though you died a few years ago, you are never far from our thoughts. May you rest in peace.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
On Dogs
**Warning: This post contains swear words and will probably offend you, if you hate swears and love dogs.**
I don't care for dogs.
You'd be surprised how polarizing that statement is. To many people it's like announcing your love of Communism or how you think Hitler had a good idea going until the rest of the world caught on. Seriously - I get a lot of shit for this particular feeling of mine. A lot of my friends have dogs and when I tell them, "Hey I don't care for dogs." they go, "Well you'll love my dog." I just give a "Huh." Which to me, is loaded with meaning.
"Huh" means, "Nope, probably not. Your dog isn't going to change my mind about dogs, not matter how much you love your dog, but I won't contradict you because even though I don't like dogs, and that makes you think I'm a mean bad person, I'm actually not a bad person. I'm actually quite a nice person. Sure I don't give my spare change to the homeless, but that's because they live in nicer houses than you'd think. And sure I don't go out of my way to give to charity, but that's because I don't want to encourage them to harass people on the street. I hold the door open for people though, and I give my seat up for old people on the bus and train. Me: Nice person. Your dog: Not awesome."
My best friend has a dog, and I do not care for this dog. Several of my other friends have dogs, and some I have met, some I have not. And the ones I have met - guess what, I don't care for them. (Actually, let me rephrase that. I have only liked one dog in my life and that dog was named Harry. I liked Harry because he was little and quiet, and he did not smell bad. He lived a good life in Norwood, Massachusetts. RIP, Harry.)
You need to pay attention to this next statement before you hit 'Comment' and start to type in: "You Goddamned bitch, my dog is the best! It brings me the newspaper!" Ready? Paying attention? Not caring for dogs does not mean not liking dogs. Not liking dogs means you don't like dogs at all. Not caring for dogs means I could take it or leave it but would prefer to leave it. I harbor no ill feelings towards dogs (though let's be honest, they get a good deal - house, food, walks on the beach, and what do they do in return? Not wash the dishes!). Let me repeat myself: I HARBOR NO ILL FEELINGS TOWARDS DOGS. I simply do not care for them. Kind of like how I don't care for seagulls or pigeons or stepping in dog shit (probably from your dog, asshole.)
My brother has a dog. This dog has a cute name and is a cute puppy. I don't hate this dog.
But why, Liz! Why don't you like dogs!? They're so wonderful with their companionship and their lack of opposable thumbs!
No, they are not. You can like dogs all you want but I don't care for them because they smell, they drool, they slobber, they shed, they jump on you, they smell your crotch (not all of them and not every crotch, but still, gross) and worst of all, THEY BARK.
Your dog may be awesome and the sun may shine out of it's ass, that's cool with me. But don't tell me how much I'm going to like your dog because we both know you're lying. I have nothing against dog owners - to each his own. If someone were to come up to me and say, "I do not care for children" (providing I had some) I will say, "I'll allow it." I will not say to them, "But you'll love my children!" because if your mind is made up and you don't care for children or their jam hands and occasional lack of teeth then it's not up to me to change your mind - it's cool, friend. Live and let live. (Note to reader: I like kids. Not all kids, but some kids, like the ones related to me either by blood or marriage.)
This sounds like a rant, and that's because it IS.
I remember once, in college, I almost had to throw it down in fisticuffs and box 30's style in the street with someone because they were about to spend $10,000 to save a dog's life.
Are.you.fucking.kidding.me.
Now, I am not a shy person by nature, and I have very strong feelings on just about everything, so naturally I could not sit by and let this happen without providing my insight on the situation. Which, to summarize, included the phrases 'You Goddamned moron' and 'Are your brains made of shit?' Keep in mind this was in my early 20s when there wasn't much of a filter between brain and mouth so I'm sure I offended many and made zero friends. But who cares about that.
Ten thousand US dollars to save a dog's life? Are you Goddamned kidding me? You can't find a better use for that money, like donating it to a school or to the homeless shelter down the street? Are you for real?
She was for real and I haven't said a word to her since.
Recently, a friend of mine posted on The Facebook that her dog had heat sores and it was not the summertime. The thread had many comments like 'Oh the poor dog!' and 'That will be expensive' and since I double as a freelance opinionist, I wrote 'You should put that dog down.' I was half joking.
I shouldn't have to tell you that I offended people. Mainly her mother-in-law who scolded me over The Facebook saying 'We'd take the dog before we allowed that to happen!' Now it so happens that I know this mother-in-law having met her several times. I mean, she does call me Beth so it's not like we're close, but still. She seems to know me well enough to scold me over a social networking site simply because I don't care for dogs.
I refuse to apologize for that comment, but honestly, I think I'm right about this one.
I don't care for dogs.
You'd be surprised how polarizing that statement is. To many people it's like announcing your love of Communism or how you think Hitler had a good idea going until the rest of the world caught on. Seriously - I get a lot of shit for this particular feeling of mine. A lot of my friends have dogs and when I tell them, "Hey I don't care for dogs." they go, "Well you'll love my dog." I just give a "Huh." Which to me, is loaded with meaning.
"Huh" means, "Nope, probably not. Your dog isn't going to change my mind about dogs, not matter how much you love your dog, but I won't contradict you because even though I don't like dogs, and that makes you think I'm a mean bad person, I'm actually not a bad person. I'm actually quite a nice person. Sure I don't give my spare change to the homeless, but that's because they live in nicer houses than you'd think. And sure I don't go out of my way to give to charity, but that's because I don't want to encourage them to harass people on the street. I hold the door open for people though, and I give my seat up for old people on the bus and train. Me: Nice person. Your dog: Not awesome."
My best friend has a dog, and I do not care for this dog. Several of my other friends have dogs, and some I have met, some I have not. And the ones I have met - guess what, I don't care for them. (Actually, let me rephrase that. I have only liked one dog in my life and that dog was named Harry. I liked Harry because he was little and quiet, and he did not smell bad. He lived a good life in Norwood, Massachusetts. RIP, Harry.)
You need to pay attention to this next statement before you hit 'Comment' and start to type in: "You Goddamned bitch, my dog is the best! It brings me the newspaper!" Ready? Paying attention? Not caring for dogs does not mean not liking dogs. Not liking dogs means you don't like dogs at all. Not caring for dogs means I could take it or leave it but would prefer to leave it. I harbor no ill feelings towards dogs (though let's be honest, they get a good deal - house, food, walks on the beach, and what do they do in return? Not wash the dishes!). Let me repeat myself: I HARBOR NO ILL FEELINGS TOWARDS DOGS. I simply do not care for them. Kind of like how I don't care for seagulls or pigeons or stepping in dog shit (probably from your dog, asshole.)
My brother has a dog. This dog has a cute name and is a cute puppy. I don't hate this dog.
But why, Liz! Why don't you like dogs!? They're so wonderful with their companionship and their lack of opposable thumbs!
