When your husband calls you Fu Manchu

So two weeks ago I’m talking on the phone to my sister, thanking her for sending me the facial hair remover I requested. No such thing is sold in Germany, as they believe in threading the hair straight off your face, but I’m not interested in having someone rub string on my face until the hair falls off. They’ve never heard of wax. I’ve asked around.

Timeout. Discussing girl facial hair…Yes, this is going to shock everyone with a penis, but girls have hair on their face too. And no, I’m not talking about beard-like amounts. I’m talking about some eyebrow strays and the hair that grows on my lip. Which is blonde, but STILL. It wasn’t THAT bad right now but if I see any stray hairs, I get all crazy. Especially in the summer when I swear to God, that shit tans and I look like I’m Mexican. No offense to anyone that is Mexican but really.

Anyway.

So one night, I’m mid-face cream application and I can hear Mr. H coming up the stairs talking to his parents and I know he’s giving me the in-law phone call hand-off but I just put the face cream on and it’s already in the stinging phase and I’m so excited to have no damn hair anywhere that when he walks in the bathroom, I just give him the five minutes signal and find it kind of suspect that he doesn’t even look phased that I have cream all around my mouth. Normally he doesn’t appreciate this much exposure to my daily personal upkeep.

See? I make fun of myself TOO. But no, I have no shame.

But instead he looks slightly pleased, and I just assume that he’s making fun of me.

But no, he ISN’T. He’s actually thrilled, which I find out AFTER I get off the phone with his parents, when I go to show him my splendid results.

“See? No more hair.” I am tickled with myself but I’m not really telling him so that he responds with anything.

“Oh.THANK.GOD. Really, that’s great. Looks so much better. Thank God.”
He almost fucking shouted THANKGOD at me, which totally shocked me because he WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE NOTICING MY LIP HAIR. Now I was in fight mode and I was squinting my eyes so hard my contacts almost popped out.

“Thank GOD? Did you just THANK GOD ME? What does that fucking mean, THANK GOD? Like YOU NOTICED??? Shut up.” God I hate it when he has an opinion.

“No really. I have seen it every morning in the car out of the corner of my eye and really, it was getting to be a bit much.” He was carrying on like someone else in the room still cared. I was going to losemyshit.

“I said SHUT UP. Maybe if you weren’t too busy being the passenger in the car EVERY DAY and minded your own business you wouldn’t be looking at me. In fact, no more looking at me.”

Two days ago, he sees me messing with the face cream again and just smiles.

“I missed two spots last time and needed to wait until I could do it again. Shut up.” I roll my eyes. I do not care if part of my secret girl routine involves cream that zaps the hair right off my face. I also shave my legs and my jage and no one thinks that’s too weird.

“Oh, I know.” He says and laughs as he walks out the door.

“What does YOU KNOW MEAN?” God, he was getting to be a bit much.

“You looked like Fu Manchu.” And with that, he shut the door and walked away.

Me, on an off week.

SonofaBITCH.

Another day, another scolding

So as if the constant reminder of my burned counter isn’t enough, on Thursday my German housekeeper came and just knowing she was going to see it stressed me the fuck out. Honestly, she’s a lovely woman and I couldn’t live without her now, but jesus, she’s got guilt trips down like you would not believe. Seriously, I have to pre-clean the day before she comes so the house is acceptable for cleaning.

Between the guilt and the scoldings she leaves me in letters and emails, it’s all very stressful, which is exactly why I left her a note about the counter.

“Dear Lilo, I burned the counter this week while cooking. Please be careful because it’s peeling and bubbled and we have to replace it soon. It’s hidden under the towel and the flower pot. Sorry. Thank you, Heather”

No idea why I felt like I had to apologize to her. Worse guilt I think than when I disappoint my mother. You’d think I’m exaggerating but then she leaves me this note.

Oh. And the fucking candle she’s referring to? Yeah. I put my brand new, extra large and lovely lilac candle from Yankee Candle, which was A BIRTHDAY GIFT FROM MY MOTHER, on top of her payment for the week, in case some crazy wind was to blow away the money (no idea why a random wind storm would occur in my house but I’ve had weirder things happen) and I guess in Germany anything attached to or touching your payment automatically becomes your bonus for the week.

That was MY candle.

