You got to love my dad though. Never was a man more willing to pick up anything labeled "NEW!" in the grocery store.
24 June 2011
Only in America...
...would opening a container and using a spoon be too difficult for some.
You got to love my dad though. Never was a man more willing to pick up anything labeled "NEW!" in the grocery store.
You got to love my dad though. Never was a man more willing to pick up anything labeled "NEW!" in the grocery store.
22 June 2011
He could have asked for grapes. Grapes would have been fine.
This really isn't a post, it's just a quick story I thought I'd share with you all.
I was reminded of this story driving to Sentry tonight to pick up some beer and 2 bananas for my father. The beer he wasn't very specific about but he was very clear on the two bananas. 1 banana simply wasn't enough and 3 bananas would just be greedy. I started to think about it on the drive there and I felt a bit uneasy on what the general Sentry opinion of me would be when I checked out 2 six packs of beer and two bananas. I mean, I can't be the only one that is thinking some kinky sex thing with beer floats and banana pasties - and I'm not talking pastry here.
8 years ago I was unemployed so I was doing some handy man type jobs with my dad who is a private contractor. We were on site and my dad needed some duct tape. The house we were working on was also out of toilet paper so he sent me to this exact same Sentry to pick up the items. As it were, I had gotten my period that morning so I also needed to pick up some maxi pads. So I'm at the check out and I look down to notice that all I am indeed buying is maxi pads, a jumbo 20 pack of toilet paper, and duct tape. The cashier kind of raised her eyebrows but it was the bagging boy who had the guts to say, "looks like there's one hell of a party going on at your place."
It's because of that incident that my dad got 2 six packs of beer, 2 bananas, and a lovely 1/2 lb tub of macaroni salad from the deli. I don't even know if he likes macaroni salad but hell if I'm getting any comments again from the bagging boy.
I was reminded of this story driving to Sentry tonight to pick up some beer and 2 bananas for my father. The beer he wasn't very specific about but he was very clear on the two bananas. 1 banana simply wasn't enough and 3 bananas would just be greedy. I started to think about it on the drive there and I felt a bit uneasy on what the general Sentry opinion of me would be when I checked out 2 six packs of beer and two bananas. I mean, I can't be the only one that is thinking some kinky sex thing with beer floats and banana pasties - and I'm not talking pastry here.
8 years ago I was unemployed so I was doing some handy man type jobs with my dad who is a private contractor. We were on site and my dad needed some duct tape. The house we were working on was also out of toilet paper so he sent me to this exact same Sentry to pick up the items. As it were, I had gotten my period that morning so I also needed to pick up some maxi pads. So I'm at the check out and I look down to notice that all I am indeed buying is maxi pads, a jumbo 20 pack of toilet paper, and duct tape. The cashier kind of raised her eyebrows but it was the bagging boy who had the guts to say, "looks like there's one hell of a party going on at your place."
It's because of that incident that my dad got 2 six packs of beer, 2 bananas, and a lovely 1/2 lb tub of macaroni salad from the deli. I don't even know if he likes macaroni salad but hell if I'm getting any comments again from the bagging boy.
19 June 2011
Coming to America
The Henbot and I are currently up to our eyeballs in America and all that tends to mean...mainly family, friends, Target and more food than you can shake a stick at. I probably won't have anything for you until our return late this month but I'm assuming you understand.
By the way, were roads in the US always this big?
By the way, were roads in the US always this big?
Just realized that the "roads in the US always this big" comment followed by this photo might make it seem like I was calling myself a huge ass road. Totally unintentional. Probably.
11 June 2011
Dublin - DAY TWO
So, day two in Dublin.
To say that I woke up on my 2nd day in Dublin with a bit of a hangover is an understatement. I believe the text I sent to Andy contained the phrase “rough as a badger’s arsehole”. I suppose it’s fair to say that if you don’t wake up with a bit of a hangover in Ireland, you’re just not doing it right. I spent a good couple hours in bed moaning a bit, eating the free hotel biscuits, and wondering if I could convince the room service people to shower me. It was truly the need for some greasy food that finally got me going.
After checking out, I headed over to Grafton Street to try to catch breakfast at the place the friendly Irish couple, Joe and Mary, suggested. Joe did remind me via email to mention how lucky it was for me that he was in fact a cartographer and of all the people in Ireland I could have met, he was the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in regards to giving directions. I’m paraphrasing obviously. They suggested that I treat myself and go to Bewley’s, which is this gorgeous café with loads of woodwork, café seating in a courtyard type setting with a high ceiling that was either very ornate or had skylights – I would be able to tell you for sure if I was actually able to eat here and not have been told that breakfast was over and it was another half hour until lunch. I feel terrible for waking up so late and thus missing such a fabulous suggestion but perhaps one of you all could go there sometime and tell me about it…just make sure not to show up at 11:30 AM.
Starving and unable to deal with the crowds on Grafton Street with a hangover, I headed down some side streets and found another smaller, less impressive cafe and had breakfast. I’m not going to mention the name of this place because the breakfast was average and they were out of brown sauce which I really do believe is a crime in some parts of the country. I did notice while sitting outside eating my sausage sans brown sauce that not only was I two buildings away from another one of Joe’s suggestions – Pete’s Pub – but I was also two buildings away from a pub one of my Californian\Irish friends back home recommended – the Hairy Lemon. What luck! I really needed a bloody mary.
Since Pete’s Pub was closed for the bank holiday (another grand suggestion wasted!), I went to the Hairy Lemon where I felt very alcoholic – erm, I mean James Joyce like – by having a cocktail by myself in a very empty pub. In my defense, it was well after 12 PM by this point.
After my cocktail, I left and headed towards St. Stephen’s Green to redeem myself bit, stopping in multiple shops along the way. I stopped in H&M and bought the Henbot a few things, which only increased my missing of him. I haven’t mentioned that yet because I’m a bit ashamed. A couple years back Beth came out to CA to attend Andy and mine’s wedding. She had just had her son, Thomas, 6 months previously and you could see how much she missed being away from him. At the time I was Miss Not Understanding and just couldn’t get why she was depressed when she was only away from her child for 3 days. I completely get that now as its heartbreaking being away from your small child, even for a day. What ends up happening is you see all these parents with their babies, getting to cuddle them and push them in strollers and make silly faces at them and you don’t have your baby to do the same thing. As much fun as I had during this two day trip, it was bittersweet not having the Henbot to share it with. Not that he likes whiskey yet, but you get what I’m saying. Basically I bought more things back for Henry then anyone else and he couldn’t give a toss about presents yet. Seriously, this parenting thing is making me soft.
Where was I? Oh yes…St. Stephen’s Green. When I entered the park there seemed to be some sort of Ladies Walk going on. It turned out to be the Dublin Flora Women’s Mini Marathon and when I exited the park on the other side, I ran smack dab in the middle of all the walkers – of course going in the wrong direction. While I could have headed back into the park to avoid being awkward, my brain wasn’t functioning on all cylinders and I just plowed through. A confused young boy actually offered me a bottle of water which I almost took.
It was ages before I made it back to a place where no one was wearing a number plate on their chest. I was so confused that I just headed back to the Hairy Lemon for some more James Joyce reenactment.
After my cider, I went to Pablo Picante, a Californian Burrito Bar, and you should too. I loved this place as it not only satisfied my need for Mexican food but it made me so homesick for California that I cried a bit over my Senor ‘Slim’ Delgado burrito. I text Andy shortly after eating telling him that we were moving to Dublin and living over Pablo Picante. For some reason he didn’t go for the idea but I’ll continue to whine about it until he gives in.
Belly full of burrito, I did some more wandering. At one point I found myself at the International Bar where I was offered to sing (I declined) and then later at the Stag’s Head where I had a great conversation with the bartender about Liverpool Football (which I know nothing about but bluffed my way through). I’d recommend both these places to anyone as neither were overly touristy and the staff and clientele in both were very friendly. The Stag’s Head in particular is a good bet as you can get a glass of Powers for 4.10 euros which is a goddamn bargain in Dublin.
I ended my trip back at the Porterhouse Brewery for some bangers and mash and then headed to the airport exhausted, slightly tipsy, and desperately missing my family. I’m glad I got a chance to experience Dublin again and my opinion of it is much changed for the better. More importantly, now that I know that I can fly by myself and be alright, I’m heading back to the States with Henry this Thursday. Hot damn! All the Mexican food I can eat! If you find me somewhere in Milwaukee with burritos and enchiladas hanging from my ears, don’t bother me as I’ll be doing Just Fine.
To say that I woke up on my 2nd day in Dublin with a bit of a hangover is an understatement. I believe the text I sent to Andy contained the phrase “rough as a badger’s arsehole”. I suppose it’s fair to say that if you don’t wake up with a bit of a hangover in Ireland, you’re just not doing it right. I spent a good couple hours in bed moaning a bit, eating the free hotel biscuits, and wondering if I could convince the room service people to shower me. It was truly the need for some greasy food that finally got me going.
After checking out, I headed over to Grafton Street to try to catch breakfast at the place the friendly Irish couple, Joe and Mary, suggested. Joe did remind me via email to mention how lucky it was for me that he was in fact a cartographer and of all the people in Ireland I could have met, he was the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in regards to giving directions. I’m paraphrasing obviously. They suggested that I treat myself and go to Bewley’s, which is this gorgeous café with loads of woodwork, café seating in a courtyard type setting with a high ceiling that was either very ornate or had skylights – I would be able to tell you for sure if I was actually able to eat here and not have been told that breakfast was over and it was another half hour until lunch. I feel terrible for waking up so late and thus missing such a fabulous suggestion but perhaps one of you all could go there sometime and tell me about it…just make sure not to show up at 11:30 AM.
Starving and unable to deal with the crowds on Grafton Street with a hangover, I headed down some side streets and found another smaller, less impressive cafe and had breakfast. I’m not going to mention the name of this place because the breakfast was average and they were out of brown sauce which I really do believe is a crime in some parts of the country. I did notice while sitting outside eating my sausage sans brown sauce that not only was I two buildings away from another one of Joe’s suggestions – Pete’s Pub – but I was also two buildings away from a pub one of my Californian\Irish friends back home recommended – the Hairy Lemon. What luck! I really needed a bloody mary.
Still trying to find Ryan's boarding pass on the walls of this place...
Since Pete’s Pub was closed for the bank holiday (another grand suggestion wasted!), I went to the Hairy Lemon where I felt very alcoholic – erm, I mean James Joyce like – by having a cocktail by myself in a very empty pub. In my defense, it was well after 12 PM by this point.
After my cocktail, I left and headed towards St. Stephen’s Green to redeem myself bit, stopping in multiple shops along the way. I stopped in H&M and bought the Henbot a few things, which only increased my missing of him. I haven’t mentioned that yet because I’m a bit ashamed. A couple years back Beth came out to CA to attend Andy and mine’s wedding. She had just had her son, Thomas, 6 months previously and you could see how much she missed being away from him. At the time I was Miss Not Understanding and just couldn’t get why she was depressed when she was only away from her child for 3 days. I completely get that now as its heartbreaking being away from your small child, even for a day. What ends up happening is you see all these parents with their babies, getting to cuddle them and push them in strollers and make silly faces at them and you don’t have your baby to do the same thing. As much fun as I had during this two day trip, it was bittersweet not having the Henbot to share it with. Not that he likes whiskey yet, but you get what I’m saying. Basically I bought more things back for Henry then anyone else and he couldn’t give a toss about presents yet. Seriously, this parenting thing is making me soft.
Oh sweet serenity. I wonder if those ducks have any whiskey.
Where was I? Oh yes…St. Stephen’s Green. When I entered the park there seemed to be some sort of Ladies Walk going on. It turned out to be the Dublin Flora Women’s Mini Marathon and when I exited the park on the other side, I ran smack dab in the middle of all the walkers – of course going in the wrong direction. While I could have headed back into the park to avoid being awkward, my brain wasn’t functioning on all cylinders and I just plowed through. A confused young boy actually offered me a bottle of water which I almost took.
Not content enough to just walk? You can exercise with blue haired ladies.
It was ages before I made it back to a place where no one was wearing a number plate on their chest. I was so confused that I just headed back to the Hairy Lemon for some more James Joyce reenactment.
Listen up England. Get this in stock soon please before I am forced to revert back to Coors Light.
After my cider, I went to Pablo Picante, a Californian Burrito Bar, and you should too. I loved this place as it not only satisfied my need for Mexican food but it made me so homesick for California that I cried a bit over my Senor ‘Slim’ Delgado burrito. I text Andy shortly after eating telling him that we were moving to Dublin and living over Pablo Picante. For some reason he didn’t go for the idea but I’ll continue to whine about it until he gives in.
Eat Here.
How could this not make you cry?