No, they are not. You can like dogs all you want but I don't care for them because they smell, they drool, they slobber, they shed, they jump on you, they smell your crotch (not all of them and not every crotch, but still, gross) and worst of all, THEY BARK.
Your dog may be awesome and the sun may shine out of it's ass, that's cool with me. But don't tell me how much I'm going to like your dog because we both know you're lying. I have nothing against dog owners - to each his own. If someone were to come up to me and say, "I do not care for children" (providing I had some) I will say, "I'll allow it." I will not say to them, "But you'll love my children!" because if your mind is made up and you don't care for children or their jam hands and occasional lack of teeth then it's not up to me to change your mind - it's cool, friend. Live and let live. (Note to reader: I like kids. Not all kids, but some kids, like the ones related to me either by blood or marriage.)
This sounds like a rant, and that's because it IS.
I remember once, in college, I almost had to throw it down in fisticuffs and box 30's style in the street with someone because they were about to spend $10,000 to save a dog's life.
Are.you.fucking.kidding.me.
Now, I am not a shy person by nature, and I have very strong feelings on just about everything, so naturally I could not sit by and let this happen without providing my insight on the situation. Which, to summarize, included the phrases 'You Goddamned moron' and 'Are your brains made of shit?' Keep in mind this was in my early 20s when there wasn't much of a filter between brain and mouth so I'm sure I offended many and made zero friends. But who cares about that.
Ten thousand US dollars to save a dog's life? Are you Goddamned kidding me? You can't find a better use for that money, like donating it to a school or to the homeless shelter down the street? Are you for real?
She was for real and I haven't said a word to her since.
Recently, a friend of mine posted on The Facebook that her dog had heat sores and it was not the summertime. The thread had many comments like 'Oh the poor dog!' and 'That will be expensive' and since I double as a freelance opinionist, I wrote 'You should put that dog down.' I was half joking.
I shouldn't have to tell you that I offended people. Mainly her mother-in-law who scolded me over The Facebook saying 'We'd take the dog before we allowed that to happen!' Now it so happens that I know this mother-in-law having met her several times. I mean, she does call me Beth so it's not like we're close, but still. She seems to know me well enough to scold me over a social networking site simply because I don't care for dogs.
I refuse to apologize for that comment, but honestly, I think I'm right about this one.
Monday, February 22, 2010
This Just Happened
This song came on my iPod:
The SJC started singing along.
Me: Do you love this song?
SJC: You put it on a CD for me once.
Me: That sounds about right.
The SJC started singing along.
Me: Do you love this song?
SJC: You put it on a CD for me once.
Me: That sounds about right.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Another Birthday!
Happy birthday to my little sister Molly, who is 14 months younger than me and shorter than me, so she will always be known as my little sister.
Pictured above, with my brother, doing the Bigfoot pose at my wedding.
Happy Birthday Smalls!! Have a great day and enjoy the last year of your 20s!
Happy Birthday Smalls!! Have a great day and enjoy the last year of your 20s!
Friday, February 19, 2010
Happy Birthday!
Today my husband, The SJC has entered his 4th decade of life by turning 30 years young. I am no longer a cougar, married to someone in their 20s, and I feel I've lost some leverage because of this. Not that I ever said, 'You don't know because you're still in your 20s,' but it was a nice ace in the hole.
He's already opened all his presents, and I won't lie to you, I was much more excited about this than he was. I even decorated the apartment with hand made signs saying 'Thirty!' and balloons. Seriously.
Anyway, here he is after opening the present I gave him, an acoustic guitar, or as I like to pronounce it, a git-tar.
I had an awesome time shopping for this gift, let me tell you. I went with a friend who pointed to the ukuleles on the wall and said, 'Hey look at all those tiny guitars!' And I laughed and laughed and laughed. We decided it would be nice to hang out in music shops all day long.
So with The SJC's birthday present, I will teach myself how to play the guitar during the day, while he's at work, and then buff that wooden body so it shines like the top of the Chrysler building to erase the evidence. And then everyone will be shocked when I get a gig busking on Grafton Street, which will inevitably be turned into a major motion picture.
Win-win.
Happy Birthday to the Love of my Life!
PS He also got Photoshop, which I am totally going to teach myself. Say goodbye to my terrible pictures and hello to a new world of design!
He's already opened all his presents, and I won't lie to you, I was much more excited about this than he was. I even decorated the apartment with hand made signs saying 'Thirty!' and balloons. Seriously.
Anyway, here he is after opening the present I gave him, an acoustic guitar, or as I like to pronounce it, a git-tar.
I had an awesome time shopping for this gift, let me tell you. I went with a friend who pointed to the ukuleles on the wall and said, 'Hey look at all those tiny guitars!' And I laughed and laughed and laughed. We decided it would be nice to hang out in music shops all day long.
So with The SJC's birthday present, I will teach myself how to play the guitar during the day, while he's at work, and then buff that wooden body so it shines like the top of the Chrysler building to erase the evidence. And then everyone will be shocked when I get a gig busking on Grafton Street, which will inevitably be turned into a major motion picture.
Win-win.
Happy Birthday to the Love of my Life!
PS He also got Photoshop, which I am totally going to teach myself. Say goodbye to my terrible pictures and hello to a new world of design!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
A Really Great Idea
On Sunday, after brunch at my most favorite restaurant in Dublin, Herbstreet, the SJC, his lovely sister, his parents, and I were walking through the rejuvenated Grand Canal Dock area of Dublin (I guess it's D2?), making our way back to the apartment in D4, which, is about a 1 minute walk away but is in a different zip code. That's neither here nor there.
The Grand Canal Basin is an area of water that kids go swimming in during the summer months (wearing full on wet suits, otherwise hypothermia would set in) and people throw bottles onto in the winter months (provided it freezes over a little bit.) Other things that happen in the Grand Canal Basin: Viking Splash Tours, people fall in to their deaths after nights out drinking, and Dublin dredges it for no apparent reason at 8:30 in the morning.
Grand Canal Basin as seen through our apartment window.
For all these reasons and more, I looked out over the canal and decided for once and for all that it could really benefit with the addition of a Great White Shark.
I used to think 'Let's get some gators up in here, to scare the kids away and keep the peace for all us oldies that live here. Then I realized gators like to be in warm waters, warm, swampy waters, and probably would die a miserable yet cold death in Dublin. And gator activists would always be asking about the gator's diet. Want to know what they would eat if they lived in the canal? Dublin youth. That's a win-win situation for everyone around, and you know it.
However, it's complicated. There would be crying women shouting 'That gator done ate my bay-beeee!' and then there'd be a run on handkerchiefs. The gator will be vilified and possibly executed. I mean, it'd be a mess. And since you're about to ask, yes, when women cry about children eaten by alligators, I automatically envision a southern accent.
I thought to myself there had to be a better way, but oddly enough, couldn't come up with a better solution. It was idea-block, but I figured I'd come back to it eventually. Which brings me to Sunday afternoon.