Burning down the house (attempt 1)

Today I came back to work after being home sick for two days. I was not feeling better but I was bored and if I don’t have a doctor’s note, I can’t stay out more than two days in a row anyway. I don’t have a doctor, hence the reason I’m in today. Tonight after work, or in the morning, I’m going to go to the hospital if I don’t feel better, though, because now I have a fever and the cold is in my chest and honestly, I feel like I did when I caught man flu/pneumonia in Bosnia that time.

I’ll be damned, though, if I get sent back to the German hospital for 8 days. My sanity cannot handle that right now. So, we’ll go a bit earlier than when I start to hallucinate and hope I can just get some medicine and walk on out. I cannot be sick next week and I also cannot be subjected to a shared room in the TB ward again. Dear God no.

Now. While I sort that out, let’s go over what destruction I caused this week. I like to call this episode, Further Proof Heather Doesn’t Belong in the Kitchen or, as Mr. H would probably title it, Reasons Heather is a Horrible Wife, part 9 trillion.

So I was trying to be somewhat productive and domestic on the first day I was sick by tossing together a roast and vegetables in the crock pot so it could cook while I was asleep. I figured that’d be nice of me and it’d be ready by the time the Mr. got home and I could sleep while it cooked. So I cooked it in this.

This crock pot might look harmless but it's not.

Now the only reason I’m using this old thing is because I think my mom gave it to me when I was in college and so I’ve kept it around, even though I have a newer one at my sister’s house that I got for one of my weddings. So anyway. I plug it in, dinner is cooking and I go back to the couch for a few hours of sick sleep. I did notice a bit of a burning smell after the first half hour, but since the crockpot is from the U.S., it was plugged into the adapter, which always makes a funny smell (kind of) if a heavy-duty American appliance is plugged into it.

Half an hour more into the cooking, I heard a banging noise and got up to see that both handles had fallen right off the crock pot. I didn’t happen to notice that they actually melted clear off the pot. I also didn’t notice that the adapter was turned on low and the pot was turned on high. Apparently this is not a good thing.

Really, I just figured the smell was an indication of electricity, hard at work. Makes sense to me.

About an hour later, I started to clean up the mess and moved the plastic chopping board out from under the crock pot, where a piece of it had been stuck, and even though I noticed that it was melted almost to nothing, I just put it in the dishwasher and wiped off the counter. Never occurred to me that I was in the process of potentially burning down my house.

That night, almost 9 hours after I started the roast, I served said dinner and after it was cleared, I went upstairs to look for my new computer programs to download on the Airbook. This is about the time I heard an outrageous amount of swearing and yelling coming from the kitchen. Normally Mr. H doesn’t reduce himself to dramatics for no reason and so I ran down to see what the fit was about. And then I saw this, and I knew two things.

This is what being a moron looks like.


1. I was in a lot of trouble.
2. I should have my IQ or my mental retardation status checked.
3. I am really terrible at both common sense and all things domestic.
So ok, that’s 3-4 things that picture tells me, but to be honest, this whole situation tells you so many more things about me and my special behavior.

This is the point of the story where as I moved closer to the burn, I started hoping it’d scratch off or I could blame someone else or I could squint really hard and I’d disappear and pop up in a chocolate store in France or somewhere a bit happier than my kitchen. Instead of that happening, though, I just saw an uglier view of the burn.

Yes, it's cracked and peeled and awful looking.

Then I started crying irrationally about turning more Germans against us and how now all of our friends that visit will think the house is ugly and why we’re terrible people who don’t deserve nice things because we are ruiners. Unfortunately, I don’t keep pictures around of me sobbing so you’ll have to just picture this.

Flash to yesterday, day two of being sick at home…

I had to avoid the kitchen as much as possible. I couldn’t stand to even go in there a few minutes to get tea or more medicine or food because the burn was just staring right back at me, as if to say, you’re a fucking idiot and here’s an easy reminder of that and it was making my head hurt more than breathing in 9 hours of burning plastic made it hurt and so on sick day two I went down to the store and came up with a solution.

Decorating success

Pretty plant, don’t you think?

Problem solved. For now.

Birthday Weekend Wrap-Up

Many of my friends have written today not so much to see how Birthday Weekend went, but to remind me, “Your birthday is now over. No more birthday for you!” Which I’m sorry, makes you a bastard, because this is my month and my party and I’m carrying it out til Nov 1.

Actually, the only thing that’s left to celebrate my 32 years of cheating death is a birthday party this weekend, thrown by my friends here.