Belly full of burrito, I did some more wandering. At one point I found myself at the International Bar where I was offered to sing (I declined) and then later at the Stag’s Head where I had a great conversation with the bartender about Liverpool Football (which I know nothing about but bluffed my way through). I’d recommend both these places to anyone as neither were overly touristy and the staff and clientele in both were very friendly. The Stag’s Head in particular is a good bet as you can get a glass of Powers for 4.10 euros which is a goddamn bargain in Dublin.
Listening to the "band" at the International.
Stag's Head before they opened. No wonder Andrea recommended this place - it comes with a Vespa.
I ended my trip back at the Porterhouse Brewery for some bangers and mash and then headed to the airport exhausted, slightly tipsy, and desperately missing my family. I’m glad I got a chance to experience Dublin again and my opinion of it is much changed for the better. More importantly, now that I know that I can fly by myself and be alright, I’m heading back to the States with Henry this Thursday. Hot damn! All the Mexican food I can eat! If you find me somewhere in Milwaukee with burritos and enchiladas hanging from my ears, don’t bother me as I’ll be doing Just Fine.
08 June 2011
Dublin - DAY ONE
So I went to Dublin and it was good.
The End.
Yeah right. I’m so long winded you know that would never happen. I’m so long winded that I’m going to start off at the airport (with a picture!). No! I’ll start out before then…let’s say 3:30 AM, which was when I got up to get ready. That will actually be important information. I ended up choosing a flight that left at 6:30 in the morning because it was 11 pounds cheaper then the one that left at 11:30 AM. When you are on a budget, 11 pounds is a lot…that’s like, 4 pints of beer! So yes, up at 3:30 AM, visa verified by RyanAir by 4:30 AM…cigarette, cigarette, cigarette, coffee, cigarette…through security by 5:30 AM and very much in Dublin by 6:45 AM.
I had heard nothing but horrible things about RyanAir but it wasn’t bad. Sure, the fees tacked on to my 8 pound ticket were absurd (8 pounds quickly turned to 30). The fact that you have to comply completely with the 22cm x 40cm x 50cm carry on luggage dimensions and that you MUST put your purse and any airport purchases within that one bag and still comply with the weight\dimensions is completely lame. And the fact that you HAVE to print out your boarding pass at home or else pay a 40 pound printing fee…jaysus, that’s just mean. But, if you manage to do all that, it’s fine. There are no seating assignments which can be tricky, but on the flights I had the plane was fairly empty. On the flight to Dublin I was pretty nervous so even though there were plenty of empty rows (I mean, LOTS of empty rows), I chose to sit next to a couple. It turned out that the couple was as nervous as I was and understood when I explained my seating choice. Strangely enough, having the nervous couple next to me made me feel better as it was nice to know I wasn’t the only irrational person on the plane.
Once in Dublin, I took the bus into the city centre. The hotel I was staying at, the George Frederic Handel, had emailed me beforehand to tell me that it might be possible to check in before 2 PM if they had a room available. They didn’t, which was a bummer since I could have really used a nap. They did store my luggage for me both before I checked in and after I checked out the next day so even if this was the worst hotel in Dublin, I’d still think they were pretty swell.
So now it’s 8 AM on a Sunday morning in Dublin and I need to find something to do. I’m walking around in a daze when I miraculously find a hotel restaurant that’s open. It looks posh and expensive (and at 9 euros for a continental breakfast it fucking was) but I was too tired to bother going a step further. I did manage to drink my weight in orange juice and hang out entirely too long in their lounge.
By 10 AM I had made my way over to the Jameson Distillery. Or what was once the Distillery and but is now just a big place where they show off stuff that used to make whiskey and sell 50 euro Jameson sweatshirts. A little hint for getting more bang for your 13 euro distillery tour buck, after the crap movie at the beginning that goes on and on and on about how John Jameson was the king of the world and boy, isn’t his hair shiny, raise your hand to be a volunteer. When they ask for volunteers of course. If you start shouting, “I want to be a volunteer!” when nobody has asked for one, it is one sure way NOT to be chosen to be a volunteer. And you want to be a volunteer because it’s a volunteer for an after tour whisky tasting. Which is what you want of course, more whiskey, or else you shouldn’t be on this tour in the first place. That said, there are some people who don’t WANT to drink whiskey (we don’t like those people) and there are even more people who don’t want to drink whiskey at ten in the morning. My suggestion to you is that if you do go on this tour, go in the morning, but make sure NOT to get in with the German tour group because they will drink anything at any time in the morning.
With a bit of whiskey under my belt at 11 AM, what better way to carry on the day if not to continue drinking? My frame of thought was simply “drink, take nap, eat, see some music, sleep again”. Well, that’s what I figured once I got back to the hotel at noon and my room STILL wasn’t ready. I found an old man’s pub just around the corner where I drank Guinness, read the Lifestyle section of the Sunday newspaper, and chatted to the old man bartender about Oprah and Obama. After only two pints of Guinness that the old man must have spiked, I was feeling pretty good and thought this sign read “Crotch End”.
By 2 PM, I was finally able to check into my very decently sized hotel room and tried to take a nap. I tried, I really did. But apparently the hotel room was located in cathedral zone and it being Sunday must have meant it was special bell ringing day and jaysus, there wasn’t a chance in hell of getting a lick of rest. So off I went again.
At this point I was so tired, I cannot tell you where I all went. There was a lot of walking and if I saw some thing or some place that looked interesting, I stopped for a bit. It was in this manner that I ran into the Porterhouse Brewery Co. Now one of my blog buddies, Kim, who up until Monday lived in Dublin, had suggested this place to me. Without access to email and with having a piss poor memory for names, I couldn’t remember what the place was that she recommended until I actually stumbled upon it. I’m so glad she suggested it to me and that I actually ran across it as it turned out to be one of the highlights of my trip.
The Porterhouse Brewery is nice enough, with decent food and really nice beers – but that isn’t the reason why I had such a good time here. On my list of All Time Awesome Things is getting the chance to meet and talk to new people. However, I’m a bit shit at actually starting conversations so this doesn’t happen to me as often as I like. But while I was sitting there at the Brewery, this couple sat down next to me and struck up a conversation. It was brilliant as I was just getting to that point in my solo vacation where I was feeling a wee bit lonely. The couple was Irish, which is rare enough in Dublin, and their names were Mary and Joe (Mary and Joseph…Irish…of course). We talked about America and Liverpool and driving in Ireland and a bunch of other things. They bought me a drink and I felt bad not to be able to return the favor as they had to leave. But they gave me suggestions on some places to go and their email.
I want to do a quick clarification on my comment above. Dublin is filled with plenty of Irish people, of course, but depending where you are Dublin it’s a lot like America – every place you go the employees are Irish but the clientele is all American. There was one Irish homeless man I got to talking to on the street. His friend came up to him and he told his friend that I was American. Before his friend could utter a word to match his unimpressed look, I said, “Everyone around here is American.” His friend responded, “No shit.” That’s just the way bits of Dublin are. Americans love all things Irish. They come to Dublin in droves. The tourists go to the sites and the Irish cater to them in the pubs. It’s because of this that I absolutely hated Dublin the first time I went there in 1998. I wanted the “true” Irish experience - an experience I realize now (that I live abroad) is a farce. A “true” Irish experience is going to Tesco at 7 in the morning to pick up those nappies that you’ve just run out of. But now that I know that, I enjoyed Dublin immensely. I enjoyed the touristy shit, the tra-la-la bands playing in the touristy pubs. I couldn’t give a toss I was standing with 200 of my fellow country men listening to “Whiskey in the Jar”. It was fun.
I can’t remember to many details of the rest of my evening. I stayed in the Temple Bar area which is one of the worst touristy offenders there is in Dublin, going from pub to pub listening to music, having pints. I stopped in the kitschy touristy shops and bought kitschy touristy gifts for a few people. I went to more pubs. I honestly got quite off my face intoxicated. I had a BLT kebab-y thing from Abrakebabra which was just as good as I remembered it from 1998 (though I certainly don’t remember paying 6.50 euro for it!). Finally, a mere 21 hours since I got up that morning, I went to bed.
Since this post is growing a bit long already, I’ll continue with Day Two later on this week.
The End.
Yeah right. I’m so long winded you know that would never happen. I’m so long winded that I’m going to start off at the airport (with a picture!). No! I’ll start out before then…let’s say 3:30 AM, which was when I got up to get ready. That will actually be important information. I ended up choosing a flight that left at 6:30 in the morning because it was 11 pounds cheaper then the one that left at 11:30 AM. When you are on a budget, 11 pounds is a lot…that’s like, 4 pints of beer! So yes, up at 3:30 AM, visa verified by RyanAir by 4:30 AM…cigarette, cigarette, cigarette, coffee, cigarette…through security by 5:30 AM and very much in Dublin by 6:45 AM.
John Lennon Airport at butt crack in the morning
I had heard nothing but horrible things about RyanAir but it wasn’t bad. Sure, the fees tacked on to my 8 pound ticket were absurd (8 pounds quickly turned to 30). The fact that you have to comply completely with the 22cm x 40cm x 50cm carry on luggage dimensions and that you MUST put your purse and any airport purchases within that one bag and still comply with the weight\dimensions is completely lame. And the fact that you HAVE to print out your boarding pass at home or else pay a 40 pound printing fee…jaysus, that’s just mean. But, if you manage to do all that, it’s fine. There are no seating assignments which can be tricky, but on the flights I had the plane was fairly empty. On the flight to Dublin I was pretty nervous so even though there were plenty of empty rows (I mean, LOTS of empty rows), I chose to sit next to a couple. It turned out that the couple was as nervous as I was and understood when I explained my seating choice. Strangely enough, having the nervous couple next to me made me feel better as it was nice to know I wasn’t the only irrational person on the plane.
Once in Dublin, I took the bus into the city centre. The hotel I was staying at, the George Frederic Handel, had emailed me beforehand to tell me that it might be possible to check in before 2 PM if they had a room available. They didn’t, which was a bummer since I could have really used a nap. They did store my luggage for me both before I checked in and after I checked out the next day so even if this was the worst hotel in Dublin, I’d still think they were pretty swell.
So now it’s 8 AM on a Sunday morning in Dublin and I need to find something to do. I’m walking around in a daze when I miraculously find a hotel restaurant that’s open. It looks posh and expensive (and at 9 euros for a continental breakfast it fucking was) but I was too tired to bother going a step further. I did manage to drink my weight in orange juice and hang out entirely too long in their lounge.
By 10 AM I had made my way over to the Jameson Distillery. Or what was once the Distillery and but is now just a big place where they show off stuff that used to make whiskey and sell 50 euro Jameson sweatshirts. A little hint for getting more bang for your 13 euro distillery tour buck, after the crap movie at the beginning that goes on and on and on about how John Jameson was the king of the world and boy, isn’t his hair shiny, raise your hand to be a volunteer. When they ask for volunteers of course. If you start shouting, “I want to be a volunteer!” when nobody has asked for one, it is one sure way NOT to be chosen to be a volunteer. And you want to be a volunteer because it’s a volunteer for an after tour whisky tasting. Which is what you want of course, more whiskey, or else you shouldn’t be on this tour in the first place. That said, there are some people who don’t WANT to drink whiskey (we don’t like those people) and there are even more people who don’t want to drink whiskey at ten in the morning. My suggestion to you is that if you do go on this tour, go in the morning, but make sure NOT to get in with the German tour group because they will drink anything at any time in the morning.
Sadly, you do not get to take one of these home with you...or float one home or whatever.
With a bit of whiskey under my belt at 11 AM, what better way to carry on the day if not to continue drinking? My frame of thought was simply “drink, take nap, eat, see some music, sleep again”. Well, that’s what I figured once I got back to the hotel at noon and my room STILL wasn’t ready. I found an old man’s pub just around the corner where I drank Guinness, read the Lifestyle section of the Sunday newspaper, and chatted to the old man bartender about Oprah and Obama. After only two pints of Guinness that the old man must have spiked, I was feeling pretty good and thought this sign read “Crotch End”.
Heh.
By 2 PM, I was finally able to check into my very decently sized hotel room and tried to take a nap. I tried, I really did. But apparently the hotel room was located in cathedral zone and it being Sunday must have meant it was special bell ringing day and jaysus, there wasn’t a chance in hell of getting a lick of rest. So off I went again.
Made with real Americans
At this point I was so tired, I cannot tell you where I all went. There was a lot of walking and if I saw some thing or some place that looked interesting, I stopped for a bit. It was in this manner that I ran into the Porterhouse Brewery Co. Now one of my blog buddies, Kim, who up until Monday lived in Dublin, had suggested this place to me. Without access to email and with having a piss poor memory for names, I couldn’t remember what the place was that she recommended until I actually stumbled upon it. I’m so glad she suggested it to me and that I actually ran across it as it turned out to be one of the highlights of my trip.
Inside the Porterhouse Brewery Co.