The water in the canal currently has an oddly green hue, not quite as green as that river that the Chicagoans pour food dye in for St Patrick's Day, but kind of green like the Jaws ride at Universal Studios. And the odd green hued water triggered my Eureka! moment.
"A shark!" I said loudly to the SJC. Luckily he's pretty much always on the same wavelength as me.
"That would be awesome." he said, "But the water may not be deep enough." I had to think about this for a minute and came up with a solution - put in train tracks and install a fake shark.
I explained the Jaws ride at Universal Studios and how it features train tracks and a robotic shark, albeit a pretty weak one. I mean come on, Universal Studios, we can see it from the boat before it even makes a move to pop out and scare us. I decided that if Dublin City Council didn't want to pony up the cash for a REAL Great White Shark, they could at LEAST take half they money they make on the M50 Toll and put it into installing a robotic shark in the canal, to scare the kids away and to keep the tourists coming.
This is a genius idea. Think about the profits! Even if the shark doesn't jump out of the water every day, the fin could at least swim around in circles. How about it!? Also, I expect a kickback from the profits, Dublin.
You're welcome in advance.
The Grand Canal Basin is an area of water that kids go swimming in during the summer months (wearing full on wet suits, otherwise hypothermia would set in) and people throw bottles onto in the winter months (provided it freezes over a little bit.) Other things that happen in the Grand Canal Basin: Viking Splash Tours, people fall in to their deaths after nights out drinking, and Dublin dredges it for no apparent reason at 8:30 in the morning.
For all these reasons and more, I looked out over the canal and decided for once and for all that it could really benefit with the addition of a Great White Shark.
I used to think 'Let's get some gators up in here, to scare the kids away and keep the peace for all us oldies that live here. Then I realized gators like to be in warm waters, warm, swampy waters, and probably would die a miserable yet cold death in Dublin. And gator activists would always be asking about the gator's diet. Want to know what they would eat if they lived in the canal? Dublin youth. That's a win-win situation for everyone around, and you know it.
However, it's complicated. There would be crying women shouting 'That gator done ate my bay-beeee!' and then there'd be a run on handkerchiefs. The gator will be vilified and possibly executed. I mean, it'd be a mess. And since you're about to ask, yes, when women cry about children eaten by alligators, I automatically envision a southern accent.
I thought to myself there had to be a better way, but oddly enough, couldn't come up with a better solution. It was idea-block, but I figured I'd come back to it eventually. Which brings me to Sunday afternoon.
The water in the canal currently has an oddly green hue, not quite as green as that river that the Chicagoans pour food dye in for St Patrick's Day, but kind of green like the Jaws ride at Universal Studios. And the odd green hued water triggered my Eureka! moment.
"A shark!" I said loudly to the SJC. Luckily he's pretty much always on the same wavelength as me.
"That would be awesome." he said, "But the water may not be deep enough." I had to think about this for a minute and came up with a solution - put in train tracks and install a fake shark.
I explained the Jaws ride at Universal Studios and how it features train tracks and a robotic shark, albeit a pretty weak one. I mean come on, Universal Studios, we can see it from the boat before it even makes a move to pop out and scare us. I decided that if Dublin City Council didn't want to pony up the cash for a REAL Great White Shark, they could at LEAST take half they money they make on the M50 Toll and put it into installing a robotic shark in the canal, to scare the kids away and to keep the tourists coming.
This is a genius idea. Think about the profits! Even if the shark doesn't jump out of the water every day, the fin could at least swim around in circles. How about it!? Also, I expect a kickback from the profits, Dublin.
You're welcome in advance.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I-I-I-KEA!
(To rhyme with cha-cha-cha-chia!)
I've said it before and I'll say it again, since the Dublin Bus invention of the 140, going to IKEA has been like prancing through a cloud of rainbows on a unicorn as opposed to paying the toll troll to go through murderville (aka the 13.)
So I went to IKEA today, in case you hadn't deduced, and it was wonderful. I didn't need to buy anything but ended up with some new bath mats (I know, awesome,) and a picture frame. And grand designs to go back for a particular mirror that I thought was too heavy to carry the 1 mile back from the bus stop (true facts.) We don't have a car (this is city centre living, people) and while my mother-in-law was nice enough to loan us hers while she is in a land down under (New Zealand), I don't know how to drive standard. And before you ask, no, I won't learn how to drive standard, I refuse. These are modern times we live in, an automatic car is the wave of the future.
The weather in Dublin has been glorious for the past two days, which usually means tomorrow will be a day that I will want to die a death rather than walk into town in the pouring rain and/or snow, but I will persevere.
Off topic, have you ever noticed how the speed and purpose of your walk changes with each different song on your iPod? For instance, I was listening to 'Sultans of Swing' by Dire Straits and having a saucy little jaunt back to the apartment, and when that was over, 'Galvanize' by the Chemical Brothers came on and I was basically running back to the apartment. And finally, 'Root Down' by the Beastie Boys came on and I pretty much had a dance party for one in the middle of Barrow Street.
Anyway that's it.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, since the Dublin Bus invention of the 140, going to IKEA has been like prancing through a cloud of rainbows on a unicorn as opposed to paying the toll troll to go through murderville (aka the 13.)
So I went to IKEA today, in case you hadn't deduced, and it was wonderful. I didn't need to buy anything but ended up with some new bath mats (I know, awesome,) and a picture frame. And grand designs to go back for a particular mirror that I thought was too heavy to carry the 1 mile back from the bus stop (true facts.) We don't have a car (this is city centre living, people) and while my mother-in-law was nice enough to loan us hers while she is in a land down under (New Zealand), I don't know how to drive standard. And before you ask, no, I won't learn how to drive standard, I refuse. These are modern times we live in, an automatic car is the wave of the future.
The weather in Dublin has been glorious for the past two days, which usually means tomorrow will be a day that I will want to die a death rather than walk into town in the pouring rain and/or snow, but I will persevere.
Off topic, have you ever noticed how the speed and purpose of your walk changes with each different song on your iPod? For instance, I was listening to 'Sultans of Swing' by Dire Straits and having a saucy little jaunt back to the apartment, and when that was over, 'Galvanize' by the Chemical Brothers came on and I was basically running back to the apartment. And finally, 'Root Down' by the Beastie Boys came on and I pretty much had a dance party for one in the middle of Barrow Street.
Anyway that's it.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Today We Are All Winners
But mostly, I am a winner because I have successfully made chocolate chip cookies a la Liz.
What does 'a la Liz' involve? Well it's a delicate balance of crispy and chewy, not for the faint of heart. It requires a sharp sense of smell, one that knows when sugar can start to burn. But really it went a little bit like this: pop the cookies in the oven, make some tea, take them out.
You may be thinking 'You're being dramatic, Liz. We've all made cookies.' I will now point out that these cookies took months to make, mostly because I used Nestle Toll House chocolate chips that are not widely available here in Ireland. So I had Mom send some over. And then I realized I needed measuring cups and teaspoon measures, so that was another package. Finally, I gathered all the ingredients necessary to make the cookies. And really, what's a bit of baking without drama?