Speaking of cheating death for 32 years, though, here is the text my stepfather sent me from my mother’s phone this weekend:
“32, huh? Need I say more? Who would have thought of you being 32?”

I’m not sure if he’s congratulating me on surviving or if he’s telling me I’m so youthful that it’s not possible that I’m 32 yet or if he’s just TWISTING HIS KNIFE IN MY HEART AGAIN SINCE WE ARE STILL NOT FACEBOOK FRIENDS.

He also still doesn’t even know that we are at war because my mother never happened to tell him. So bleh.

Anyway. Birthday weekend was nice and quiet around our house. We stuck around and spent a weekend full of wine drinking, grilling, house organizing, game playing and I did my best to spend a paycheck on things I feel like I deserve. I also opened a ton of gifts from my fantastic friends and family–favorites include this:

Which is to be the computer that finally finishes The Book. We’ll see.

And this, which I’m living in currently.

Also some books, music, fancy skivs, candles, flowers and balloons and THIS which has been used quite a bit this weekend since, Umm, yes, I gave up coffee over TWO WEEKS AGO. (and no, I haven’t killed anyone OR broken anything on purpose in my house)

It's best because it's green


I’m not sure if subbing in tea is like quitting cigarettes and taking up cloves but the switch has actually made me feel a million times better in the morning, which is why in my head I’m writing a thesis as to how and why tea is better for you than coffee. I consulted my personal nurse, my sister, and she says,
“Yes, tea is better for you. It has more tannins and antioxidants and less cream and sugar than coffee.” I act very pleased with her medical opinion, having no idea what the hell a tannin is.

“I still put cream and sugar in my tea,” I stated. Obviously.

“God, Heather.”

“I mean splenda and milk but still.” Kind of the same.

“That’s not the same. Anyway, it’s better for you.”

“Good. Did I tell that I gave up coffee TWO WEEKS AGO? It’s been amazing.” I say it like I did something so noble that I deserved a medal or at least a certificate.

“I see you still haven’t given up booze. Also amazing.” GodDAMN HER.

This is also the same girl who said to me weeks ago, when I told her how much I hated my brown hair said,

“Oh. I’m sure I know exactly why you feel like that. You feel like no one is looking at you. No one cares about girls with brown hair, do they?” And then she fucking laughed.

But she was also right. Damn her.

So there you have it. The end of birthday week and yet another stimulating conversation between the Smith sisters. Happy Monday!

Happy Birthday to me!

Who loves attention? Not this girl.

It perplexes most people how much I enjoy my birthday but c’mon, as one of the world’s biggest attention whores, I’m not sure why it’s confusing.

Today, everyone gets to remind that I’m still alive and kicking and I love it. Gifts and flowers and singing to me don’t hurt, either.

So what do I do on my birthday? A whole lot of loving myself and acting like a 5-year-old and doing whatever makes me happy. I don’t see why not. Everyone celebrates the birth of Jesus with things like trees and fancy dinners and pretty packages and lots of singing. I’m not about to have someone else in (fake and past) existence have a better celebrated birthday than myself. That’s just fucking foolish.

Well, normally, I sleep in but not today, I was up at 5:30 like a small child, because there were presents to be opened and that was priority one. That and I had to go to the German police station to fight a traffic violation which I won, thank you, thank you, even if the Mr. thinks the violation was dropped because I was flirting and smiling up a storm.*

Then I had breakfast made for me, and I never turn down food.

Then my friends sang to me.

Then my office sang to me and delivered me the fanciest of flowers, all in fall colors, and balloons, which we all know just scream out, LOOK AT ME and ask me why today is a big day.

Then I ate my second breakfast, which was also made for me.

Then I accepted a few happy, little phone calls.

Then I bought myself a few things at the store.

And now I’m eating chicken pot pie. At lunch. Because it’s my birthday and it’s my favorite.

The minute I get home, I will put on my stretchy magic pants, which for the rest of you are actually used in the colder months to cycle in but NOT FOR ME because I think they are more suited for high kicking and ninja fighting, because obviously today is magical. Then I will toss some booze down my neck, because I can. And then I hear I may or may not be going to France for dinner.

Either way, I have plans to carry on this celebration into next week by announcing to anyone that listens, “It’s my birthday today!” Strange looks aside, let’s keep this one person party going until say, mmm November 1.

Thank you, thank you to everyone for all of the fantastic birthday wishes. I’ll be sure this weekend to do as many self-absorbed, insane and generally ridiculous things as possible for entertaining posts for next week….