The Porterhouse Brewery is nice enough, with decent food and really nice beers – but that isn’t the reason why I had such a good time here. On my list of All Time Awesome Things is getting the chance to meet and talk to new people. However, I’m a bit shit at actually starting conversations so this doesn’t happen to me as often as I like. But while I was sitting there at the Brewery, this couple sat down next to me and struck up a conversation. It was brilliant as I was just getting to that point in my solo vacation where I was feeling a wee bit lonely. The couple was Irish, which is rare enough in Dublin, and their names were Mary and Joe (Mary and Joseph…Irish…of course). We talked about America and Liverpool and driving in Ireland and a bunch of other things. They bought me a drink and I felt bad not to be able to return the favor as they had to leave. But they gave me suggestions on some places to go and their email.
Mary & Joe, helping tourists feel welcome...well, this one anyhow.
I want to do a quick clarification on my comment above. Dublin is filled with plenty of Irish people, of course, but depending where you are Dublin it’s a lot like America – every place you go the employees are Irish but the clientele is all American. There was one Irish homeless man I got to talking to on the street. His friend came up to him and he told his friend that I was American. Before his friend could utter a word to match his unimpressed look, I said, “Everyone around here is American.” His friend responded, “No shit.” That’s just the way bits of Dublin are. Americans love all things Irish. They come to Dublin in droves. The tourists go to the sites and the Irish cater to them in the pubs. It’s because of this that I absolutely hated Dublin the first time I went there in 1998. I wanted the “true” Irish experience - an experience I realize now (that I live abroad) is a farce. A “true” Irish experience is going to Tesco at 7 in the morning to pick up those nappies that you’ve just run out of. But now that I know that, I enjoyed Dublin immensely. I enjoyed the touristy shit, the tra-la-la bands playing in the touristy pubs. I couldn’t give a toss I was standing with 200 of my fellow country men listening to “Whiskey in the Jar”. It was fun.
I went here...at some point.
...and here.
I'm going to blame my crappy cell phone for the quality of this, but we all know the real reason.
I can’t remember to many details of the rest of my evening. I stayed in the Temple Bar area which is one of the worst touristy offenders there is in Dublin, going from pub to pub listening to music, having pints. I stopped in the kitschy touristy shops and bought kitschy touristy gifts for a few people. I went to more pubs. I honestly got quite off my face intoxicated. I had a BLT kebab-y thing from Abrakebabra which was just as good as I remembered it from 1998 (though I certainly don’t remember paying 6.50 euro for it!). Finally, a mere 21 hours since I got up that morning, I went to bed.
Since this post is growing a bit long already, I’ll continue with Day Two later on this week.
29 May 2011
The best I got with limited concentration...
While the banana bread is in the oven and Andy has taken over baby duties for the time being, thought I’d try to get out a blog post. I’m going to have to scrap the bottom of my blog post topics today as this week has been less then interesting. Well, I could tell you about “Homes Under the Hammer” but I’m already pretty ashamed that I watch that show with such regularity that I sometimes have dreams about double glazing and wood burning fireplaces.
I would like to mention that Andy has been singing to the baby almost non-stop for the last hour all while watching “Babylon 5”. The songs all have such complex lyrics such as “Bouncy baby! Bouncy baby! Bouncy bouncy bouncy baby!” and they kind of stick in your head with the same annoying furiousness as anything from the Beach Boys. To say that I’m having trouble concentrating is an understatement. Maybe I’ll just give you the highlights of the week.
HIGHLIGHTS OF THE WEEK:
ITEM #1: I’m definitely going to Dublin next weekend. I’m pretty stoked to be using this whole living in Europe thing to my advantage for once. 10 years ago I don’t think I ever thought I’d be able to post on Facebook, “Going to Dublin for the night.” This is because there was no such thing as Facebook 10 years ago. Duh. Anyhow, I leave Sunday morning and come back late Monday night. I’m pretty poor so if you live in Dublin and you see me rooting around your bins looking for some discarded chips, don’t call the coppers on me. In fact, if you see me looking in your bins for some discarded chips, BUY me some fresh chips you cheap bastard.
ITEM #2: I’ve had 3 packages arrive from America this past week. My family and friends are awesome and obviously know my love of Kraft mac & cheese.
ITEM #3: Just as a random story* that has been running through my head recently, I would like to mention that I enjoy cooking. Over the years I’ve become pretty OK at it (I’m saying this using the guide of people I’ve cooked for who may or may not be bullshitting me when commenting on my grub) and am usually up for tackling a new recipe. This wasn’t always the case. In my early twenties I used to tell people that I couldn’t cook and that statement was pretty true (unless you count mac & cheese ‘cooking’). Eventually I found myself a boyfriend who was into having furniture nicer than a couple milk crates and dinner more complex than mac & cheese and I decided (or maybe he decided) one day to have his parents over for dinner. I made the choice to serve his parents chili, a recipe I had learned from the boyfriend before this boyfriend, and all in all it turned out pretty good. I didn’t poison anyone, so you know, bonus. A few weeks later this same boyfriend had his sister in town. We invited her over for dinner as well and I foolishly decided to make the same chili I served his parents. While the chili was still fine, obviously the sister and the mother talked to each other about it and I heard back from the boyfriend that his mother had a very sarcastic comment of, “is chili ALL she knows how to make?” First of all, YES, I also knew how to make tacos (another gift from the boyfriend before this boyfriend) and of course I could make mac & cheese and scrambled eggs and secondly, this boyfriend’s mother never liked me. But the comment really hurt and I took it with me long after this particular boyfriend was no longer my boyfriend. Even now, a billion years later, every time I tackle a new recipe that comment goes through my head. I can’t help it. I always mentally respond back to it with a, “NO, I can make this now. Shut up.”
I would like to state that I still make that damn chili and in fact, there’s some in the fridge right now as we speak. What? It’s good chili.
ITEM #4: Yesterday we dropped off the Henbot at his nan’s to go and be a tourist in our own town. We headed to the Albert Dock and went through the Maritime Museum. What’s great about the museums in England is that they are free. I love free. On a museum scale that means that if the museum sucks you haven’t wasted any money and if you get tired half way through you don’t feel obliged to continue on. After the museum we had a pint at the Albert Dock Pump House and then afterward I made Andy have yet another pint (the humanity!) at the Baltic Fleet. The Baltic Fleet was another one of those places where I seriously could have stayed at all day but had to leave after one because of these damn responsibilities (the humanity!).
Banana bread is done and Andy has stopped singing so my time here is up. Hope you all have a great Memorial Day\Spring Bank Holiday.
I would like to mention that Andy has been singing to the baby almost non-stop for the last hour all while watching “Babylon 5”. The songs all have such complex lyrics such as “Bouncy baby! Bouncy baby! Bouncy bouncy bouncy baby!” and they kind of stick in your head with the same annoying furiousness as anything from the Beach Boys. To say that I’m having trouble concentrating is an understatement. Maybe I’ll just give you the highlights of the week.
HIGHLIGHTS OF THE WEEK:
ITEM #1: I’m definitely going to Dublin next weekend. I’m pretty stoked to be using this whole living in Europe thing to my advantage for once. 10 years ago I don’t think I ever thought I’d be able to post on Facebook, “Going to Dublin for the night.” This is because there was no such thing as Facebook 10 years ago. Duh. Anyhow, I leave Sunday morning and come back late Monday night. I’m pretty poor so if you live in Dublin and you see me rooting around your bins looking for some discarded chips, don’t call the coppers on me. In fact, if you see me looking in your bins for some discarded chips, BUY me some fresh chips you cheap bastard.
ITEM #2: I’ve had 3 packages arrive from America this past week. My family and friends are awesome and obviously know my love of Kraft mac & cheese.
ITEM #3: Just as a random story* that has been running through my head recently, I would like to mention that I enjoy cooking. Over the years I’ve become pretty OK at it (I’m saying this using the guide of people I’ve cooked for who may or may not be bullshitting me when commenting on my grub) and am usually up for tackling a new recipe. This wasn’t always the case. In my early twenties I used to tell people that I couldn’t cook and that statement was pretty true (unless you count mac & cheese ‘cooking’). Eventually I found myself a boyfriend who was into having furniture nicer than a couple milk crates and dinner more complex than mac & cheese and I decided (or maybe he decided) one day to have his parents over for dinner. I made the choice to serve his parents chili, a recipe I had learned from the boyfriend before this boyfriend, and all in all it turned out pretty good. I didn’t poison anyone, so you know, bonus. A few weeks later this same boyfriend had his sister in town. We invited her over for dinner as well and I foolishly decided to make the same chili I served his parents. While the chili was still fine, obviously the sister and the mother talked to each other about it and I heard back from the boyfriend that his mother had a very sarcastic comment of, “is chili ALL she knows how to make?” First of all, YES, I also knew how to make tacos (another gift from the boyfriend before this boyfriend) and of course I could make mac & cheese and scrambled eggs and secondly, this boyfriend’s mother never liked me. But the comment really hurt and I took it with me long after this particular boyfriend was no longer my boyfriend. Even now, a billion years later, every time I tackle a new recipe that comment goes through my head. I can’t help it. I always mentally respond back to it with a, “NO, I can make this now. Shut up.”
I would like to state that I still make that damn chili and in fact, there’s some in the fridge right now as we speak. What? It’s good chili.
*The basics of this story are true and correct. The details might be mixed up. His sister might have come over first, or it could have been an aunt. But it was definitely multiple family members and it was most definitely chili. I have the recipe if you want it. It’s seriously good.
ITEM #4: Yesterday we dropped off the Henbot at his nan’s to go and be a tourist in our own town. We headed to the Albert Dock and went through the Maritime Museum. What’s great about the museums in England is that they are free. I love free. On a museum scale that means that if the museum sucks you haven’t wasted any money and if you get tired half way through you don’t feel obliged to continue on. After the museum we had a pint at the Albert Dock Pump House and then afterward I made Andy have yet another pint (the humanity!) at the Baltic Fleet. The Baltic Fleet was another one of those places where I seriously could have stayed at all day but had to leave after one because of these damn responsibilities (the humanity!).
The Albert Dock
Andy's defense for having to go do touristy shit
Banana bread is done and Andy has stopped singing so my time here is up. Hope you all have a great Memorial Day\Spring Bank Holiday.
21 May 2011
Getting the band back together
So this past Monday we were finally able to bring Chloe the Angry Cat back home. She spent a total of 3 ½ months in cat jail. Not only am I glad that she’s back home with us, I’m also glad that we don’t have to spend a good portion of our Saturdays driving all the way to Chester and back to visit her. I mean, I like a good drive in the smog filled, narrow-lane, almost get hit by a bus, pound fifty each way Mersey Tunnel as much as the next girl but I think we’ve spent our fair share on tolls to last us until 2020.
Having Chloe home has been good. Andy and I were both a bit concerned on how she was going to respond to Henry. Everyone we know was cautioning us. “Oh, cats like to sleep on top of babies because they’re warm.” “You need a cat net for the crib.” “Be careful that the cat doesn’t scratch the baby.” “Cats love milk; she might try to lick the baby.” “Cats steal baby’s breaths! Haven’t you seen ‘Cat’s Eye’? Oh wait, in that the troll was responsible.” Truthfully, Chloe could give a rat’s ass about Henry. She stays as far away from him as possible. We think it’s because she doesn’t like Henry’s noises – mainly the crying. Truthfully, when Henry cries I wouldn’t mind hiding under the bedspread upstairs too. Chloe and I could chill out together, playing cards, drinking milkshakes – “Has he stopped wailing yet? No? Ugh. Deal me another hand please and pass the chocolate syrup.”
As much as it pained me to see Chloe in jail, I think it’s done her good. She still has all her basic annoying personality traits – begging for the milk in our cereal bowls, following us from room to room never minding that we might accidentally step on her, pawing at half open doors – usually around 3 in the morning – not because she wants to get into the space behind the door but just because she loves the noise a banging door (or cabinet, or vertical blind) makes. She seems to have lost her “no strangers” policy from being in jail though, which is fucking awesome. For 8 years I’ve put up with apologizing to anyone who has come into my home. “Don’t touch the cat and if you do, I have some Neosporin on hand.” She’d hiss and scratch and bite any new person who came over. My best friend, Beth, who LOVES animals can’t stand Chloe for this very reason. But (knock on wood) Chloe seems to have let this policy go. My mother in law came over yesterday for a few hours and Chloe didn’t do anything. No hissing. No scratching. No biting. Chloe pretty much regarded my mother in law like she does Henry, “I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me”. While I’m almost embarrassed to say how much we had to pay to keep Chloe in cat jail for 3 ½ months, if this is now her normal behavior, it was totally worth it.