Then it was a problem of motivation. Crippled with fear that the cookies may not turn out okay, I kept putting off the baking. I cited pitiful excuses like 'I don't have a Kitchenaid and they cost €500 to buy and my money tree is hibernating until spring.' and 'But I don't have a hand mixer - what am I supposed to do, whisk the butter? Come on.' And then it was pointed out that while I don't have a Kitchenaid mixer there are, in fact, hand mixers under the kitchen sink. I found them easily enough (had to move a bowl out of the way, but they were there.) And then they sat on the counter, looking at me.
Finally it was a choice between toast for lunch or cookies. Naturally, I went for the more glamorous option of cookies. So I busted out all the ingredients (the Madagascar vanilla extract threw me for a loop, it was so fancy), called my Mom to chat (school vacation week is my best week) and went to town.
Behold, the finished product:
The batch on the left was the first one and was a little overcooked.
Now all I need is a tall glass of fortified milk and The KLF's 'Justified and Ancient' to play me off and I'm a kid again.
Today we are all winners, especially me, who gets the Gold in chocolate chip cookie baking on Ringsend Road. You're welcome, world.
What does 'a la Liz' involve? Well it's a delicate balance of crispy and chewy, not for the faint of heart. It requires a sharp sense of smell, one that knows when sugar can start to burn. But really it went a little bit like this: pop the cookies in the oven, make some tea, take them out.
You may be thinking 'You're being dramatic, Liz. We've all made cookies.' I will now point out that these cookies took months to make, mostly because I used Nestle Toll House chocolate chips that are not widely available here in Ireland. So I had Mom send some over. And then I realized I needed measuring cups and teaspoon measures, so that was another package. Finally, I gathered all the ingredients necessary to make the cookies. And really, what's a bit of baking without drama?
Then it was a problem of motivation. Crippled with fear that the cookies may not turn out okay, I kept putting off the baking. I cited pitiful excuses like 'I don't have a Kitchenaid and they cost €500 to buy and my money tree is hibernating until spring.' and 'But I don't have a hand mixer - what am I supposed to do, whisk the butter? Come on.' And then it was pointed out that while I don't have a Kitchenaid mixer there are, in fact, hand mixers under the kitchen sink. I found them easily enough (had to move a bowl out of the way, but they were there.) And then they sat on the counter, looking at me.
Finally it was a choice between toast for lunch or cookies. Naturally, I went for the more glamorous option of cookies. So I busted out all the ingredients (the Madagascar vanilla extract threw me for a loop, it was so fancy), called my Mom to chat (school vacation week is my best week) and went to town.
Behold, the finished product:
Now all I need is a tall glass of fortified milk and The KLF's 'Justified and Ancient' to play me off and I'm a kid again.
Today we are all winners, especially me, who gets the Gold in chocolate chip cookie baking on Ringsend Road. You're welcome, world.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
It must be Awards Season
Next up: My Oscar speech. But first, I got another award from Ryan. She's awarded me with the Beautiful Blogger Award, which made me fluff my hair and put on another layer of mascara and lipstick. I also demanded that the SJC find a red carpet and lay it out in the hallway this morning so I was waking up to some class.
Sadly, we have no champagne. But we do have Guinness.
Thank you Ryan!
Here are the rules:
~Thank the person who nominated you and link to their blog.
~Copy the award and paste it to your blog.
~Tell us 7 interesting facts about yourself.
~Nominate 7 bloggers that you love and link to their blog.
Let the Games Begin!
1) In 1986, I starred as Mary in our Church's Christmas pageant. 3000 miles away, the SJC was starring as Joseph in his Church's Christmas pageant. Coincidence? Or will our first child be Jesus 2.0?
2) I am almost 6' tall. Let's not sugarcoat it - that's tall for a lady (though I've seen taller, thank feck.) I achieved this height in high school and was asked quite often by random strangers at odd times (like in line at Stop & Shop) if I ever played basketball. It died down after I hit my 20s but recently I was advised by a doctor to start playing basketball again. If modern medicine demands it, I just may.
3) In college, at Graduation, I was the first person to walk across the stage to receive my Bachelor's Degree for Communication. My last name begins with R. It's safe to say I cut everyone just to get a good glimpse of Tony Shalhoub (he was our guest speaker.)
4) Have you ever had a dance party over Skype? I suggest you do it immediately.
5) My parents tricked us a lot when we were kids. Turns out not a lot of kids play croquet for sport or eat European Supper Platters. Drinking soda after 4pm will NOT make you stay up all night, and getting milk with your McDonalds Happy Meal (though you go once every 2 years) doesn't make it taste better.
6) In 6th grade I was challenged to a speed reading contest. I won. I'm pretty sure I've been proving myself to be the fastest reader around ever since.
7) When I was in my early 20s, I was kind of a handful. A little bit too blunt and forward, I was known for talking to strangers or flagging down wannabe famous comics walking through Faneuil Hall. Or even making fun of a Bruins player at Fenway Park. To his face. However, my greatest memory of this era in my life is when a kid asked me how dry ice was made and I responded, 'I don't know, I majored in Fire.'
Since I already tagged people in my last post, I will pass this award on to everyone, that's right, everyone, who reads this and wants to do something similar.
Sadly, we have no champagne. But we do have Guinness.
Thank you Ryan!
Here are the rules:
~Thank the person who nominated you and link to their blog.
~Copy the award and paste it to your blog.
~Tell us 7 interesting facts about yourself.
~Nominate 7 bloggers that you love and link to their blog.
Let the Games Begin!
1) In 1986, I starred as Mary in our Church's Christmas pageant. 3000 miles away, the SJC was starring as Joseph in his Church's Christmas pageant. Coincidence? Or will our first child be Jesus 2.0?
2) I am almost 6' tall. Let's not sugarcoat it - that's tall for a lady (though I've seen taller, thank feck.) I achieved this height in high school and was asked quite often by random strangers at odd times (like in line at Stop & Shop) if I ever played basketball. It died down after I hit my 20s but recently I was advised by a doctor to start playing basketball again. If modern medicine demands it, I just may.
3) In college, at Graduation, I was the first person to walk across the stage to receive my Bachelor's Degree for Communication. My last name begins with R. It's safe to say I cut everyone just to get a good glimpse of Tony Shalhoub (he was our guest speaker.)
4) Have you ever had a dance party over Skype? I suggest you do it immediately.
5) My parents tricked us a lot when we were kids. Turns out not a lot of kids play croquet for sport or eat European Supper Platters. Drinking soda after 4pm will NOT make you stay up all night, and getting milk with your McDonalds Happy Meal (though you go once every 2 years) doesn't make it taste better.
6) In 6th grade I was challenged to a speed reading contest. I won. I'm pretty sure I've been proving myself to be the fastest reader around ever since.
7) When I was in my early 20s, I was kind of a handful. A little bit too blunt and forward, I was known for talking to strangers or flagging down wannabe famous comics walking through Faneuil Hall. Or even making fun of a Bruins player at Fenway Park. To his face. However, my greatest memory of this era in my life is when a kid asked me how dry ice was made and I responded, 'I don't know, I majored in Fire.'