That I’ll be typing on my new MacBook Air. Woooooooo.

Happy Weekend all and a special Happy Birthday Weekend to my ladies in France. xoxoxo

**Note that this is the first time in history that I am documenting I used my flirting tactics on a German. Will probably never happen in life again.

**Until the next time I need to.

***Also note my lovely new header, compliments of Jen and Jen from back home. They take the BEST fall pictures and for that, I am grateful.

****I know my birthday seems to be full of eating, which it is. Take that, fall dieting.

New obsession alert

Today I’m going to write like a fat girl because that’s what I feel like doing and I can’t find anything else to write about and so I’ve settled on food.

Not just any food, though. Banoffee pie. My new love.

I had this pie once in Ireland and then at the airport waiting for my delayed flight, I ate a Banoffee ice cream sundae because they didn’t have the pie and when was the last time I had a sundae and in case you need another reason, it IS birthday week.

Now I’m not sure what the proper recipe would be, but I did find a UK one, which is better than just using an American recipe, I suppose, and I’ve forwarded it around already…you know, in case anyone is interested in making me SOME PIE for my birthday.

http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/5916/simple-banoffee-pie.aspx

And, in the spirit of making lists of things I love, here are my top five pies of all time.

5. Pecan
4. Pumpkin
3. Banoffee
2. Strawberry Cream
1. Strawberry Rhubarb

And in case we need to get into this further, I love pie much more than I love cake. Unless we’re talking about my BIRTHDAY CAKE and in that case, I stick with yellow cake, chocolate frosting. Obviously.

As you can tell, I’m just a little bit excited that it’s my birthday tomorrow.

A trip to Ireland, part two. Fundraisers, cougars and the recession.

So a few new things have happened in the last part of my Ireland trip that were unexpected, delightful and worth talking about.

Saturday’s events were enough to give anyone a reason to move to this particular village in Ireland. The festivities involving Irish children kicked off late afternoon with an unexpected trip to the roller skating rink. It was raining out and my friend was acting like, how odd, it never rains here, what should we do?, which I’m too smart for but the troops were restless and so the family decided to take me and Mr. H on an outing that normally would have me hiding in my bed at home.

I do not do team sports or anything athletic in public (or in general, honestly) because it all gives me anxiety, I prefer creative hobbies that use my brain and let’s be honest, I’m fucking lazy and my legs never work right. So this was a nightmare for me, until I got on those roller skates and starting gliding around to the likes of Ga Ga and then it was great. It was especially great because I was like the third best in the family and I do not care if half the group was under ten. I did almost tear something when I tried to skate under the Mr.’s legs when just skating in a circle got boring. I almost ruined his sperm maker with my head, ended in a half split on my back and that was the end of my roller skating career.

From here we moved on to dinner in which a few things happened.
1. I went to a Chinese restaurant, which proves the Irish do eat Chinese, food, not people, which in my defense I never said they didn’t eat Chinese food, I said I wondered if they did and by did I meant I have never seen my Irish friends eat anything Asian. Long story but the debate is over.

2. Dinner turned into my surprise birthday party which is obviously fucking amazing because birthday week was supposed to start Sunday but it started a day early thanks to the Craven clan, which you know has me thrilled.

3. The girls got me a tin whistle as one of my gifts. UMMMM YES, exactly the kind previously discussed in the blog, if that’s what you were thinking. Also, yes, I’ve already googled, how to play rebel songs on tin whistle…so new hobby, check. Also, I later found out it’s not really appropriate to say on your blog that someone whipped out their whistle because that means Irish penis. You learn something new every day.

Anyway. Back to Saturday and if you can believe it, the best had yet to come. After the tiny leprechauns went to bed, we made an appearance at the local pub, which is also a convenience store (why there are not more of these little gems in towns I frequent, who the fuck knows) so in case you need cigarettes, toilet paper, a shot of vodka and a newspaper, you’re all set. It was just past the people drinking and sitting on the store counter, perched casually next to the lotto machine, giving me the eye with a glimmer of crazy that even I wouldn’t fuck with, that I started to see the people of the village come to life before me.