Having Chloe back does mean that it is impossible to have an empty lap. If Andy and I are both on the couch, one of us will have a baby in their lap, the other will have a cat. It feels very family-like, those moments, and I enjoy them a lot. That is until I have to get up to pee, or get something to drink, or have a cigarette, or because something I’ve got in the oven is ready to come out. Then I get either a baby yelling at me for disturbing his warm bosom pillow perch (“…everyone needs a bosom for a pillow, everyone needs a bosom…”) or a cat giving me a nip for not completing the petting she believes she deserves. I suppose that’s pretty family-like too.
****************
In other news, I’ve been debating coming back to the States with Henry for a couple weeks this summer. It’s still in the debate stage as a few factors are in play. First of all is finding a way to pay for the ticket. We’re a bit skint at the moment (babies cost their weight in gold) so I’d have to rely on the generosity of my folks and their anxiousness to see their grandchild. Secondly I would have to travel 9 hours on a plane with an infant by myself. Thirdly, and I think this is the most deciding factor, is that I would have to fly BY MYSELF. I don’t know if I’ve gone into my fear of flying before and now is certainly not the time. Let’s just say that I didn’t fly for 7 years due to my fear and it’s only been the grand power of Xanax and Andy’s sturdy arm and will that has gotten me through all the flights I’ve managed the last few years. It’s the take offs and landings that scare me the most (though turbulence, which I know is completely harmless, doesn’t do the nerves any good either) and having Andy’s arm to squeeze to a pulp and him reminding me to breathe into my barf bag like an asthma sufferer really helps me out.
Before I start making plans to come to the States, I have to try flying on my own. The shorter the flight the better-which is why I’m planning on flying to Dublin for a night the first week of June. Liverpool to Dublin is only 50 minutes and on RyanAir (which I hear is a new level of hell) only costs twenty pounds. Though I suppose with RyanAir’s added fees (which most likely includes a 5 pound fee to use the toilet with a 1 pound fee per sheet of toilet paper) will mean that it’s actually 40 pounds – but still, it’s cheap. And worse case scenario, if I can’t take the flight well and I flat out refuse to fly back, I can always take the ferry back home. Which is weird really. A ferry. To get from Dublin to Liverpool. I suppose it’s only weird to me as the In My Head version of ferries are just these 5 car pontoon boats that are more like the marine equivalent of a carnival Tilt-A-Wirl then a proper water vessel.
Wish me luck. I’d love to get back to the homeland for a bit. Not only do I have a king’s ransom worth of eligible babysitters there but I might possibly ask Target if I can stay with them for a couple nights….I’ll just set me up a bunch of their fluffy bath towels in the margarita mix section and I’ll be good to go.
Having Chloe home has been good. Andy and I were both a bit concerned on how she was going to respond to Henry. Everyone we know was cautioning us. “Oh, cats like to sleep on top of babies because they’re warm.” “You need a cat net for the crib.” “Be careful that the cat doesn’t scratch the baby.” “Cats love milk; she might try to lick the baby.” “Cats steal baby’s breaths! Haven’t you seen ‘Cat’s Eye’? Oh wait, in that the troll was responsible.” Truthfully, Chloe could give a rat’s ass about Henry. She stays as far away from him as possible. We think it’s because she doesn’t like Henry’s noises – mainly the crying. Truthfully, when Henry cries I wouldn’t mind hiding under the bedspread upstairs too. Chloe and I could chill out together, playing cards, drinking milkshakes – “Has he stopped wailing yet? No? Ugh. Deal me another hand please and pass the chocolate syrup.”
Chloe is as flummoxed on why the washing machine is in the kitchen as I am.
As much as it pained me to see Chloe in jail, I think it’s done her good. She still has all her basic annoying personality traits – begging for the milk in our cereal bowls, following us from room to room never minding that we might accidentally step on her, pawing at half open doors – usually around 3 in the morning – not because she wants to get into the space behind the door but just because she loves the noise a banging door (or cabinet, or vertical blind) makes. She seems to have lost her “no strangers” policy from being in jail though, which is fucking awesome. For 8 years I’ve put up with apologizing to anyone who has come into my home. “Don’t touch the cat and if you do, I have some Neosporin on hand.” She’d hiss and scratch and bite any new person who came over. My best friend, Beth, who LOVES animals can’t stand Chloe for this very reason. But (knock on wood) Chloe seems to have let this policy go. My mother in law came over yesterday for a few hours and Chloe didn’t do anything. No hissing. No scratching. No biting. Chloe pretty much regarded my mother in law like she does Henry, “I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me”. While I’m almost embarrassed to say how much we had to pay to keep Chloe in cat jail for 3 ½ months, if this is now her normal behavior, it was totally worth it.
Having Chloe back does mean that it is impossible to have an empty lap. If Andy and I are both on the couch, one of us will have a baby in their lap, the other will have a cat. It feels very family-like, those moments, and I enjoy them a lot. That is until I have to get up to pee, or get something to drink, or have a cigarette, or because something I’ve got in the oven is ready to come out. Then I get either a baby yelling at me for disturbing his warm bosom pillow perch (“…everyone needs a bosom for a pillow, everyone needs a bosom…”) or a cat giving me a nip for not completing the petting she believes she deserves. I suppose that’s pretty family-like too.
****************
In other news, I’ve been debating coming back to the States with Henry for a couple weeks this summer. It’s still in the debate stage as a few factors are in play. First of all is finding a way to pay for the ticket. We’re a bit skint at the moment (babies cost their weight in gold) so I’d have to rely on the generosity of my folks and their anxiousness to see their grandchild. Secondly I would have to travel 9 hours on a plane with an infant by myself. Thirdly, and I think this is the most deciding factor, is that I would have to fly BY MYSELF. I don’t know if I’ve gone into my fear of flying before and now is certainly not the time. Let’s just say that I didn’t fly for 7 years due to my fear and it’s only been the grand power of Xanax and Andy’s sturdy arm and will that has gotten me through all the flights I’ve managed the last few years. It’s the take offs and landings that scare me the most (though turbulence, which I know is completely harmless, doesn’t do the nerves any good either) and having Andy’s arm to squeeze to a pulp and him reminding me to breathe into my barf bag like an asthma sufferer really helps me out.
Before I start making plans to come to the States, I have to try flying on my own. The shorter the flight the better-which is why I’m planning on flying to Dublin for a night the first week of June. Liverpool to Dublin is only 50 minutes and on RyanAir (which I hear is a new level of hell) only costs twenty pounds. Though I suppose with RyanAir’s added fees (which most likely includes a 5 pound fee to use the toilet with a 1 pound fee per sheet of toilet paper) will mean that it’s actually 40 pounds – but still, it’s cheap. And worse case scenario, if I can’t take the flight well and I flat out refuse to fly back, I can always take the ferry back home. Which is weird really. A ferry. To get from Dublin to Liverpool. I suppose it’s only weird to me as the In My Head version of ferries are just these 5 car pontoon boats that are more like the marine equivalent of a carnival Tilt-A-Wirl then a proper water vessel.
Wish me luck. I’d love to get back to the homeland for a bit. Not only do I have a king’s ransom worth of eligible babysitters there but I might possibly ask Target if I can stay with them for a couple nights….I’ll just set me up a bunch of their fluffy bath towels in the margarita mix section and I’ll be good to go.
11 May 2011
London Tangents
So, London. This is going to be a difficult post to put out because after writing the rough draft in my head right before I fell asleep on Sunday night I knew that the potential for me going off on random tangents was extremely high. If my Sunday Night Pre-Dreamtime Rough Draft Post is anything to go on, I’ve got enough material in this entry for a novel albeit a pretty piss poor one. I decided to give those with very short patience for tangents and those who are looking to kill 30 seconds before that budget meeting and therefore are just skimming anyway, a recap. I was tempted to do the recap in outline style, with the fancy Roman numerals and proper tabs and all that shit, but I can’t be assed to find out how to do that in HTML right now. I’ve got to order my Indian take away for fuck’s sake; I just don’t have the extra time.
RECAP FOR THOSE THAT CAN’T BE BOTHERED TO READ MY ENTIRE DISSERTATION OF BRILLIANCE: We went to London. Henry became a US Citizen. We ate food and drank beer. Hotel room was small. Saw Tiger Finger Square, London Eye, and Big Ben. We walked a lot. The End. Enjoy your meeting and don’t let them catch you doodling the financial report in bubble letters.
Because this is an expat blog I feel it’s my duty to describe to you the 10 step process on how to make a UK child a US citizen. This is under the assumption that you have a child that has a right to become a US citizen and not some ankle biter you picked up in the discount bin at Tesco’s.
STEP ONE: Have a baby
STEP TWO: Go to this website, make an appointment, and feel smug that you have all the paperwork needed.
STEP THREE: Go to THIS website and agonize for days that you did something wrong and that your child will never get to see the amber waves of grain and buffalo roaming.
STEP FOUR: If you live impossibly far away from London, book a hotel with an American hotel chain for the night before your appointment smugly think to yourself that an American chain in London will have the spacious rooms and king sized beds that you are so accustomed – perhaps they will have pancakes with real maple syrup for breakfast.
STEP FIVE: Travel to London via train with your baby. Make sure your baby needs both a change and feed during the train journey and that you booked yourself in the quiet car thinking that you wouldn’t want to disturb your baby with football supporters. Laugh that night at your ignorance. It’s also important that part of your train journey involves the London Underground (aka: the Tube) and that you are carrying a large travel stroller and two wheelie suitcases. Marvel how any UNDERGROUND transportation in the modern world would fail to provide FUCKING ELEVATORS. Almost kill your baby (not intentionally) on 90 degree escalators. Whimper at the bottom of 3 flights of stairs hoping that one of London’s finest will help you lift the stroller while a hoard of London’s non-finest waits impatiently behind you wondering why you brought a fucking stroller on the Tube.
STEP SIX: Book into your Best Western hotel and realize that room is not American size wonderfulness but typical London shoe box. Have them bring up a cot that fills up the only remaining floor space available after two suitcases and one travel stroller is present. Cry a little when your baby refuses to sleep in said cot.
STEP SEVEN: Wake up 3 hours before your appointment at the US Embassy. “Wake up” is a funny phrase as you will have “been up” for the last 4 hours. In fact, you probably never went to sleep as your baby doesn’t like the cot and you are terrified of falling asleep when your baby is sleeping next to you in the bed.
STEP EIGHT: Go to the US Embassy. I’d tell you to make sure to be on time but it really doesn’t matter. You will stand in line to get through security. You will be given a ticket. Your ticket will feel like it will never be called. It gets called. You submit paperwork. They tell you to wait longer. Baby needs to eat. Feed baby. Baby shits. Clean shitty diaper in changing room forgetting to put down paper and getting shit all over table. Clean table with baby wipes. Baby gets fussy. Number still doesn’t get called. Marvel at all the other babies that seem to be crying less then your baby. Marvel that yours is still the cutest. Number gets called. Yay! Baby is US citizen. Resist the urge to salute baby.
STEP NINE: Walk back to the hotel to retrieve your cell phones that you were told that you couldn’t bring to the US Embassy but you totally can.
STEP TEN: Go for a pint. Make that two.
After the embassy, we took a cab to the Strand. I don’t know anything about London but Andy told me the Strand is incredibly touristy. I really didn’t care. I wanted to go to the Strand because the internet told me there were some Mexican restaurants in that area and I wanted, nay, NEEDED some Mexican food. (Warning! Tangent ahead!) If there is one thing the Liverpool does not have is Mexican food. I would venture to say most of England is vacant of proper Mexican food but having never searched out Mexican food anywhere else but Liverpool, I can only attest to there. And Liverpool, my dear Liverpool, does not do Mexican food. Don’t get me wrong, Liverpool does plenty Tex Mex, and really good Tex Mex at that. It does not do Mexican. To properly convey this, when I got my hair cut a few weeks ago the ladies there were asking me how I liked the area so far. I told them that I love it but I was missing certain foods like Mexican. They then mentioned some “Mexican” restaurants to try (that I had already been to) and I had to inform them, with a sober face, that on no planet should a Mexican taco (or enchilada, or burrito, etc) contain chili beans (red kidney beans). Pinto beans, sure. Refried beans, fuck yeah, but not chili beans. The ladies at the salon were in shock – was this not normal? The differences between Tex Mex and Mexican run deeper than just the beans but that’s what gets me the most. Don’t get me started on the margaritas. OK, do. First of all – if you can find a place that actually knows what goes into a margarita (which some places don’t I’ve found), make sure that place doesn’t try to serve you a margarita as a martini, which I’ve also encountered. I might be going on about this Mexican food thing, much to Andy’s utter disgust, but when Mexican food makes up one of the sections on your personal food pyramid (cheese, greek salads, spaghetti, and beer being the others on mine), you feel the hole. (Tangent over) When we were planning our trip to London I knew that if there was one place in this entire country to get my Mexican fix satiated, it was going to be London. And I wasn’t wrong. We went to La Perla, meaning ‘the Pearl’ as indicated by the gigantic mermaid making sweet love to a clam shell on the wall of La Perla, and it was fucking fantastic. No chili beans! Proper margaritas! I could have stayed there all day but ANDY made me go out and see the stupid sights.