Since I already tagged people in my last post, I will pass this award on to everyone, that's right, everyone, who reads this and wants to do something similar.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Lovely 101
I'm sure you're seeing these everywhere. I'm throwing my hat into the ring!
I've been tagged by Jessica over at Lovely Jubbly London for a Lovely 101 Award.
The rules:
1. List 10 things that make you happy.
2. Pass it on to 5 bloggers who make your day a better one.
10 things that make me happy:
1. Family, both immediate and in-laws. I think I'm pretty lucky that I got such good in-laws, especially after seeing what else is out there (cue banjo music from 'Deliverance.') My sister knows what I'm talking about.
2. Friends. Specifically my good friends, whether they are in the US or in Dublin. Whether I meet them for walks, lunch, or marathon coffee afternoons where we end up joking about how rich you were growing up if you were allowed to drink soda and watch TV. (Note: We were not allowed to do either in my family.)
3. Sunshine. Holy God I never know how much I loved that bright flaming orb in the sky until I didn't have it all the time. But then again, you don't know what you've got until it's goooooone.
4. New books. I read like lightning so I'm always on the lookout for a new book. I just picked up 'Push' by Sapphire and 'Poor Little Bitch Girl' by Jackie Collins. (Sorry Mom, sometimes you need some fluffy reading.)
5. Successfully transferring my old iTunes library to my new computer. It took about 5 hours total, but it happened. Now I have a lot more songs to skip over.
6. European Supper Platters. Oh the hilarity and delight.
7. Traveling.
8. Inside jokes. These are the things that make the world go 'round.
9. Darcy. While I don't see her every day, I 'see' her every day on the wallpaper of my computer. She is a daily reminder of how great the world is, especially watching or hearing about her discovering it through her own eyes.
10. The SJC. I don't think I would have packed up and left my homeland for another country for anyone else. He is the love of my life, even if he is only in his 20s. (For one more week.)
I pass the award on to:
Tom
Susie
Katie
Kerry
Becky
Smalls
I've been tagged by Jessica over at Lovely Jubbly London for a Lovely 101 Award.
The rules:
1. List 10 things that make you happy.
2. Pass it on to 5 bloggers who make your day a better one.
10 things that make me happy:
1. Family, both immediate and in-laws. I think I'm pretty lucky that I got such good in-laws, especially after seeing what else is out there (cue banjo music from 'Deliverance.') My sister knows what I'm talking about.
2. Friends. Specifically my good friends, whether they are in the US or in Dublin. Whether I meet them for walks, lunch, or marathon coffee afternoons where we end up joking about how rich you were growing up if you were allowed to drink soda and watch TV. (Note: We were not allowed to do either in my family.)
3. Sunshine. Holy God I never know how much I loved that bright flaming orb in the sky until I didn't have it all the time. But then again, you don't know what you've got until it's goooooone.
4. New books. I read like lightning so I'm always on the lookout for a new book. I just picked up 'Push' by Sapphire and 'Poor Little Bitch Girl' by Jackie Collins. (Sorry Mom, sometimes you need some fluffy reading.)
5. Successfully transferring my old iTunes library to my new computer. It took about 5 hours total, but it happened. Now I have a lot more songs to skip over.
6. European Supper Platters. Oh the hilarity and delight.
7. Traveling.
8. Inside jokes. These are the things that make the world go 'round.
9. Darcy. While I don't see her every day, I 'see' her every day on the wallpaper of my computer. She is a daily reminder of how great the world is, especially watching or hearing about her discovering it through her own eyes.
10. The SJC. I don't think I would have packed up and left my homeland for another country for anyone else. He is the love of my life, even if he is only in his 20s. (For one more week.)
I pass the award on to:
Tom
Susie
Katie
Kerry
Becky
Smalls
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Thanks a lot, Nature
Nature has given us so many wonderful things: The sun, the Indian Ocean, the Florida Keys, Ben Bulben, Kentucky bluegrass (Oh I'm sorry, is that weird?), beautiful scenic vistas in Utah that the Mormons are hogging from the rest of the world, and rainbows. It's really pressing our luck that we got Snow Days as well, but we did, and that's why Nature is awesome.
As I type this, Natick Public Schools (and I'm guessing other public schools in and around the MetroWest area of Massachusetts, except for Wayland and Weston because they believe Snow Days are for the weak,) are being dismissed early due to a snow storm. My Mom is one of those lucky few that get to give work the middle finger and leave for the day.
You'd think being unemployed, that every day is a Snow Day for me, but it's really not. And that's because every day misses one key element of the Snow Day: Snow itself.
Let me assure you, in no way am I praising snow. Not by a long shot. I think it's the worst, but this is my adult self speaking. Growing up, I loved snow because it meant Snow Days and building snowmen, or 'snow people' as my Mom called them (She also calls them 'walk people' and 'gingerbread people.') And in high school when we'd have a Snow Day it would be delightful because we could sleep until noon, watch 'Days of our Lives,' and then have pancakes for lunch.
Adulthood, or more specifically, when I sold my soul to the Devil and started working for Corporate America, is when my love of snow shifted from a deliriously awesome side effect of winter to hell on earth. You see college students who think 4 years is enough for a Bachelor's Degree, after you graduate college, you enter what is called 'The Real World.' And in 'The Real World' you have to go to work (providing the economy is strong enough to support jobs and you're not already a trophy wife, like I currently am.) And in 'The Real World' at your place of employment, a Snow Day is unheard of, like getting the day off for President's Day. IT DOES NOT EXIST. Let this be a lesson: Stay in school forever.
Because of that, my love affair with Snow Days turned sour in 2005 when I had to commute to Boston and back regardless of the weather. You know, your boss, who lives a 10 minute walk from the office, doesn't really care to hear that the Mass Pike was barely plowed which made getting into work a rollercoaster of a ride. Nor does she care that the Commuter Rail was delayed beyond oblivion because it just snowed 2 feet in an hour. She only cares that you get to your cubicle on time and start making those edits to websites because THEY WON'T EDIT THEMSELVES!
Cut to two years later and me driving into work on yet another snowy day, slipping and sliding all over the road thinking "My God this is the pits," and then having it dawn on me that maybe, just maybe, I should move to a climate that has no snow. A climate that is deeply affected by the winds off Africa which cause it to rain all the Goddamned time, but never snow. A climate that also goes by the name of Ireland. And so I did.
And three years later, as I hear the news of yet another Snow Day for my Mom, or entire capitals *coughWASHINGTONDCcough* being shut down because of snow, I actually sit back and think to myself, "Man, I wish Dublin would get a blizzard."
Is anyone else horrified by my thought, or is it just me? Thanks a lot, Nature, for messing with me. You'll get yours when the ice age comes.