Leaning with her back to the store, just inside the door to the “lounge”, I spotted a cougar drinking a cider, eating tiny sausages on toothpicks, all while stuffed into leopard heels, wearing a dress sewn for a woman twenty years her junior, and carrying around a donation bucket. She was just the first person past the door to the store. As I looked around, all you could see were red faces, men with crosses and shirts open to display their tuffs of once ginger chest hair. Looking further back, much to my delight, we found the cougar den, filled with luscious middle-aged Irish women who had somehow managed to stuff thirty extra pounds each around their mid section in a spandex dress number and pair it with flourescent, patent leather pumps. And the hair. It was like Grease meets Hairspray meets Amy Winehouse.

Did I mention this was a local fundraiser for a child that needs an operation? Well, yes, it was. And shocking the Irish would turn it into a drinking event which could be easily mistaken for a Halloween party. It really wasn’t until my eyes landed on the most luxurious woman in the building did I think I could have also landed myself in a beauty pageant/Stifler’s Mother Look Alike Contest. No lie, I’m coming out of the bathroom after my second pint of cider and there she was. She was tossing around her long and tangled hair, weaving her hands in and out of her mangled, feathered bangs, smacking her cherry lips that perfectly matched her lacy bra that was casually displayed from beneath the most GLORIOUS one piece get-up, a lovely black and white polka dot cat suit that left none of her large and surely paid for breasts to my already vivid imagination. She was like meeting Elizabeth Taylor, but in Ireland.

I couldn’t help but stare at her from across the room, mouth open and Moxie-eyed, just thinking of what a specimen she really was. That level of cougar takes real talent. Good for her.

This was about the time that the most exciting discovery of the night occurred. The auction had begun directly behind Stifler’s mom and I was in a great spot to be a part of all the excitement. We could barely contain ourselves, so curious about the list of goodies that we found a copy and got ready in case we needed to jump in with a bid. Mr. H looked over the list and noted that I might be particularly interested in item number seven. He handed me the list. Sure enough, I had my item to bid on.

Number seven: Truckload of sticks.

“Hey.” I whispered to my friend. She looked at me, knowing she didn’t want to hear what was coming next. “You guys do know that sticks are free if you just go to the woods and get them, right? You don’t have to pay for them.” Then I broke up in fits of laughter and slammed back my drink.

At the end of the auction I headed out back to the picnic area for a smoke, exhausted by the entertainment and this is where I was next introduced to ol’ B Ryan, the local pantomime instructor/2nd best cross-dresser in Ireland, second only to some lad Mr. Pussie that just WOULD BE BEATEN THIS YEAR. Or something like that. B Ryan was the type of Irish guy you’d want to be friends with. Swore a lot, slurred up a storm, slapped you hard on your back every time he thought something was funny and described everything as bullocks and gobshite. It was clear through his drunken enthusiasm that he was just tickled to have made American friends and was talking loudly about our visit, which was entertaining because I never quite remember exactly how much of a sideshow Americans can be to the rest of the world. Well, after another pint I took a look around and realized a bit of a line had formed to get in to talk to the Americans. Fancy that. I was a NOVELTY. B Ryan moved aside and next up was James, the carpenter that could build a treehouse in day, if we were in the market. After James was the little woman with the aggressive fake eyelashes and dress made for Cleopatra, who stopped in to tell us that she used to be in the Navy but now she was in the Army, had been to America and did we know our accents are JUST AWFUL? I would have taken offense perhaps if I wasn’t so mesmerized by how effortlessly, while talking, she undid her metallic clutch purse, pulled out a diet coke bottle, dumped some clear stuff in her coke, put it back in her bag and lit a cigarette.

As I took her lighter from her I said, thoroughly impressed, “you DID just dump your own vodka in your coke while telling a full story AND insulting me, all while acting like nothing was going on, no?” I was not judging, just checking, really.

Apparently she felt no need to get into details with me. She merely hissed at me loudly and knowingly, “RECESSION.” And that was that. One word and we were on the same page.

Closing time came late in the village that night and me, my hostess with the mostest and Mr. H skipped on home down Church Street to put ourselves to bed. It wasn’t until we hit the door that we realized Mr. Hostess had accidentally locked us out and gone to bed. Good thing I have a problem with sweating at night because our first floor guestroom’s window was still cracked from the night before. With that stroke of luck, we all got into the cheerleading move better known as a basket toss and I was launched into the window, half breaking in, half doing gymnastics. My feet were tossed high above my head and I backflipped onto the bed, landed on my back and then flopped like a drunken slob onto the hardwoods.

