Dear Dublin...

First, I would like to apologize deeply for the groups of Americans wearing matching "Ireland: Let's-Find-Our-Roots Tour 2013" type shirts. There were a lot of those at Logan, and I'll speak to my fellow countrymen about that. In the meantime, someone named Liam, who sounded like he belonged to you, talked awfully loudly the entire bus ride from NH to Logan. Maybe you could take care of that in return? Sweet.

Your country rains a lot. Merely an observation. It even rains when it's sunny. Gienna and I were very impressed with how intensely it could pour while the sun was shining. It's a gift, really.

I appreciate that you know how ridiculous Americans are. Your crosswalks show that you're really looking out for us. Thanks much.

You have a lot of statues.

Why do these birds keep shitting on my face?!?!

Ahem, what wares is she peddling here, Dublin?

Damn, give that guy a sandwich.

You have the same kind of odd street indentations we have in Boston.

You sure do like your cobble stones. 

The sun came out for 4.2 glorious seconds. 

Your Trinity College Library is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. And I hate myself for not bringing my good camera today.

I am not amused...

This guy right here--his job is to vacuum books. You read that correctly.

By the way, thank you SO much for letting us sneak a few pictures of the Book of Kells.

Personally, I think it looks like something a kid could draw.

You totally score on kitsch points.

Guinness. Mmm, Guinness.

Gienna looking adorable and happy at Neary's.

You have a beautiful park, that's pretty even when it rains.

You put vegetables in your mashed potatoes and serve something called loin of bacon (Gienna and I have decided it tastes like pork chop +). De-lish.

And you have very old things.

Christ Church Cathedral, founded c. 1030.

This looks Romanish. But it's sorta sad and just sitting there. Maybe a diagram explaining
what's happening here would help silly travelers like me?

It was a beautiful door. Don't mind the tarp and cord. I can't edit pics at the moment.

"Sick & Indicent [sic] Roomkeepers Society, Founded AD 1790." Say what?

We take off for Galway in the morning, and your weather did not permit us to see all we wanted to see. But I already want to come back to your fine city.

Cheers

Packing like a boss

I know some of you are snickering ("she hasn't even gotten on the damn plane yet and keeps effing blogging"). This is my trip, and I'll blog when I want to. Blog when I want to. Blog when I want to.

So packing. The best lesson in packing for a trip? Camping. As a beginner camper, I used to fill a duffel bag with an outfit for each day, plus an uh-oh outfit (uh-oh, I shat my pants; uh-oh, I fell into someone else's shit; uh-oh...). But, frankly, if you come out of the woods smelling like a rose and perfectly clean, I'm not sure you did it right. You should smell like campfire and have weird smears across your shirt. So now, if it's just a couple nights, I bring one outfit, one pair of jammies, an extra shirt, some uh-oh underwear. And no, I don't typically shit myself. But there's always a first time. (wonder why I'm single...)

Back to Ireland.

So I'm a pretty minimalist packer. My math: nine days, three outfits, one pair of jammies, some extra stuff. And because I have to wear something to legally get onto the plane, I could just pack two outfits, jammies, my camera, and call it a day. Are any of you grossed out yet?

Also, I'm watching the weather.

This is the forecast every single day we are there. 49 degrees and rainy.

So it's going to be just as meh there as it is here. But I don't care because I'll be drinking beer and talking to sheep.

I got out all of the stuff I intend to bring.

What's this, you ask:

It holds pills. But I think it could also be good for keeping jewelry separated.

Unfortunately, I need it for pills. But I'll be using these for jewelry so it doesn't all come out as one giant knot:

You regular jet setters prolly have something much sexier than my Rite Aid pill pouches.

And the piece de resistance...packing cubes:

These come in packs of three. The freaky, organized squirrel in me is delighted. I also got one that compresses:

Fill'er up

Ever so gently run the bottom zipper all the way around to compress the cube.

I filled one cube with pants, pjs, and socks. The other with all tops and underwear.

Ready to rock and roll:

I put an empty cube in the bottom of the case for dirty clothes.

Tight, but not bad for a carry-on that has yet to be extended.

Even though it's a carry-on, I think I'll check it.

Now for my toys:

These are the things I actually want to carry onto the plane: documents, maps, books, notebooks, pens, the camera Santa got me and all its accoutrements, and my point and shoot.

I love this thing. $1 at Staples, and it holds my bus ticket, passport, and eventually the plane ticket.

I don't know why I can't put this right side up.

And then there's important stuff like ear plugs and a little something to freshen up with as the plane lands.

All of this goes into my new camera bag.

And I'm sorta ready to go.

Stella senses something's up.

And now, nothing to do but tie up a few loose ends and hop on the bus to Logan.

Irish authors are a bunch of dirty bastards (and I love it)

So we're officially less than 24 hours out from being on a plane and making our way to Ireland. I've learned a few things as I prep for this trip:

1. Everyone has already been to Ireland.
2. They love to talk about it.
3. Everyone's enthusiasm has been awesome.

And I'm geeking out, because that's what I do. So this is a pretty standard representation of my bedside table for the past two months:

 

Because I love you, I would like to share some of what I've learned.