Ha. Just kidding. I totally made him be the tourist.
We battled with all the other 100 billion tourists and walked past 10 Downing Street (hello Prime Minister sir!), and the London Eye, and Big Ben\Parliament. I would like to state for the record that it is an American right (I think it might be in the Constitution or Bill of Rights or on a Denny’s menu somewhere) that when you see Big Ben\Parliament you must say, “Look kids! Big Ben! Parliament!” and it will be funny – almost like you are the first person to ever use that pop reference. So I did, and I found it very funny, even though Andy didn’t know what the fuck I was on about.
It was pretty hot and humid so we stopped in a pub called the Sherlock Holmes for a bit of reprieve before continuing on to Tiger Finger Square (Trafalgar Square). Now as far as the Tiger Finger thing goes, I must mention that I have a really hard time with pronunciation. I sometimes think my tongue is 3 times bigger than my mouth (dirty!) the way it manages to trip over itself like it does. Words I trip over I just modify them into something I can pronounce and use it until the end of days. Andy finds this trait especially irritating as he is a Word Nazi. We do this Argument Dance that goes like this:
ME: Last time I came here I went to Nottingham (knot-ing-ham) …
ANDY: It’s Notting-am
ME: Whatever.
ANDY: (rolls eyes)
We actually do that all the time. He gets irritated when I screw up a word and I get irritated when he corrects me on it. Trafalgar Square was no different. I simply can’t pronounce Trafalgar Square. There’s just too much going on in that word for my tongue to handle it. So it became Tiger Finger Square (ANDY: Trafalgar Square!) (ME: Whatever). Anyhow, it was pretty cool.
That was another tangent by the way.
After Tiger Finger we walked back to the hotel. I don’t think either of us intended to walk 3 miles ALL AT ONCE because we are horribly unfit and don’t much care for walking a bunch without stopping at multiple pubs, but we did it and now our legs have bloody stumps at the end. I cannot stress the importance of proper footwear when in London. I would like to point out that Henry was quite comfortable during all this walking and once insisted that we feed him peeled grapes because he was feeling a bit “peck-ish”.
On Saturday we had planned to do some more sight seeing. After the cab dropped us off at the train station (thus avoiding the Tube) and we dropped off our bags, we ran into a quiet pub on a quiet street and they were serving delicious Pimm’s on a hot day and we said “fuck it” and stayed there instead until our train departed. I would like to clarify that I know that was a run-on sentence and that when our train departed we were most certainly on it and not still at the pub drinking Pimm’s (which are the most delicious things even if they are made with gin which is my most hated and feared spirit after that thing in ‘Poltergeist’). Don’t get me wrong. I could have stayed at the pub all day drinking Pimm’s but I’ve got responsibilities now, like laundry and taxes and miniature American citizens, so I had to say adieu.
And that, my friends, was London.
RECAP FOR THOSE THAT CAN’T BE BOTHERED TO READ MY ENTIRE DISSERTATION OF BRILLIANCE: We went to London. Henry became a US Citizen. We ate food and drank beer. Hotel room was small. Saw Tiger Finger Square, London Eye, and Big Ben. We walked a lot. The End. Enjoy your meeting and don’t let them catch you doodling the financial report in bubble letters.
Because this is an expat blog I feel it’s my duty to describe to you the 10 step process on how to make a UK child a US citizen. This is under the assumption that you have a child that has a right to become a US citizen and not some ankle biter you picked up in the discount bin at Tesco’s.
STEP ONE: Have a baby
STEP TWO: Go to this website, make an appointment, and feel smug that you have all the paperwork needed.
STEP THREE: Go to THIS website and agonize for days that you did something wrong and that your child will never get to see the amber waves of grain and buffalo roaming.
STEP FOUR: If you live impossibly far away from London, book a hotel with an American hotel chain for the night before your appointment smugly think to yourself that an American chain in London will have the spacious rooms and king sized beds that you are so accustomed – perhaps they will have pancakes with real maple syrup for breakfast.
STEP FIVE: Travel to London via train with your baby. Make sure your baby needs both a change and feed during the train journey and that you booked yourself in the quiet car thinking that you wouldn’t want to disturb your baby with football supporters. Laugh that night at your ignorance. It’s also important that part of your train journey involves the London Underground (aka: the Tube) and that you are carrying a large travel stroller and two wheelie suitcases. Marvel how any UNDERGROUND transportation in the modern world would fail to provide FUCKING ELEVATORS. Almost kill your baby (not intentionally) on 90 degree escalators. Whimper at the bottom of 3 flights of stairs hoping that one of London’s finest will help you lift the stroller while a hoard of London’s non-finest waits impatiently behind you wondering why you brought a fucking stroller on the Tube.
STEP SIX: Book into your Best Western hotel and realize that room is not American size wonderfulness but typical London shoe box. Have them bring up a cot that fills up the only remaining floor space available after two suitcases and one travel stroller is present. Cry a little when your baby refuses to sleep in said cot.
STEP SEVEN: Wake up 3 hours before your appointment at the US Embassy. “Wake up” is a funny phrase as you will have “been up” for the last 4 hours. In fact, you probably never went to sleep as your baby doesn’t like the cot and you are terrified of falling asleep when your baby is sleeping next to you in the bed.
STEP EIGHT: Go to the US Embassy. I’d tell you to make sure to be on time but it really doesn’t matter. You will stand in line to get through security. You will be given a ticket. Your ticket will feel like it will never be called. It gets called. You submit paperwork. They tell you to wait longer. Baby needs to eat. Feed baby. Baby shits. Clean shitty diaper in changing room forgetting to put down paper and getting shit all over table. Clean table with baby wipes. Baby gets fussy. Number still doesn’t get called. Marvel at all the other babies that seem to be crying less then your baby. Marvel that yours is still the cutest. Number gets called. Yay! Baby is US citizen. Resist the urge to salute baby.
STEP NINE: Walk back to the hotel to retrieve your cell phones that you were told that you couldn’t bring to the US Embassy but you totally can.
STEP TEN: Go for a pint. Make that two.
After the embassy, we took a cab to the Strand. I don’t know anything about London but Andy told me the Strand is incredibly touristy. I really didn’t care. I wanted to go to the Strand because the internet told me there were some Mexican restaurants in that area and I wanted, nay, NEEDED some Mexican food. (Warning! Tangent ahead!) If there is one thing the Liverpool does not have is Mexican food. I would venture to say most of England is vacant of proper Mexican food but having never searched out Mexican food anywhere else but Liverpool, I can only attest to there. And Liverpool, my dear Liverpool, does not do Mexican food. Don’t get me wrong, Liverpool does plenty Tex Mex, and really good Tex Mex at that. It does not do Mexican. To properly convey this, when I got my hair cut a few weeks ago the ladies there were asking me how I liked the area so far. I told them that I love it but I was missing certain foods like Mexican. They then mentioned some “Mexican” restaurants to try (that I had already been to) and I had to inform them, with a sober face, that on no planet should a Mexican taco (or enchilada, or burrito, etc) contain chili beans (red kidney beans). Pinto beans, sure. Refried beans, fuck yeah, but not chili beans. The ladies at the salon were in shock – was this not normal? The differences between Tex Mex and Mexican run deeper than just the beans but that’s what gets me the most. Don’t get me started on the margaritas. OK, do. First of all – if you can find a place that actually knows what goes into a margarita (which some places don’t I’ve found), make sure that place doesn’t try to serve you a margarita as a martini, which I’ve also encountered. I might be going on about this Mexican food thing, much to Andy’s utter disgust, but when Mexican food makes up one of the sections on your personal food pyramid (cheese, greek salads, spaghetti, and beer being the others on mine), you feel the hole. (Tangent over) When we were planning our trip to London I knew that if there was one place in this entire country to get my Mexican fix satiated, it was going to be London. And I wasn’t wrong. We went to La Perla, meaning ‘the Pearl’ as indicated by the gigantic mermaid making sweet love to a clam shell on the wall of La Perla, and it was fucking fantastic. No chili beans! Proper margaritas! I could have stayed there all day but ANDY made me go out and see the stupid sights.
Ha. Just kidding. I totally made him be the tourist.
I wish to be transported there again please.
We battled with all the other 100 billion tourists and walked past 10 Downing Street (hello Prime Minister sir!), and the London Eye, and Big Ben\Parliament. I would like to state for the record that it is an American right (I think it might be in the Constitution or Bill of Rights or on a Denny’s menu somewhere) that when you see Big Ben\Parliament you must say, “Look kids! Big Ben! Parliament!” and it will be funny – almost like you are the first person to ever use that pop reference. So I did, and I found it very funny, even though Andy didn’t know what the fuck I was on about.
It was pretty hot and humid so we stopped in a pub called the Sherlock Holmes for a bit of reprieve before continuing on to Tiger Finger Square (Trafalgar Square). Now as far as the Tiger Finger thing goes, I must mention that I have a really hard time with pronunciation. I sometimes think my tongue is 3 times bigger than my mouth (dirty!) the way it manages to trip over itself like it does. Words I trip over I just modify them into something I can pronounce and use it until the end of days. Andy finds this trait especially irritating as he is a Word Nazi. We do this Argument Dance that goes like this:
ME: Last time I came here I went to Nottingham (knot-ing-ham) …
ANDY: It’s Notting-am
ME: Whatever.
ANDY: (rolls eyes)
We actually do that all the time. He gets irritated when I screw up a word and I get irritated when he corrects me on it. Trafalgar Square was no different. I simply can’t pronounce Trafalgar Square. There’s just too much going on in that word for my tongue to handle it. So it became Tiger Finger Square (ANDY: Trafalgar Square!) (ME: Whatever). Anyhow, it was pretty cool.
That was another tangent by the way.
After Tiger Finger we walked back to the hotel. I don’t think either of us intended to walk 3 miles ALL AT ONCE because we are horribly unfit and don’t much care for walking a bunch without stopping at multiple pubs, but we did it and now our legs have bloody stumps at the end. I cannot stress the importance of proper footwear when in London. I would like to point out that Henry was quite comfortable during all this walking and once insisted that we feed him peeled grapes because he was feeling a bit “peck-ish”.
The EYE. Please say that in a menacing voice.
If you're American, you know what to say.
Tiger Finger Square
National Gallery
Say hi to the Queen...if she was there...which she's not.
Piccadilly Circus
It's really hard to contain Henry's excitement sometimes.
On Saturday we had planned to do some more sight seeing. After the cab dropped us off at the train station (thus avoiding the Tube) and we dropped off our bags, we ran into a quiet pub on a quiet street and they were serving delicious Pimm’s on a hot day and we said “fuck it” and stayed there instead until our train departed. I would like to clarify that I know that was a run-on sentence and that when our train departed we were most certainly on it and not still at the pub drinking Pimm’s (which are the most delicious things even if they are made with gin which is my most hated and feared spirit after that thing in ‘Poltergeist’). Don’t get me wrong. I could have stayed at the pub all day drinking Pimm’s but I’ve got responsibilities now, like laundry and taxes and miniature American citizens, so I had to say adieu.
Mmmm...Pimm's.
And that, my friends, was London.
08 May 2011
Catch up
So it's going to take me awhile to get to my London post this week as I've got a lot of catching up to do on the home front - mainly laundry but other domestic duties as well - all while a barely two foot tall gremlin tries to steal away my attention (and sleep). I'll leave you with my favorite photo from London which isn't very London-y but makes me laugh just the same. It was taken in a pub called the Sherlock Holmes, about a block away from Tiger Finger Square (Trafalgar Square), at a point when Andy and I had just about enough walking for one day, only to continue on after these pints to walk 3 miles back to the hotel. I need a foot spa if anyone feels kind enough to send one to me.
Happy Mother's Day to all my American moms!
Happy Mother's Day to all my American moms!
05 May 2011
My State of Mind is...missing.
I brought this up on Facebook but thought I'd pose it to the faceless masses out there as well. I'm looking for volunteers to send me the US State magnets I'm missing below. This isn't exactly that important, but I'd like my child to know that there isn't a gigantic sinkhole where the South is.
I'd be more than willing to send some England kitsch to those who volunteer for this. My only qualification is that the magnets are of the same kind as what I've got already. Basically, any truck station (T&A, Flying J, etc) along any major US highway will sell these - for about two bucks.
If interested, send an email to casey4791@yahoo.com and include your email address, what state you can send, and what kitsch you were interested in getting in return. I'll contact you if you don't seem like a serial killer or a baby snatcher...or just plain pompous. Including your own blog for non-weirdo verification is probably a good idea too.
I'd be more than willing to send some England kitsch to those who volunteer for this. My only qualification is that the magnets are of the same kind as what I've got already. Basically, any truck station (T&A, Flying J, etc) along any major US highway will sell these - for about two bucks.