Lastly, I went to church the next day and didn’t combust or sizzle and also my face didn’t melt off. The goddamned priest splashed holy water everywhere WITHOUT ASKING ME FIRST and there was a lot of on your knees, stand up, on your knees, stand up, but really, I feel like the past decade has left me pretty well trained for that bit.

So, Ireland. All in all was a fantastic trip.

Oh wait. The sticks. I almost forgot about the sticks. Number seven sold for the highest bid of the night at 140 euros, to the Cleopatra dress wearing, recession fighting beauty queen.

Fucking sticks. Who knew.

Leprechauns would seem normal at this point…

So our trip to Ireland was never meant to be a tour of the whole country, all touristy stops included. We decided to spend the weekend with my friend, her husband and four daughters. Four Irish kids for 5 days was surely going to be adventure enough and so far, a bit into our third day, we have not been let down.

With a line-up of four children around (who I’ll get into later this weekend), you can probably tell that I haven’t even had time to hunt for leprechaun or gingers, that’s how busy I’ve been. Well, actually, we walked the kids to school yesterday and there were so many gingers racing around me on the school grounds that my eyes almost started bleeding and so I gave up the ginger hunting hobby, for the record.

Oh, and before I get into my little story about the people of the village, you would not believe how many opportunities a day you can find to buy potatoes on the side of the road, on the street corners and obviously in the market. Who knows why Italy and the UK even import their potatoes here. Anyway, I’ve yet to see anyone eat a potato like an apple but I’m positive they do such and so I’ll continue to keep an eye out and keep you all posted.

Now back to the people of the village. I’m not sure where to start, except to say that in my first 12 hours here I went to the church across the street for two different reasons, neither or which were Jesus, and didn’t come back disappointed either time.

First trip we went to the church to watch about 25 Irish kids dance. Apparently when you’re in country, it’s not called Irish STEP dancing, just dancing, because it’s obvious that they’re stepping. Lesson learned. Much to my delight, these kids kicked and flitted around the room for a full hour. At one point I had a moment of pure jealousy and made some sort of announcement that I would be finding myself a private dance instructor back in Stuttgart (http://www.danceirish.de/) to get me up to speed with these five to twelve-year olds. The second half of class I spent trying to find out the name of a small but plump child who had an amazing bowl haircut and opted to spend most of her dance class climbing stacks of chairs and not dancing. I kept guessing that her name was Pam or Polly but the Mr. kept guessing Agustus Gloop and we were both disappointed when we found her name was Eve or Epha. Oh, and I also announced I would like to take pictures of all the dancing wonders but I was told I’d look like a pedo and so I have no documentation of the future Irish dance team champs.

Hours later, after dinner, the kids insisted we come back to watch choir practice because tonight was not just practice, but a bit of a show and I informed them that I’ve never turned down a good gospel choir session yet and wasn’t about to start now.

They don’t know I’m a big, fat liar. They also don’t know that bringing me into a back room in an old church was potentially going to make my skin crackle and my face melt off. But I’m a good sport when it comes to children I like and so off we went.

Inside, we took seats, plopped the little kids on our laps and settled in for an epic show of true Irish culture. First up, this mousey woman instantly started strumming away and wailing out Country Rose, accompanying her on guitar being the elderly man who was surely on his way out. I was instantly confused as to why they’d be singing this song. WHERE WAS MY IRISHY FOLK MUSIC???

Next up, everyone in the choir assembled, small children in front like shining stars, and put in a fancy little rendition of Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, in which a few ladies of the village really got into it and I started to tap, tap, tappity tap my foot. Next up, everyone started in with praising Jesus as their Savior and as an added bonus, whenever the kids sang the word Jesus, everyone bended at the knee, bopped up and down and really added a bit of flare to the performance. I think the Mousy lady that led the choir was behind that one and well done to her.

Just then, we switched modes and old man Blue as I started to call him, started strumming away and banging on the front of the guitar, half mumbling, somewhat slurring, sometimes shouting various Johnny Cash tunes. He was as close to real-life Blue from Old School that I’ve ever seen and I was just mesmerized.

“Is he drunk?” I asked my friend.

“Um no, I think he’s had a stroke,” which obviously I’d feel slightly bad about except I was too busy moving on to wondering what else was going to happen and who else was going to make a guest appearance.