As I type this, Natick Public Schools (and I'm guessing other public schools in and around the MetroWest area of Massachusetts, except for Wayland and Weston because they believe Snow Days are for the weak,) are being dismissed early due to a snow storm. My Mom is one of those lucky few that get to give work the middle finger and leave for the day.
You'd think being unemployed, that every day is a Snow Day for me, but it's really not. And that's because every day misses one key element of the Snow Day: Snow itself.
Let me assure you, in no way am I praising snow. Not by a long shot. I think it's the worst, but this is my adult self speaking. Growing up, I loved snow because it meant Snow Days and building snowmen, or 'snow people' as my Mom called them (She also calls them 'walk people' and 'gingerbread people.') And in high school when we'd have a Snow Day it would be delightful because we could sleep until noon, watch 'Days of our Lives,' and then have pancakes for lunch.
Adulthood, or more specifically, when I sold my soul to the Devil and started working for Corporate America, is when my love of snow shifted from a deliriously awesome side effect of winter to hell on earth. You see college students who think 4 years is enough for a Bachelor's Degree, after you graduate college, you enter what is called 'The Real World.' And in 'The Real World' you have to go to work (providing the economy is strong enough to support jobs and you're not already a trophy wife, like I currently am.) And in 'The Real World' at your place of employment, a Snow Day is unheard of, like getting the day off for President's Day. IT DOES NOT EXIST. Let this be a lesson: Stay in school forever.
Because of that, my love affair with Snow Days turned sour in 2005 when I had to commute to Boston and back regardless of the weather. You know, your boss, who lives a 10 minute walk from the office, doesn't really care to hear that the Mass Pike was barely plowed which made getting into work a rollercoaster of a ride. Nor does she care that the Commuter Rail was delayed beyond oblivion because it just snowed 2 feet in an hour. She only cares that you get to your cubicle on time and start making those edits to websites because THEY WON'T EDIT THEMSELVES!
Cut to two years later and me driving into work on yet another snowy day, slipping and sliding all over the road thinking "My God this is the pits," and then having it dawn on me that maybe, just maybe, I should move to a climate that has no snow. A climate that is deeply affected by the winds off Africa which cause it to rain all the Goddamned time, but never snow. A climate that also goes by the name of Ireland. And so I did.
And three years later, as I hear the news of yet another Snow Day for my Mom, or entire capitals *coughWASHINGTONDCcough* being shut down because of snow, I actually sit back and think to myself, "Man, I wish Dublin would get a blizzard."
Is anyone else horrified by my thought, or is it just me? Thanks a lot, Nature, for messing with me. You'll get yours when the ice age comes.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
On "The Tudors"
My friend Meg has kindly loaned me Season 1 and 2 of The Tudors and I'm just finishing up with Season 1 today before starting 2 either this afternoon or tomorrow. Nice life, eh?
A few thoughts:
I don't care, I'm going to start making new outfits fit for a queen.
A few thoughts:
- I told The SJC that I hated Anne Boleyn because I hate the actress who plays Anne Boleyn. He told me that I can't hate historical figures based on modern actors who play them. I told him that I believe I can.
- I also hate King Henry because Jonathan Rhys Meyers looks like an alien.
- You know who doesn't look like an alien? The guy who plays Charles Brandon. Holy pajamas - that kid is going to go far.
- I feel wicked bad for Katherine of Aragorn. An ex-pat, living in a strange land, totally misunderstood. Poor lady.
- Last night I remarked to the SJC that we should all go back to wearing old timey fashions like they did in the 1500s, but only dress like royalty because they had the best fabrics. He agreed, but I think he was agreeing to shut me up, just in case someday he arrived home and I had some tights, an odd looking jacket with puffed sleeves, puffy shorts, and a flouncy hat with a feather for him to wear.
I don't care, I'm going to start making new outfits fit for a queen.
Monday, February 08, 2010
An Audience with Ardal
On Saturday night The SJC, his parents, and I went to Hank's Well Theater in Sligo to see Ardal O'Hanlon perform some stand up. Ardal O'Hanlon was in Father Ted, I believe he's the only one still alive, which makes him the Last Man Standing. Father Ted, for those who don't know, is an Irish sitcom. It was before my time living here and about Catholics so I'm sure it was a big hit across this rock.
Ardal's (and I feel after Saturday we're close enough for me to call him by his first name) opening act was a googley eyed guy who played the guitar and a plastic recorder/keyboard thing.
You know how when you're at a comedy show and you're far enough back that you think "Oh sweet, I won't get picked on." Because it's usually the suckers in the front row that get picked on? I thought that too. Especially after Ardal started picking on a Sligo youth about being at a comedy show on a Saturday night instead of drinking cider in the woods, and a Spanish woman who didn't know how long she had been with her boyfriend. He got to talking about how international the audience was, all Irish with one Spaniard. And, inevitably, because America is one big old source of comedy, asked if there were any Americans in the room.
Cut to me shifting down in my seat and covering my eyes as though this was algebra class and I was about to be called on to recite the Pythagorean theorem (which, for the record, is a squared + b squared = c squared), when my Mother-in-law kindly spoke loudly saying 'SHE IS SHE IS' and pointed to me.
Luckily there was no spotlight but the topic Ardal was discussing was how enthusiastic Americans are. I mean - we are. Amer-I-Can is in my repertoire for a reason. After moving here I've had to cut back on the number of exclamation points just to be taken seriously. Plus, this blog would have ended up being one giant exclamation point. Ardal asked me if I leaped out of bed every day. I said yes, but I didn't embellish because this was his hour.
Ardal, if I may address the questions you asked me here, on my forum, the way I wanted to respond, but didn't, because I didn't want to steal your thunder (and I'm that considerate, after all, I am American.)
Ardal: Do you leap out of bed every day?
Me: Yes. I leap out of bed and all the magpies and seagulls that circle the canal help me put on my petticoats and my dress. All the rats in the basement and the stray cats that live in the courtyard help me do my hair. It's a wonder I don't have lice, but that I'll chalk up to Dublin water being hard enough to melt titanium. Or that I'm the fairy fecking princess of Ringsend Road.
Ardal: Would you demonstrated leaping out of bed for us?
Me: Sure. (At this point, I would walk up on stage and crouch into a small ball and then leap forth and sing to the tune of 'Good Morning, Starshine') Good morning Dublin! The Earth says helloooo! Time to make Nespresso and eat my granola and yoooooguuuuurrrrrtttttttt. Good morning Ireland, or should I say good afternooooooon? I may have woken up late for GMT but it's still quite early on the Eastern Seaboard of the United Staaaaaates.
Later on, he talked about how polite Americans are and how we've surpassed the Irish as being the most polite people on Earth.
Ardal: Would you say you're polite?
Me: Sir, yes sir. But I'm suspicious of friendly people. If people are nice to me, I immediately think they want something and then I get suspicious that they're trying to get me to join their cult. I wasn't born yesterday! I feel you'll only find this attitude in the New England region, specifically Boston.