Irish authors appear to come in two flavors: saccharine and unfuckingbelievably crude. I won't even bore you with the former. You can try to choke down some Maeve Binchy and Patrick Taylor on your own. So let's just focus on the latter.

Ms. Maeve. This lady was no dirty bird.
And totally dullsville after reading Doyle and Enright.

First, there's James Joyce. I was scared of him initially, thinking he'd be too smart/dry/whatever for me. But I really like him. So, so smart. And his work is kinda like dipping a little toe into a big pool of honesty--it's rich but spare, like Hemingway. It is subtle and leaves you thinking, "Did he just imply that a priest might..." Yup, he did. And his writing is beautiful.

Exhibit A:

...my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. (Dubliners, 23)

I noticed how clumsily her skirt was hooked at the back and how the heels of her cloth boots were trodden down all to one side. The fancy came to me that the old priest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin. (6)

Stop yawning. I know, I'm not getting to the dirty stuff fast enough. But just respect a master for a moment when he writes about his "dear, dirty Dublin" (70).

Then we hit a more modern writer: Anne Enright. This bitch is cray cray.

Exhibit B:

There is a terrible heat, a looseness in my innards that makes me want to dig my fists between my thighs. It is a confusing feeling--somewhere between diarrhoea and sex--this grief that is almost genital. (The Gathering, 7)

That's some pretty serious fucking grief, am I right? I have yet to punch my crotch in sadness. 

...her pubis like the breast of an underfed chicken under his large hand (67) [This is the main character imagining her grandparents. Ahem.]

...a fat little ten-year-old with a few pubic hairs like an old woman's chin (172)

What, you're not enjoying this?

I was talking about the meaty flower of my cunt, under his hand. (93)

You know who else likes that word? Roddy Doyle. I think his favorite word is cunt. Don't get me wrong, it's totally in my top five. But I only take it out on special occasions.

Exhibit C:

The Woman who Walked into Doors is initially confusing, and then goes on to become an incredibly sad story about abuse and loss and the knowledge that at a certain point in life, that's all there is--what you are at that point. But it's good. And when I read a paragraph about a girl jerking a boy off in a classroom, I reread it three times, totally impressed because that shit would not have flown in my high school.

I'd go to bed with a priest if I fancied him enough; I think I would. But then again, I've never really seen a good-looking priest...I'm as well off with my hand and my imagination. Mind you, when you've seen what my hand does all day--wiping, scouring, cleaning other people's bins and toilets--my imagination has its work cut out. (91)

I ate chips out of your knickers, he said. You'll remember that for the rest of your life. (131) [I'll remember that scene for the rest of my life too.]

I was put beside Derek O'Leary...He farted all day. Lifted his arse for noise, the dirty bastard. Buck teeth. A smell of sardines out of his mouth. He kept trying to feel me till I punched him in the face and told him to fuck off. (27)

- - -

I'm digging all three authors, although I take issue with some of Enright's characters. They're just so cold and removed from any feeling. Makes it hard to give a damn when something bad happens to them. I guess I'm just really appreciating the bluntness from this small island that many try to paint as quaint and prudish. There are some terminally heavy thoughts going on, and I intend to learn more. Though I don't think anyone will be eating chips out of my knickers (god, I hope not).

Nighty night

Just a wee announcement

St. Patrick's Day seems like the appropriate day to announce that this broad:

and this broad:

 are going here in April:

Oh yeah. Imma get my sheep on fo realz. 

In gearing up for our trip in a few weeks, I'm geeking out and sponging up as much about Ireland as I can. I'm watching intellectual films, like PS, I Love You and Leap Year. I'm drinking a lot of beer. And I'm reading Irish writers for the first time. That last one has been the most eye-opening. Irish writers are a bunch of dirty bastards. But that'll wait for another entry.

Happy St. Patrick's day, everyone. Sláinte! 

Easy A

So Stella went to the vet (I know, again, right?) this week. She lost a whole pound, so she's the Biggest Loser in our semifunctional little home. Finn, on the other hand, is gaining weight. I seem to be "maintaining," as they say. That's such a shite term.

Anyway, the vet gave her an A+. No shit. See Exhibit A.

Really, the excitement in our home is the fact that the weight loss means Miss Stella can wash her own ass. Yep, you read that correctly.

Before, the poor girl just couldn't reach--I didn't know this was possible; I've seen some big kitties get in there good and take care of bidness. But as I watched Stella more closely, I realized that was indeed the issue. She would put one back paw up, stage a front one on the floor, and start to clean. Except she would really just end up spinning herself around on the floor and coming out with a clean knee. These were dark days in clean-cat-ass history.

This is obviously not my cat; it's not spinning.

And there's nothing worse than being woken up by a loving furry friend who kinda smells like bad cheese. I had a boss like that once, back in college. She smelled like bad cheese. She was also a big girl. I'm not sure that she spun herself around on the floor when trying to wipe, per se, but there were definitely some reaching issues.