If interested, send an email to casey4791@yahoo.com and include your email address, what state you can send, and what kitsch you were interested in getting in return. I'll contact you if you don't seem like a serial killer or a baby snatcher...or just plain pompous. Including your own blog for non-weirdo verification is probably a good idea too.
What I got...or, where I've been where I remembered to pick one up.
30 April 2011
Royal Wedding flung with a beard over a rainbow
So Friday was pretty busy around these parts. Well, this whole week has been pretty busy to be honest but I don’t have pictures from the rest of the week so we’ll just focus on Friday.
Friday actually started at 2 AM for me as it was my turn to do the Newborn Night Shift and that’s when the Henbot woke up for his feed. As a quick side note, the term ‘feed’ bothers me slightly as it makes me think of vampires and by saying my child is demanding a feed is like saying that I’m raising a blood sucker – which, you know, to each their own, but I would hope he wouldn’t put in fake fangs and wear dorky leather trench coats until he was at least in his thirties and I was well dead and unable to witness it. ANYHOW, I had the night shift as stated and the Henbot was going through a growth spurt (he seriously grew out of some clothes overnight) and was fussy because of it so I got a meager 3 hours of sleep and couldn’t get anymore after Andy woke up and sent me for my morning nap because my mind was too preoccupied with figuring out what we were all going to need for our trip to London next weekend and oh my god this is a run on sentence (my favorite!). I finally gave up at 10 AM and came downstairs because the Royal Wedding was coming on and there were mimosas to drink.
I don’t want to say that I was excited for the Royal Wedding because I wasn’t. I wanted to see it and I wanted to buy some kitschy Will & Kate souvenirs to send to my sister as I get pleasure from sending tacky gifts to people but I wasn’t counting down the days to the wedding or anything. The Royal Wedding to me was just one of those British things that I felt I should experience – like watching the Queen’s speech on Christmas – even though the wedding (and the Queen’s speech) was what I would consider a bit boring. But I watched it – all two hours of it – and lived through Andy’s comments of cockneys and didn’t turn it off through the particularly boring hymn bits as much as I really wanted to and drank mimosas and dressed the Henbot up in patriotic clothes and made him watch it too and oh my god this is another run on sentence (my favorite!). I experienced the Royal Wedding in the UK and I can now tick that box off.
While it shouldn’t bother me, reading Facebook yesterday did. What I found was a lot of my American friends both ruthlessly mocking the Royal Wedding and mocking those friends who posted that they were watching it. I don’t care that they were taking a crack at the Royal Wedding but it really pissed me off that some people were taking the piss at those who decided to watch it. It was like this whole hipster position of “it’s cool to hate the Royal Wedding so you must be so uncool to be watching it but instead of leaving it alone I will make sure to let you know how uncool you are because that makes me feel even cooler, especially that much cooler than you.” I mean, c’mon. Just let it go and focus on your ironic tube sock collection instead please.
(rant over)
Around 5 PM, we dropped the Henbot at his nan’s and headed to Liverpool City Centre. We had tickets to see Dylan Moran. Now, if anything describes Andy and mine’s early relationship, it can be summed up with Arctic Monkeys, Spaced and Black Books. Basically a lot of great music, funny fucked up randomness and drinking inappropriately. When I saw in the Liverpool Echo that Dylan Moran was performing it didn’t take us long to secure a babysitter and get tickets. For those who might not be aware (hi Beth!), Dylan Moran is an Irish comedian. He always seems perpetually drunk but manages to be fantastically funny. We were pretty stoked to be seeing him live.
We had a few hours to kill before the show started so we had a few pints in the Irish American pub and managed to feel very much like our old pre-parental selves even though we were both struggling with exhaustion. To be fair, a lot of our conversation focused around Henry. We’re only human.
The show was at the Liverpool Royal Court, an old theater built in 1938. We had seats up in the balcony but still had a great view. Dylan Moran was funny as expected and we had a great time. I would like to mention now that I am absolute shit at describing gigs so you’ll have to settle with that piss poor quip about the night. Just know that we had a lot of fun and I was pretty tickled that they gave out smoking passes during intermission.
Pardon the blurry shots; the camera on my phone doesn’t have a flash.
Next week we are headed to London with the Henbot to get his American citizenship at the US Embassy and staying a couple days to see the sights. I foresee a lot more sleeplessness as I stress about traveling with an infant in a huge city for two days.
Friday actually started at 2 AM for me as it was my turn to do the Newborn Night Shift and that’s when the Henbot woke up for his feed. As a quick side note, the term ‘feed’ bothers me slightly as it makes me think of vampires and by saying my child is demanding a feed is like saying that I’m raising a blood sucker – which, you know, to each their own, but I would hope he wouldn’t put in fake fangs and wear dorky leather trench coats until he was at least in his thirties and I was well dead and unable to witness it. ANYHOW, I had the night shift as stated and the Henbot was going through a growth spurt (he seriously grew out of some clothes overnight) and was fussy because of it so I got a meager 3 hours of sleep and couldn’t get anymore after Andy woke up and sent me for my morning nap because my mind was too preoccupied with figuring out what we were all going to need for our trip to London next weekend and oh my god this is a run on sentence (my favorite!). I finally gave up at 10 AM and came downstairs because the Royal Wedding was coming on and there were mimosas to drink.
Got my Tesco's Prince William champagne all ready!
I don’t want to say that I was excited for the Royal Wedding because I wasn’t. I wanted to see it and I wanted to buy some kitschy Will & Kate souvenirs to send to my sister as I get pleasure from sending tacky gifts to people but I wasn’t counting down the days to the wedding or anything. The Royal Wedding to me was just one of those British things that I felt I should experience – like watching the Queen’s speech on Christmas – even though the wedding (and the Queen’s speech) was what I would consider a bit boring. But I watched it – all two hours of it – and lived through Andy’s comments of cockneys and didn’t turn it off through the particularly boring hymn bits as much as I really wanted to and drank mimosas and dressed the Henbot up in patriotic clothes and made him watch it too and oh my god this is another run on sentence (my favorite!). I experienced the Royal Wedding in the UK and I can now tick that box off.
All kitted out...
While it shouldn’t bother me, reading Facebook yesterday did. What I found was a lot of my American friends both ruthlessly mocking the Royal Wedding and mocking those friends who posted that they were watching it. I don’t care that they were taking a crack at the Royal Wedding but it really pissed me off that some people were taking the piss at those who decided to watch it. It was like this whole hipster position of “it’s cool to hate the Royal Wedding so you must be so uncool to be watching it but instead of leaving it alone I will make sure to let you know how uncool you are because that makes me feel even cooler, especially that much cooler than you.” I mean, c’mon. Just let it go and focus on your ironic tube sock collection instead please.
(rant over)
Around 5 PM, we dropped the Henbot at his nan’s and headed to Liverpool City Centre. We had tickets to see Dylan Moran. Now, if anything describes Andy and mine’s early relationship, it can be summed up with Arctic Monkeys, Spaced and Black Books. Basically a lot of great music, funny fucked up randomness and drinking inappropriately. When I saw in the Liverpool Echo that Dylan Moran was performing it didn’t take us long to secure a babysitter and get tickets. For those who might not be aware (hi Beth!), Dylan Moran is an Irish comedian. He always seems perpetually drunk but manages to be fantastically funny. We were pretty stoked to be seeing him live.
We had a few hours to kill before the show started so we had a few pints in the Irish American pub and managed to feel very much like our old pre-parental selves even though we were both struggling with exhaustion. To be fair, a lot of our conversation focused around Henry. We’re only human.
The show was at the Liverpool Royal Court, an old theater built in 1938. We had seats up in the balcony but still had a great view. Dylan Moran was funny as expected and we had a great time. I would like to mention now that I am absolute shit at describing gigs so you’ll have to settle with that piss poor quip about the night. Just know that we had a lot of fun and I was pretty tickled that they gave out smoking passes during intermission.
Pardon the blurry shots; the camera on my phone doesn’t have a flash.
I was too scared to take a photo and annoy people when the show started.
Pure Awesome.
Next week we are headed to London with the Henbot to get his American citizenship at the US Embassy and staying a couple days to see the sights. I foresee a lot more sleeplessness as I stress about traveling with an infant in a huge city for two days.
23 April 2011
Bank Holidays make me hungry
This is going to be another random post because I’m working on some pathetic number of hours of sleep (is “pathetic number of hours of sleep” a proper phrase? I have no idea. My god, I’m so tired) and the child is sleeping next to me on the couch all bunged up with a cold and making weird grunting noises that have carried on since 1 AM last night and I’ve got “Merlin and the Dragon Wars” tuned in on the flat screen (another SyFy television movie travesty) and a glass of chilled red wine next to me as I’ve got a cold too and the ice helps my throat (whereas the wine helps me be a good mommy) and Andy has gone AND LEFT ME to go to the Liverpool match because his cousin had an extra (free) ticket for him and I’ve got some crazy amount of stupid chores to do that I’ve forced upon myself so I can ward off the guilt of not contributing financially to the family at the moment and FUCK IT, I’m so not taking a shower today.
Its day two of the 4 day Easter holiday which means absolutely nothing to me being unemployed and all; though it does mean that Andy is off of work and the stores are inconveniently closed right at the moment where I really don’t feel like cooking.
Today is the first day in a week where the weather hasn’t been absolutely gorgeous. Even though I was dead tired on Thursday and only working on two hours of sleep, I decided to take the boy out to the park to enjoy the sun. Calderstone Park is this massive park about a half mile or so from the house. Sefton Park is actually massiver (it’s a word dammit) but it’s farther than a half mile and I’m pathetically out of shape. There’s really not much to say about our park trip except that knowing where the bathrooms are before entering a gigantic park is probably a good idea and having a tiny baby in tow is pretty much the equivalent to catnip to women aged 30 to 65. I met a lot of people (read: women) that afternoon though I was unfortunately too tired to hold much of a conversation. Let’s be honest really – after determining that my tiny baby is a boy and is his name is Henry – the only thing further I want to know is whether you like going for a cocktail now and then and that just sounds like a pick up line – so I don’t say anything and just smile. Sadly, I have no idea how to make friends with girls who aren’t girlfriends of guys that I’m already friends with. Making friends with guys is simple. You both flirt but then mention that you are both already involved with someone else so the pressure is off (as is the flirting) and bam! New guy friend.
Obligatory pictures:
On Friday it was yet another gorgeous day and Andy was off of work, so I convinced him to take a walk along the Otterspool Promenade. The walk turned out to be really short since we were both really hungry and stopping into the Otterspool Pub for lunch seemed like a great idea after a 10 minute stroll. We lazed around in the park for awhile after lunch and at the point where Andy was getting entirely too overheated I suggested that we go to that “one picturesque town place” that we passed by last week. Andy insisted that I be more specific. It was finally determined that I was talking about Thornton Hough (pronounced Thornton Huff) and we took a short drive across the Mersey and had ourselves a pint in that “one picturesque town place”. Seriously that pint and overall experience was exactly how I always pictured life in England to be – sunny day in spring, cold pint outside, baby peacefully sleeping in his car seat, Tudor houses and an old chapel AND red phone box in the background. Of course, peaceful sleeping baby turned into fussy baby and our experience was cut short – but it was well worth it.
Obligatory photo:
The only other news I have for you is that since Andy actually took the entire week off, I have a chance to get my hair cut sometime this week. I know! A haircut! As Bethhead will tell you, my hair is one of those things of mine that I care entirely too much about. This is mostly because I’ve long ago given up hope that my ass will be of a controllable size but my hair (as thick and prone to grey as it is) is something that I can manage. Finding a new stylist here is going to be a bit of a challenge as they don’t have Supercuts or Fantastic Sam’s in the UK. I know to avoid those places – I don’t know what to avoid here. If anyone has any tips, let me know by Wednesday.
Hope every one has a happy bunny day tomorrow.
Its day two of the 4 day Easter holiday which means absolutely nothing to me being unemployed and all; though it does mean that Andy is off of work and the stores are inconveniently closed right at the moment where I really don’t feel like cooking.
Today is the first day in a week where the weather hasn’t been absolutely gorgeous. Even though I was dead tired on Thursday and only working on two hours of sleep, I decided to take the boy out to the park to enjoy the sun. Calderstone Park is this massive park about a half mile or so from the house. Sefton Park is actually massiver (it’s a word dammit) but it’s farther than a half mile and I’m pathetically out of shape. There’s really not much to say about our park trip except that knowing where the bathrooms are before entering a gigantic park is probably a good idea and having a tiny baby in tow is pretty much the equivalent to catnip to women aged 30 to 65. I met a lot of people (read: women) that afternoon though I was unfortunately too tired to hold much of a conversation. Let’s be honest really – after determining that my tiny baby is a boy and is his name is Henry – the only thing further I want to know is whether you like going for a cocktail now and then and that just sounds like a pick up line – so I don’t say anything and just smile. Sadly, I have no idea how to make friends with girls who aren’t girlfriends of guys that I’m already friends with. Making friends with guys is simple. You both flirt but then mention that you are both already involved with someone else so the pressure is off (as is the flirting) and bam! New guy friend.