Instead, I answered 'Yes' but he apparently didn't hear me and cracked a joke 'The polite thing would have been to answer me.' At first I was like 'well go fuck yourself and clean out your ears' but then thought 'Father Ted would not like this attitude, that was a slight overreaction' and then realized 'Oh I see what you did there, went for the obvious joke. Well played sir.' Which then warranted a golf clap.
In all, the show was good, but summarized brilliantly by my Mother-in-law who simply stated, 'I just didn't feel like laughing anymore.'
Ardal's (and I feel after Saturday we're close enough for me to call him by his first name) opening act was a googley eyed guy who played the guitar and a plastic recorder/keyboard thing.
You know how when you're at a comedy show and you're far enough back that you think "Oh sweet, I won't get picked on." Because it's usually the suckers in the front row that get picked on? I thought that too. Especially after Ardal started picking on a Sligo youth about being at a comedy show on a Saturday night instead of drinking cider in the woods, and a Spanish woman who didn't know how long she had been with her boyfriend. He got to talking about how international the audience was, all Irish with one Spaniard. And, inevitably, because America is one big old source of comedy, asked if there were any Americans in the room.
Cut to me shifting down in my seat and covering my eyes as though this was algebra class and I was about to be called on to recite the Pythagorean theorem (which, for the record, is a squared + b squared = c squared), when my Mother-in-law kindly spoke loudly saying 'SHE IS SHE IS' and pointed to me.
Luckily there was no spotlight but the topic Ardal was discussing was how enthusiastic Americans are. I mean - we are. Amer-I-Can is in my repertoire for a reason. After moving here I've had to cut back on the number of exclamation points just to be taken seriously. Plus, this blog would have ended up being one giant exclamation point. Ardal asked me if I leaped out of bed every day. I said yes, but I didn't embellish because this was his hour.
Ardal, if I may address the questions you asked me here, on my forum, the way I wanted to respond, but didn't, because I didn't want to steal your thunder (and I'm that considerate, after all, I am American.)
Ardal: Do you leap out of bed every day?
Me: Yes. I leap out of bed and all the magpies and seagulls that circle the canal help me put on my petticoats and my dress. All the rats in the basement and the stray cats that live in the courtyard help me do my hair. It's a wonder I don't have lice, but that I'll chalk up to Dublin water being hard enough to melt titanium. Or that I'm the fairy fecking princess of Ringsend Road.
Ardal: Would you demonstrated leaping out of bed for us?
Me: Sure. (At this point, I would walk up on stage and crouch into a small ball and then leap forth and sing to the tune of 'Good Morning, Starshine') Good morning Dublin! The Earth says helloooo! Time to make Nespresso and eat my granola and yoooooguuuuurrrrrtttttttt. Good morning Ireland, or should I say good afternooooooon? I may have woken up late for GMT but it's still quite early on the Eastern Seaboard of the United Staaaaaates.
Later on, he talked about how polite Americans are and how we've surpassed the Irish as being the most polite people on Earth.
Ardal: Would you say you're polite?
Me: Sir, yes sir. But I'm suspicious of friendly people. If people are nice to me, I immediately think they want something and then I get suspicious that they're trying to get me to join their cult. I wasn't born yesterday! I feel you'll only find this attitude in the New England region, specifically Boston.
Instead, I answered 'Yes' but he apparently didn't hear me and cracked a joke 'The polite thing would have been to answer me.' At first I was like 'well go fuck yourself and clean out your ears' but then thought 'Father Ted would not like this attitude, that was a slight overreaction' and then realized 'Oh I see what you did there, went for the obvious joke. Well played sir.' Which then warranted a golf clap.
In all, the show was good, but summarized brilliantly by my Mother-in-law who simply stated, 'I just didn't feel like laughing anymore.'
Friday, February 05, 2010
When Life Hands You Lemons
Exchange those lemons for limes and make a vodka gimlet.
Then sleep it off and wake up to the most sunshining happy blitz of a day. Why sunshining blitz? Because Mom sent a package and it arrived via an Post today. Lovely, beautiful an Post, who never fails me.
The best part about the package was not only the delightful walk in sunny, warm Ireland (I shit you not, the weather here is gorgeous today!) but the fact it came in a W.B. Mason box, normally reserved for reams of paper.
In Ireland there's a dude named W.B. Yeats who is a little bit famous for his poetry and his love of the west coast - specifically Sligo, where The SJC's people are from. I've taken to calling Yeats 'Who but W.B.' and nobody really gets it because W.B. Mason doesn't exist over here. I will be hanging on to this box, like a prop, and show it to people when I make that joke, as though I am Gallagher or some other terrible stand up comic. Don't get me started! Don't even get me started.
The package contained a lot of glory, I'm not going to lie. Sure it was a bitch to carry for one mile, but worth it after I opened it. My mind was blown a few times by it's awesomeness. Pants (or trousers), Cheetos, Onion dip mix, and cup measures and tablespoon measures, as well as a book and a calendar of Boston (my most beloved city.)
The piece de resistance, however, was this:
Think you're seeing double? You're not, my friend. You're seeing not one but TWO boxes of Girl Scout Cookies. Thin Mints, in fact, which sometimes get a bad wrap, but are no where near as crappy asTagalongs Trefoils. Thin Mints are my poison, like rum and coke or Lemon Lime Orbit.
So thank you Mom for making my day! And thank you nature, for making my day. And to the Girl Scouts of America for keeping the greatest tradition of cookie selling alive, and to the makers of Gap jeans for making them long enough for our legs, and to the good people at Frito Lays for making such a gloriously disgusting product called Cheetos.
I gotta say it was a good day.
Then sleep it off and wake up to the most sunshining happy blitz of a day. Why sunshining blitz? Because Mom sent a package and it arrived via an Post today. Lovely, beautiful an Post, who never fails me.
The best part about the package was not only the delightful walk in sunny, warm Ireland (I shit you not, the weather here is gorgeous today!) but the fact it came in a W.B. Mason box, normally reserved for reams of paper.
In Ireland there's a dude named W.B. Yeats who is a little bit famous for his poetry and his love of the west coast - specifically Sligo, where The SJC's people are from. I've taken to calling Yeats 'Who but W.B.' and nobody really gets it because W.B. Mason doesn't exist over here. I will be hanging on to this box, like a prop, and show it to people when I make that joke, as though I am Gallagher or some other terrible stand up comic. Don't get me started! Don't even get me started.
The package contained a lot of glory, I'm not going to lie. Sure it was a bitch to carry for one mile, but worth it after I opened it. My mind was blown a few times by it's awesomeness. Pants (or trousers), Cheetos, Onion dip mix, and cup measures and tablespoon measures, as well as a book and a calendar of Boston (my most beloved city.)
The piece de resistance, however, was this:
Think you're seeing double? You're not, my friend. You're seeing not one but TWO boxes of Girl Scout Cookies. Thin Mints, in fact, which sometimes get a bad wrap, but are no where near as crappy as
So thank you Mom for making my day! And thank you nature, for making my day. And to the Girl Scouts of America for keeping the greatest tradition of cookie selling alive, and to the makers of Gap jeans for making them long enough for our legs, and to the good people at Frito Lays for making such a gloriously disgusting product called Cheetos.