I haven't had Stella for quite a year yet, and I initially thought her dirty bum was some holdover issue from all the abandonment she dealt with. You know how trying foster kids can be--you've seen this past season of Parenthood, right? But soon enough, you call them Lil Slugger. And they look up at you and call you Mom. Everyone ends up at the town hall, signing papers while laughing and crying about how good life is.

That is kind of how I feel about Stella's clean ass. I want to laugh and cry, all at the same time.

...they said

It's been a pretty typical winter for me. Everyone complains about the cold--and I don't like scraping my windshield every time I go outside either--but I like hibernating in the winter. I like long lounging jammy weekends, reading and sipping hot chocolate, cooking soup and stitching. While some others itch with cabin fever, I'm happily working on this:

It's so tiny, and I love it. I don't particularly like the stitching part (it's a real poke-through-and-pull method, rather than making x's across the row) or the need for glaring light to see the holes in the cloth, but I love the way the images start to emerge. And that it's just so dang dainty. Like me.

Of course, with winter comes sickness. And those of us here at Chez Mill Girl are not immune. It started with the kiddos. I've never seen a cat with a cold before. And how does a house cat get a cold anyway?

When they're not beating the shit out of each other, Finn and Stella are very cute.

However it works, they got it. And in this cold weather, I have to say that being a single mom is a bitch. Two cat carriers; two sniffly, sneezy cats; two sets of sad Mumma-don't-do-thisssss cries. Enter one slightly wacky cat doc who talks in rhetorical questions ("So do I know what is wrong with them? No, I don't. Do I think this is just a cold? Maybe it is." Sigh).

Both cats are overweight, they said. So now all of us are on diets and pissy. And then they gave me three kinds of meds to administer. This tube? Just roll out a quarter inch, they said. Rub it in each eye, they said. Well the cats said "fuck that," and that's all there was to it. We got through the rest of the meds with minimal scratches and most of our dignity.

Then I got sick. No need to post pictures of that. And it wasn't the flu, or that horrible stomach bug going around. On more than one occasion, I was approached by sick people at work. "I don't feel well," they said. Go home. "Seriously, it's weird. My stomach hurts, and I feel tired, and..." Go home! Now! Ack! Get out!

And I thought I was getting away with it--with not getting sick. Look at me, all healthy and stuff, sailing into February. Then I went to the Portsmouth Music Hall to hear John Irving speak. Very. Slowly. And. Deliberately. About. How. Fucking. Fantastic. He. Is. But hell, he's John Irving. And he is pretty fantastic. Incidentally, I heard some of it replayed on NHPR a week later, and they did some mad editing, yo, on the dead space. Between. Each. Word.

The Writers on a New England Stage series is excellent. Check out the podcasts on nhpr.org

After the reading and interview, I ran into some colleagues who had also attended. One felt her throat. "I don't feel very well," she said. And I had to admit that during the performance, I had started to feel crummy too. And just like that, I joined the ranks of the sniffily, gross people all around me.

And that's when the big news came: It's going to snow, they said. It's going to be a "crippling" storm. It's going to rival the Blizzard of '78. It's going to blow your fucking mind! Hunker down and get ready to see some magic. And it's called Nemo. *wrinkles brow*

Go to the store, they said. Get batteries and water, they said. We're all gonna die, they said. And I went to the store to buy ingredients for a soup to live off of for three days and some kitty litter. When I saw the unimaginably full parking lot, I grinned at the challenge. How bad can it be, wondered the cynical girl who had no food in her fridge or litter for the cats to poop in. Well, it was pretty fucking bad. The line wrapped from here to Calcutta, and the I-live-alone-and-am-buying-a-can-of-soup-so-I'll-check-myself-out-thanks lines were closed down. Bastards!! I had to stand in line with my dinky little basket while people stood around me with full-on carriages packed with dozens of bottles of water, 24 rolls of toilet paper, real Armageddon-type supplies. Hell, I got home and realized I was on my last box of tissues and cursed bitterly while pulling a fresh roll of toilet paper from the bathroom to take to bed with me.

And it snowed. And it was a pretty good storm. Not as bad as I thought it would be, though a couple times I heard the building shift in the wind. And it's a mill. So that was uncomfortable. But all in all, it was just a good storm.

And now I present the obligatory Blizzard of '13 ("Nemo") pictures. Roll the tape, Addy.

Upon waking.

Yes, cars were buried.

It pretty much snowed sideways for 38 hours.

 

Finn was not sure what to make of it.

 And here's where it gets awkward.

I put 4,368 layers on and went out midday Saturday, while it was still doing its thang, to do a first clearing off of the car. When I got to the lot, this is what I saw.

Um, there's absolutely no snow on my car.

But when I turned around, these were the cars directly behind me.

I shit you not. Left: 17' of snow. Right: nada

This is my shovel. And the moment when I ask myself why I'm single.

So I wandered around in the quiet afternoon, watching people start to dig out.

Yes. I took a picture of a woman taking a picture. Because I have no shame.

Newmarket was awesomely quiet.

 

In the evening, the restaurant downstairs wrote on the facebook that it would be open for dinner. With glee, I got semi-presentable and went downstairs for some fine dining and bar chat with pig farmers who supply the restaurant. Not a bad way to end a snow storm.