Obligatory pictures:
I love self motorized strollers.
If I wasn't so tired, I might think that this was really pretty.
I really had to pee at this point.
On Friday it was yet another gorgeous day and Andy was off of work, so I convinced him to take a walk along the Otterspool Promenade. The walk turned out to be really short since we were both really hungry and stopping into the Otterspool Pub for lunch seemed like a great idea after a 10 minute stroll. We lazed around in the park for awhile after lunch and at the point where Andy was getting entirely too overheated I suggested that we go to that “one picturesque town place” that we passed by last week. Andy insisted that I be more specific. It was finally determined that I was talking about Thornton Hough (pronounced Thornton Huff) and we took a short drive across the Mersey and had ourselves a pint in that “one picturesque town place”. Seriously that pint and overall experience was exactly how I always pictured life in England to be – sunny day in spring, cold pint outside, baby peacefully sleeping in his car seat, Tudor houses and an old chapel AND red phone box in the background. Of course, peaceful sleeping baby turned into fussy baby and our experience was cut short – but it was well worth it.
Obligatory photo:
"Stop putting flowery crap on me!"
Having my classic English springtime moment.
The only other news I have for you is that since Andy actually took the entire week off, I have a chance to get my hair cut sometime this week. I know! A haircut! As Bethhead will tell you, my hair is one of those things of mine that I care entirely too much about. This is mostly because I’ve long ago given up hope that my ass will be of a controllable size but my hair (as thick and prone to grey as it is) is something that I can manage. Finding a new stylist here is going to be a bit of a challenge as they don’t have Supercuts or Fantastic Sam’s in the UK. I know to avoid those places – I don’t know what to avoid here. If anyone has any tips, let me know by Wednesday.
Hope every one has a happy bunny day tomorrow.
20 April 2011
Up on the wall...
I'm trying to find the time (read: energy) to get my weekly post out. Because I'm obviously going to be late with it, I'll give you my favorite photo of the week. Yeah, it's a baby photo. I could give you a picture of the 12 unopened boxes sitting in our spare room but it's not as awesome.
Strangely, both of them are wondering when they can head to the pub.
15 April 2011
A sliver of the food post that never was...
I never did get around to writing that food post that I was planning. I think you can figure out why. Because I still don't really have time, this is more like Food Post Lite. A tasting menu of food posts. A chocolate miniature of food posts. A goddamn tapa of food posts. A sniff from the Cinnabon store when you're in the mall just to buy a pair of shoes for the Christmas party of food posts. You get the picture.
Speaking of which, here are some pictures. The first is from the fish & chip shop in Crosby (seriously, THAT'S how long I've been meaning to write a food post). This particular fish & chip shop would be considered a Chinky, meaning they serve mostly Chinese food, and 'chinky' apparently isn't a horribly racist term like it would be in the US. Or maybe it is a horribly racist term here as well and now I'm going to get hate mail due to my ignorance.
I've been struggling with Chinese food since I've arrived here and it's due to the fact that none of the Chinese food dishes are termed the same as I'm used to. In all fairness, 90% of the Chinese food in America is not really Chinese food at all but an American bastardization of it but I thought there might be some similarities here. There isn't. The biggest difference I've seen is that in the US, you normally choose your meat and vegetable accompaniments. For example, I normally get beef with broccoli or chicken with snow peas. In the UK, the Chinese dishes are separated out by sauces. Beef with OK sauce. Chicken with Peking sauce. I have no idea what these sauces are and I don't know what kind of vegetables will be coming with my meal. As someone who doesn't eat mushrooms or onions (both very prevalent in Chinese food) it's a bit of a crap shoot when ordering Chinese food here. The best that I've worked out is that I like the oyster sauce (that thankfully doesn't actually taste like oysters), the rest, as they say, is a mystery.
Speaking of which, here are some pictures. The first is from the fish & chip shop in Crosby (seriously, THAT'S how long I've been meaning to write a food post). This particular fish & chip shop would be considered a Chinky, meaning they serve mostly Chinese food, and 'chinky' apparently isn't a horribly racist term like it would be in the US. Or maybe it is a horribly racist term here as well and now I'm going to get hate mail due to my ignorance.
I've been struggling with Chinese food since I've arrived here and it's due to the fact that none of the Chinese food dishes are termed the same as I'm used to. In all fairness, 90% of the Chinese food in America is not really Chinese food at all but an American bastardization of it but I thought there might be some similarities here. There isn't. The biggest difference I've seen is that in the US, you normally choose your meat and vegetable accompaniments. For example, I normally get beef with broccoli or chicken with snow peas. In the UK, the Chinese dishes are separated out by sauces. Beef with OK sauce. Chicken with Peking sauce. I have no idea what these sauces are and I don't know what kind of vegetables will be coming with my meal. As someone who doesn't eat mushrooms or onions (both very prevalent in Chinese food) it's a bit of a crap shoot when ordering Chinese food here. The best that I've worked out is that I like the oyster sauce (that thankfully doesn't actually taste like oysters), the rest, as they say, is a mystery.
Board of Mystery Dishes #1
I don't even want to know what "special fried rice" is.
The 2nd thing I was itching to show you was the launch of Stella Artois's Cidre last week. Yes, I did spell that correctly spell check. Apparently it's not pronounced "cider" but "see-dray" or some equally lame ass pronunciation like that. As someone who has a soft spot for Snakebites made with cider and Stella, this is an interesting development for me. Not that I've had time to hang out in the pub getting smashed on Snakebites recently, but when that time does come again, I'm going to be as embarrassed to order a Stella\See-Dray snakebite as I am my decaf sugarfree vanilla lattes with a half pump of syrup. But order it I will because dammit, it's got to be awesome.
Wait for me my pretentious sounding future hangover!
13 April 2011
Scattered
So it’s been 6 days with a newborn in the house and as expected, things have been utter chaos. Despite my best efforts, I’ve become a cliché with all grown up talks with Andy revolving around feeding schedules, poo consistency, thoughts about gas and our ongoing argument on whether the baby is too hot or too cold. Compounded with all this is the lack of sleep which to be fair, I’m not handling gracefully. I’ve never had the best record for sleep. 6 hours is my typical night of sleep and if I don’t get those 6 hours then I tend to turn into a four headed monster – moody, difficult, impossible – basically I revert back to a 2 year old.
Saturday was when I hit my wall. I had done 4 days on 4 hours sleep (sometimes that 4 hours broken up into 45 minute segments) and it was my turn to do the couch sleeping night shift. While Henry can sleep for 3 hours solid before requiring any of his basic needs, that particular night he was up demanding something every half hour. I just lost it. I don’t mean I lost it in the sense that I screamed and yelled or threw anything, I just broke down. There was a point at 5 AM where I’m feeding Henry for the 5th time that evening and tears are just rolling down my face. I’m sobbing. And I couldn’t stop sobbing. I was just so tired and overwhelmed. Typically when I hit a wall like that, when things get too much for me at work, or in a relationship, or if I’m just having one of those days when everything goes tits up, I leave. I leave and go for a drive or I leave and go to the pub or I leave and go sit in a park…I just leave. The fact that I couldn’t leave made me break down that much further and I ended up waking up Andy around 6 AM, eyes all puffy and red and tears still streaming telling him over and over again that I was sorry and that I couldn’t do it anymore. My husband is awesome. He put me to bed where I slept for almost 5 hours. Then last night, he sent me to bed at 11 PM and let me just sleep….and sleep…and sleep. I never thought that being given 7 hours of uninterrupted sleep would be as romantic as a getting a surprise shag in the middle of a car park, but my god…it is.
Today I feel normal again. My brain seems to be able to process more than “hungry = eat food”. I feel up to making important decisions like deciding to cut out Facebook and news\blog reading for the week so I can utilize Henry’s sleeping hours to actually unpack a box or two….or prepare a meal more complicated than a bowl of cereal…or to take a fucking shower.
3 days later…
Very typically, after I wrote “fucking shower” Henry started screaming and I completely forgot to finish this up until right now. Part of that was due to the fact that because I had gotten some sleep I managed to find the energy to tackle some of the boxes littering every corner of our house. I’m proud to announce that my kitchen is back. Well, as back and complete as it’s going to be. Even though the physical size of our UK kitchen appears to be the same size as our US kitchen, the kitchen cabinets here aren’t as deep or as wide as the ones in the US and I’ve had to go through and repack things that we don’t immediately need. Like barware. I know! The barware! My theory behind packing the barware away is that we don’t exactly have a group of friends here yet to invite over for BBQ’s and the likelihood that Henry will let us get out and about to make such a group of friends is away off still so…away it goes. In another Shit We Paid to Ship that’s Completely Useless Here are my baking trays. My baking trays are made for those wonderfully wide US ovens and simply don’t fit in my UK oven. Not that I didn’t try. Holding one of the baking trays in hand I could physically see that the tray was too wide for the oven but it still didn’t stop me for trying to jam it in. Not that it would have worked, but the tray didn’t even fit if I put the tray on an angle. Looking back I’m not sure why I tried to fit the tray in at an angle – I think maybe if it fit that way I would have gotten all smug and justified that we paid to bring it over…or something.
By the way, I’m doing pretty well at my Facebook ban. I couldn’t manage to give up blog reading and a little news reading but I haven’t logged on to Facebook for 3 days now and I feel…a bit free really. I might have to continue my ban for longer than a week – or modify it a bit and only check in once a week.
This is a random post, isn’t it? It kind of reflects my brain at the moment. Like now I want to tell you that Andy has gotten me hooked on “Jonathan Creek”, a now cancelled mystery show that humors me to no end. In the two specials that I’ve seen so far (which with a baby takes us 2-3 days to watch) the main character will solve the murder and announce how he solved the murder TO the murderer (or relative of the murderer) and yet the murderer doesn’t feel inclined to, you know, MURDER the main character. Yeah, I know…I’m easily amused these days.
So I know this post isn’t that entertaining but my sweet son is about to roar his head in hunger so it’s the best I can give you for now.
Saturday was when I hit my wall. I had done 4 days on 4 hours sleep (sometimes that 4 hours broken up into 45 minute segments) and it was my turn to do the couch sleeping night shift. While Henry can sleep for 3 hours solid before requiring any of his basic needs, that particular night he was up demanding something every half hour. I just lost it. I don’t mean I lost it in the sense that I screamed and yelled or threw anything, I just broke down. There was a point at 5 AM where I’m feeding Henry for the 5th time that evening and tears are just rolling down my face. I’m sobbing. And I couldn’t stop sobbing. I was just so tired and overwhelmed. Typically when I hit a wall like that, when things get too much for me at work, or in a relationship, or if I’m just having one of those days when everything goes tits up, I leave. I leave and go for a drive or I leave and go to the pub or I leave and go sit in a park…I just leave. The fact that I couldn’t leave made me break down that much further and I ended up waking up Andy around 6 AM, eyes all puffy and red and tears still streaming telling him over and over again that I was sorry and that I couldn’t do it anymore. My husband is awesome. He put me to bed where I slept for almost 5 hours. Then last night, he sent me to bed at 11 PM and let me just sleep….and sleep…and sleep. I never thought that being given 7 hours of uninterrupted sleep would be as romantic as a getting a surprise shag in the middle of a car park, but my god…it is.
Today I feel normal again. My brain seems to be able to process more than “hungry = eat food”. I feel up to making important decisions like deciding to cut out Facebook and news\blog reading for the week so I can utilize Henry’s sleeping hours to actually unpack a box or two….or prepare a meal more complicated than a bowl of cereal…or to take a fucking shower.
3 days later…
Very typically, after I wrote “fucking shower” Henry started screaming and I completely forgot to finish this up until right now. Part of that was due to the fact that because I had gotten some sleep I managed to find the energy to tackle some of the boxes littering every corner of our house. I’m proud to announce that my kitchen is back. Well, as back and complete as it’s going to be. Even though the physical size of our UK kitchen appears to be the same size as our US kitchen, the kitchen cabinets here aren’t as deep or as wide as the ones in the US and I’ve had to go through and repack things that we don’t immediately need. Like barware. I know! The barware! My theory behind packing the barware away is that we don’t exactly have a group of friends here yet to invite over for BBQ’s and the likelihood that Henry will let us get out and about to make such a group of friends is away off still so…away it goes. In another Shit We Paid to Ship that’s Completely Useless Here are my baking trays. My baking trays are made for those wonderfully wide US ovens and simply don’t fit in my UK oven. Not that I didn’t try. Holding one of the baking trays in hand I could physically see that the tray was too wide for the oven but it still didn’t stop me for trying to jam it in. Not that it would have worked, but the tray didn’t even fit if I put the tray on an angle. Looking back I’m not sure why I tried to fit the tray in at an angle – I think maybe if it fit that way I would have gotten all smug and justified that we paid to bring it over…or something.