I gotta say it was a good day.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Beware: Bad Mood Rising
I am having a bad day.
It started out nice enough, I slept through the night (go me) and woke up in time to get ready. I then met a friend for lunch and that was lovely. And then after we parted ways on Grafton Street, it started to slowly slide down hill.
It always goes back to shoes. Everything in life can be traced back to shoes. In today's instance, I was on the hunt for a pair of low heeled, black boots. Couldn't find them anywhere, despite going into 4 different stores. I have come to accept that finding a size 9 (US 11) in Ireland is like finding a needle in a haystack. And all the hay in the stack is silver.
It continued when I was on my merry way to the chemist to pick up a prescription only to be told there were only 7 pills in the house, could I come back later? Fine, I don't mind doing that, I was never one for medicines anyway.
Then it got home and it hit me. I don't want to buy a house in Ireland because I don't like the houses in Ireland and somehow that made me realize that my time here is limited unless I live in the city centre. And I don't want my kids (if I ever have any) to grow up in the city centre. So that begins the vicious cycle. I don't want to live here. I don't want to move back to the US because The SJC has a job here and needs to be here. Can we have a bi-continental marriage? Probably unhealthy. And then my Mom called and I wanted to talk to her about this but she didn't want to hear it so we hung up.
I should just suck it up and live the way I have been living, with the 13% unemployment rate in a country of 4 million people and after 6,700 jobs were lost in the month of January. To summarize, living in a place with absolutely no hope of finding employment. So the dark clouds are above my head with thunder and lightning. I'm rarely in a bad mood so this will pass eventually.
Maybe I should take some Tylenol PM and call it a night. After all, tomorrow is another day.
It started out nice enough, I slept through the night (go me) and woke up in time to get ready. I then met a friend for lunch and that was lovely. And then after we parted ways on Grafton Street, it started to slowly slide down hill.
It always goes back to shoes. Everything in life can be traced back to shoes. In today's instance, I was on the hunt for a pair of low heeled, black boots. Couldn't find them anywhere, despite going into 4 different stores. I have come to accept that finding a size 9 (US 11) in Ireland is like finding a needle in a haystack. And all the hay in the stack is silver.
It continued when I was on my merry way to the chemist to pick up a prescription only to be told there were only 7 pills in the house, could I come back later? Fine, I don't mind doing that, I was never one for medicines anyway.
Then it got home and it hit me. I don't want to buy a house in Ireland because I don't like the houses in Ireland and somehow that made me realize that my time here is limited unless I live in the city centre. And I don't want my kids (if I ever have any) to grow up in the city centre. So that begins the vicious cycle. I don't want to live here. I don't want to move back to the US because The SJC has a job here and needs to be here. Can we have a bi-continental marriage? Probably unhealthy. And then my Mom called and I wanted to talk to her about this but she didn't want to hear it so we hung up.
I should just suck it up and live the way I have been living, with the 13% unemployment rate in a country of 4 million people and after 6,700 jobs were lost in the month of January. To summarize, living in a place with absolutely no hope of finding employment. So the dark clouds are above my head with thunder and lightning. I'm rarely in a bad mood so this will pass eventually.
Maybe I should take some Tylenol PM and call it a night. After all, tomorrow is another day.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Weird Science
Today I went to see an endocrinologist about my thyroid. You see, my family has a long history of hypothyroidism and I'm the latest casualty. The doctor I went to see wasn't a doctor at all, but a Professor, which right there made me stop and go, 'Did education trump science in this round?' But no. He is a doctor that professes his love for endocrinology.
To make a long story short, he prescribed me thyroid medicine, and I shit you not, prescribed me to join a basketball league in Dublin.
Is this because I'm nearly 6' tall, Professor? Does your team need a center?
I think it is and I think they do.
Watch for me on the courts!
To make a long story short, he prescribed me thyroid medicine, and I shit you not, prescribed me to join a basketball league in Dublin.
Is this because I'm nearly 6' tall, Professor? Does your team need a center?
I think it is and I think they do.
Watch for me on the courts!
Monday, February 01, 2010
In Honor of Doppelganger Week
Apparently it's Doppelganger week on The Facebook. This may have happened last week, but by the time the event circulated enough so that most people knew about it, it leaked into two weeks. For Doppelganger Week, you're supposed to post a photo of a celebrity that someone once told you that you looked like.
Indulge me. Here are a few faces that people said I've resembled.
Lauren Bacall
I Goddamn wish.
Rene Russo
It would be nice to spend time with Pierce Brosnan in Martinique but I think my husband and his wife might object.
Debra Messing
Honestly, I think it was the one day I let my hair go curly, and that was in 2005 on a Southwest Airlines flight from Manchester, NH to Orlando, FL.
Katie Holmes
Though I would never marry a man who wore elevator shoes.
Personally, I think I look most like this broad.
Ms Delta Burke of Designing Women fame.
For the record, this is me:
What do you think?
Indulge me. Here are a few faces that people said I've resembled.
What do you think?
140 Characters or More
- The thing about the Grammy's is that it's a waste of time. To me, it's the same thing as a high school Student Council election where the most popular kid wins because they will have the best parties. The Grammy's stopped rewarding talent and started rewarding popularity years ago. I think it's the worst awards show out there because it basically means nothing. Good music stopped being produced years and years ago. Nowadays good music acts are few and far between. And this is why I listen to and love Classic Rock. (I also listen to all kinds of other music, classic rock happens to be my favorite.)
- I went to the doctor's today for a follow up visit and got a clean bill of health. I actually asked for a print out of my blood test results to see how I was doing, and remarkably, I'm normal in every single range. INCLUDING cholesterol. This perplexes me because I love salt.
- It's doppelganger week on the Facebook and so far I haven't found a single celebrity that looks like me. Maybe Delta Burke? The MyHeritage website tells me that Katie Holmes and Reese Witherspoon resemble me, but that site seems to be full of shit.
- Yesterday I went to a Bridal show at the RDS and realized how glad I am that both my weddings to the same person are over. Sure weddings are incredibly lucrative, but when you're in the planning state, you're bombarded with bullshit offers of things you HAVE.TO.HAVE. The thing is, you really do not need seat covers or a fancy car to take you to the reception. That money is better spent elsewhere, like on an open bar. My Dad drove me to the church and reception in the Honda Pilot and look at us - my wedding was awesome.
- I went to Clark's today in the search for boots since I've taken to wearing casual dresses and leggings these days. Why is this? Because my jeans fell apart and I'm running low on regular pants, so why not wear casual dresses and leggings! Because I don't have boots. My quest for a size 9 (US 11) continues. I'll never find them. In other news, if someone was loaded and maybe wanted to make me very happy, these boots are right up my alley. Failing that, I suppose I'll have to go to Tennessee sometime to get my own pair of cowboy boots. Woe is me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)