By the way, I’m doing pretty well at my Facebook ban. I couldn’t manage to give up blog reading and a little news reading but I haven’t logged on to Facebook for 3 days now and I feel…a bit free really. I might have to continue my ban for longer than a week – or modify it a bit and only check in once a week.
This is a random post, isn’t it? It kind of reflects my brain at the moment. Like now I want to tell you that Andy has gotten me hooked on “Jonathan Creek”, a now cancelled mystery show that humors me to no end. In the two specials that I’ve seen so far (which with a baby takes us 2-3 days to watch) the main character will solve the murder and announce how he solved the murder TO the murderer (or relative of the murderer) and yet the murderer doesn’t feel inclined to, you know, MURDER the main character. Yeah, I know…I’m easily amused these days.
So I know this post isn’t that entertaining but my sweet son is about to roar his head in hunger so it’s the best I can give you for now.
08 April 2011
And so it begins...
*WARNING: Gratuitous photos of baby ahead.
Diaper changed. Check. Milk drank. Check. Gas removed. Check. No milky crusty shit stuck in the chin folds. Check. Possibility that child will sleep long enough for me to get out a proper post. Undetermined. Possibility that midwife will show up right when I’m in the middle of a thought. Almost certain. Possibility that I’ll get distracted by the utter cuteness that is a small sleeping newborn that I get to call my own. Guilty.
So it’s 3 days later or perhaps 4 days, since the birth. Actually, what day is it? I have no idea. I think its Friday. The Grand National is on tomorrow so it must be. I’ve managed to get showered before 9 AM and I just realized that my normal jeans already fit me again so fucking hell, it’s already a good day in my book. Not to mention, there’s a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen and a Friday night to justify cracking into it. It might ease the pain of the 20 some boxes and various unassembled furniture littering the house at the moment.
To get the details out of the way (for those of you who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about baby things especially labor and delivery, I would recommend just reading ahead to the end where I will put a picture of badger for your amusement), Henry’s arrival this week started off by my water breaking at 4 AM on Monday morning. Just as an FYI, in the UK they consider this process as your waters breaking (note the ‘S’). This is just a further example of the Brits shifting their S’s all over the shop and lands in the same pile of wonder as “reading the Sport page” (note the lack of ‘S’). I was actually prepared to give you more examples of this ‘S’ phenomenon but I’m fucking tired and can’t remember another one at this time. Anyhow, my water broke at 4 AM but nothing else was really happening so I just stuck it out at home. By 4 PM, I was getting random contractions but nothing more. We called the hospital (in the UK, you would say that you’re going to hospital – no ‘the’ – yeah, I know) and they told us to come in to check things out. Since we were just in the hospital 2 days earlier for the same thing and were sent home, I didn’t bother to bring all my things with me the 2nd time around. This was a huge mistake on my part as we didn’t get sent home the 2nd time and by the time we left 16 hours later, I had my hair pulled back using a surgical rubber glove. I’m nothing if not resourceful.
Because I wasn’t in what anyone was considering “active labor”, I was sent to the midwife unit for assessment. I had been weary about going to the midwife unit because I wanted an epidural and the midwives are not allowed to give them. I went anyways because I really didn’t have a choice at that point. This would appear to be the theme of the evening. Now before I begin, I would like to say that I really have no issues with the NHS (National Health Service) in this country. I’ve had numerous doctors’ visits in the two months I’ve lived here and besides one time with an extremely long wait, I’ve had no complaints. Everyone has been both very nice and knowledgeable in their profession. So when I say that the midwives at Liverpool Women’s Hospital were awesome and complete bitches at the same time, take it with a grain of salt.
About a month before giving birth, I was watching one of the morning news shows and they had a piece on how epidurals aren’t readily given in this country and in fact, there are midwives who flat out refuse to send a patient for one. At the time I scoffed at the piece, turning to my mother in law and stating matter of factly, “I’m getting an epidural. I will make sure of it.” Oh, how naïve I was! Because I didn’t get one. I asked for one. I pleaded for one. I begged for one. I whined for one. At one point I turned to the midwife and said, “I WANT A FUCKING EPIDURAL. WHY CAN’T I GET AN EPIDURAL? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU FUCKING PEOPLE?!” I would like to state for the record that I did do a lot of apologizing after the fact to any of the midwives I might have offended.
You may be wondering why I was refused an epidural. To be quite honest, I really have no idea. I was told from the get go that the delivery ward – where there are real doctors who give real epidurals – were too busy to take me. Too many emergencies, not enough beds….or some bullshit. I refuse to believe that and instead think that because the only thing that was wrong was me was my pain and my trucker mouth, there was no real reason for me to go up to use the resources of a real doctor. So yes, the NHS, you get what you pay for. Which is nothing, which is what I got in terms of pain relief.
I am exaggerating a bit, because it’s my blog and I can. I did get morphine twice – which worked for an hour at the very beginning and fuck all at the end – and I got laughing gas which made me sick to my stomach – very pleasant when you are in that much pain and also feel like puking. In my eyes, besides that hour at the very beginning, I did this birth naturally, something I would highly recommend to anyone I hated or who might cut me off in traffic. For the 6 hours I endured the worst pain in my life, these were the only words\phrases in my vocabulary: Fuck. Fucking Shit. Fucker Fuck Me. Jesus Fuck Shit Fuck I WANT AN EPIDURAL Fuck Me Christ. These words\phrases were accompanied by banshee screams and various body flings into the walls. What I find amusing (now) is that the windows to my room not only looked over the main entrance, but were also wide open allowing any and all visitors, patients and staff to get the full extent of my soon to be Harvard speech that I was giving.
You may wonder what giving birth naturally feels like. I’ve been comparing it to passing a baby dragon, with all its claws and scales and breathing fire, through your love hole. I think that’s all I really need to say about it really.
16 hours after arriving at the midwives unit, we were sent home. Technically, if I wanted, I could have gone to the maternity unit with Henry to rest while Andy would be sent home. Since I had no desire to lounge around with a bunch of other women who may recognize my voice (the embarrassment of hearing, “Jesus Fuck Shit Fuck I WANT AN EPIDURAL Fuck Me Christ” all night), I agreed to go home when they asked if I wanted to.
Since then it’s been everything you probably expect. No sleep. Visitors coming to coo at your child. Take out dinners. Laundry (my god, the laundry!). Spit and Shit. Bottles of milk sitting next to glasses of wine. Crying (both Henry’s and mine). Burping (they call it “winding” here). Little socks. Love. Lots and lots of love for this tiny little thing that made me uncomfortable for 9 months, near death pain for 6 hours, and refuses to let me sleep ever since he arrived in the world. You rock K.I.S.S. style, my son.
WELCOME TO THE END OF THE POST, HERE ARE SOME BADGERS:
Diaper changed. Check. Milk drank. Check. Gas removed. Check. No milky crusty shit stuck in the chin folds. Check. Possibility that child will sleep long enough for me to get out a proper post. Undetermined. Possibility that midwife will show up right when I’m in the middle of a thought. Almost certain. Possibility that I’ll get distracted by the utter cuteness that is a small sleeping newborn that I get to call my own. Guilty.
So it’s 3 days later or perhaps 4 days, since the birth. Actually, what day is it? I have no idea. I think its Friday. The Grand National is on tomorrow so it must be. I’ve managed to get showered before 9 AM and I just realized that my normal jeans already fit me again so fucking hell, it’s already a good day in my book. Not to mention, there’s a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen and a Friday night to justify cracking into it. It might ease the pain of the 20 some boxes and various unassembled furniture littering the house at the moment.
Not sure how he managed to get his coat up there, or where he might be going at night.
To get the details out of the way (for those of you who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about baby things especially labor and delivery, I would recommend just reading ahead to the end where I will put a picture of badger for your amusement), Henry’s arrival this week started off by my water breaking at 4 AM on Monday morning. Just as an FYI, in the UK they consider this process as your waters breaking (note the ‘S’). This is just a further example of the Brits shifting their S’s all over the shop and lands in the same pile of wonder as “reading the Sport page” (note the lack of ‘S’). I was actually prepared to give you more examples of this ‘S’ phenomenon but I’m fucking tired and can’t remember another one at this time. Anyhow, my water broke at 4 AM but nothing else was really happening so I just stuck it out at home. By 4 PM, I was getting random contractions but nothing more. We called the hospital (in the UK, you would say that you’re going to hospital – no ‘the’ – yeah, I know) and they told us to come in to check things out. Since we were just in the hospital 2 days earlier for the same thing and were sent home, I didn’t bother to bring all my things with me the 2nd time around. This was a huge mistake on my part as we didn’t get sent home the 2nd time and by the time we left 16 hours later, I had my hair pulled back using a surgical rubber glove. I’m nothing if not resourceful.
Because I wasn’t in what anyone was considering “active labor”, I was sent to the midwife unit for assessment. I had been weary about going to the midwife unit because I wanted an epidural and the midwives are not allowed to give them. I went anyways because I really didn’t have a choice at that point. This would appear to be the theme of the evening. Now before I begin, I would like to say that I really have no issues with the NHS (National Health Service) in this country. I’ve had numerous doctors’ visits in the two months I’ve lived here and besides one time with an extremely long wait, I’ve had no complaints. Everyone has been both very nice and knowledgeable in their profession. So when I say that the midwives at Liverpool Women’s Hospital were awesome and complete bitches at the same time, take it with a grain of salt.
He brings home the bacon and cooks it up in a...bottle.
About a month before giving birth, I was watching one of the morning news shows and they had a piece on how epidurals aren’t readily given in this country and in fact, there are midwives who flat out refuse to send a patient for one. At the time I scoffed at the piece, turning to my mother in law and stating matter of factly, “I’m getting an epidural. I will make sure of it.” Oh, how naïve I was! Because I didn’t get one. I asked for one. I pleaded for one. I begged for one. I whined for one. At one point I turned to the midwife and said, “I WANT A FUCKING EPIDURAL. WHY CAN’T I GET AN EPIDURAL? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU FUCKING PEOPLE?!” I would like to state for the record that I did do a lot of apologizing after the fact to any of the midwives I might have offended.
You may be wondering why I was refused an epidural. To be quite honest, I really have no idea. I was told from the get go that the delivery ward – where there are real doctors who give real epidurals – were too busy to take me. Too many emergencies, not enough beds….or some bullshit. I refuse to believe that and instead think that because the only thing that was wrong was me was my pain and my trucker mouth, there was no real reason for me to go up to use the resources of a real doctor. So yes, the NHS, you get what you pay for. Which is nothing, which is what I got in terms of pain relief.
First day out on the town. He looks like he's going to an NFL game in Green Bay.
I am exaggerating a bit, because it’s my blog and I can. I did get morphine twice – which worked for an hour at the very beginning and fuck all at the end – and I got laughing gas which made me sick to my stomach – very pleasant when you are in that much pain and also feel like puking. In my eyes, besides that hour at the very beginning, I did this birth naturally, something I would highly recommend to anyone I hated or who might cut me off in traffic. For the 6 hours I endured the worst pain in my life, these were the only words\phrases in my vocabulary: Fuck. Fucking Shit. Fucker Fuck Me. Jesus Fuck Shit Fuck I WANT AN EPIDURAL Fuck Me Christ. These words\phrases were accompanied by banshee screams and various body flings into the walls. What I find amusing (now) is that the windows to my room not only looked over the main entrance, but were also wide open allowing any and all visitors, patients and staff to get the full extent of my soon to be Harvard speech that I was giving.
You may wonder what giving birth naturally feels like. I’ve been comparing it to passing a baby dragon, with all its claws and scales and breathing fire, through your love hole. I think that’s all I really need to say about it really.
Just born and already complaining.
16 hours after arriving at the midwives unit, we were sent home. Technically, if I wanted, I could have gone to the maternity unit with Henry to rest while Andy would be sent home. Since I had no desire to lounge around with a bunch of other women who may recognize my voice (the embarrassment of hearing, “Jesus Fuck Shit Fuck I WANT AN EPIDURAL Fuck Me Christ” all night), I agreed to go home when they asked if I wanted to.
Since then it’s been everything you probably expect. No sleep. Visitors coming to coo at your child. Take out dinners. Laundry (my god, the laundry!). Spit and Shit. Bottles of milk sitting next to glasses of wine. Crying (both Henry’s and mine). Burping (they call it “winding” here). Little socks. Love. Lots and lots of love for this tiny little thing that made me uncomfortable for 9 months, near death pain for 6 hours, and refuses to let me sleep ever since he arrived in the world. You rock K.I.S.S. style, my son.
You rock even when you're farting.
WELCOME TO THE END OF THE POST, HERE ARE SOME BADGERS:
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