And then it happened. Just when I thought we were going to go back to the angelic singing of the Irish children, Mousy McGee whipped out a flute (which I later found out was actually called a tin whistle, how fucking quaint) out of nowhere and started whistling out the sweet sounds of Sally Gardens and Jesus Christ, I felt like I was just walking out of a battle scene of Braveheart or maybe I was in Lord of the Rings. Who knows, and yes, I am well aware that neither of those movies were filmed in Ireland but it’s all I’ve got for now.

This was the point when I started to look around the room, trying to figure out if anyone else had an instrument or noise maker of some sorts in their bag. My eyes were as wide as I could be, which is why my friend said I could never really be Irish. They just roll with these situations and pretend nothing interesting is happening. They don’t get all Moxie-eyed about it. But this is me we’re talking about. Back to the story.

Just as the tin whistle started to die down, the door swung open again in walked one of my friend’s neighbors and oh dear god, let the rebel singing begin. Out he swung a banjo and la-de-da, the entire fifteen person audience just lit up and started slapping knees, tapping feet and really having a grand old time. To be honest, I have no idea what the hell he was singing about most of the time but there was shouting and lots of references to drinking and I can’t be sure but I think one rebel song was about an alligator. I’d be able to report back if I wasn’t so slow in translating the lack of the letter combination “th” in this country.

Honestly, if you ever want to come to Ireland, don’t do the touristy things. Stay with a family with no less than three kids. It’s brilliant.

Get ready, Ireland. You’re next on the list.

So I meant to post this before I flew to Ireland yesterday. This was to be my, before traveling to Ireland post. Just wait until later when I have a chance to fill you all in on the bizarre little world I’ve stepped into…

(from a day ago)

Me and the Mr. made it to Ireland for a long weekend to celebrate our two year wedding anniversary. It’s probably more like a trip to celebrate him surviving two years of being married to me but either way, I’ll take the trip AND the new passport stamp.

Yep, Ireland is a new country to add to the list and I’m pretty excited. We should discuss, though, my ignorant and charming views about Ireland and then I can do an update when I return.

Here is an example of what I think Ireland looks like.

This is what all the little girls do to entertain guests, which I’ll be demanding on a regular basis, consider the friend I’m staying with has 4 little girls and those kids better be ready to DANCE.

No idea what's up with the amount of *pretty hair in this picture.

And they better not act like they don’t know how because they are Irish.

I’m pretty sure Ireland doesn’t have any of this.

But they do have lots of these.

Uhhhhhh, I'm sorry?

And, if you ask other people around the world, they will tell you the Gingers smell like fox’s pee. I’ll be sure to check this theory out.

Those are just a few things I’ll be expecting to witness while in the Land of Green. I’ll keep you all posted.

Baptists, pubes and 2 star motel bed sets. The next three chapters.

Here is a picture of my house. I keep forgetting that our families have yet to see the house and this is a nice picture I took on Sunday. Outside of being a nice picture, it has nothing to do with much, which on this blog at least makes sense.

Now that I’ve inserted a picture that makes no sense in this post, we’ll move on to discussing the fact that I’m a bit stuck on blog topics lately. Last week I had a good week and this week, I am just not motivated to blog. Too distracted. That and I promised myself to write three stories for my book that I haven’t actually written yet and it’s just not going well because I am beyond lazy and have this odd sleep sickness that has taken over my life. That and I’m bound to offend at least two people with these stories, primarily because they’re awesome. However, David Sedaris tells honest stories about his family and friends that are hilarious and he seems to be doing just fine in life and so yes, writing funny stories shall beat out not offending people. Now here is a preview of the next three stories I’m writing.

The first story is about a small church in Berwick, Maine, that insists on healing people with the behavior I like to classify as bat-ass crazy (Which in case you’re wondering is actually a type of crazy. When I doubted myself with that whole idiom problem thing I have, it appeared on urban dictionary, which much like wikipedia, is my source for all things that are true. Kidding. Kind of.). This story involves a little scene with people waving their hands over their heads, speaking in tongues and making people’s legs grow. It ends with me smoking behind the church. It’s a winner, I promise.

Wait, now I have a question. Are Baptists the only people who wave their hands over their hands with their eyes closed, weeping and shouting PRAISE JESUS and then fainting, or no? (I tried to include a picture to be sure you were clear about what I was talking about but googling “crazy religious people waving hands over head while crying and acting insane” only brought up pictures of Jesus crying and that seemed a bit much to post on a Tuesday. I will accept any pictures any of you can find, though, or if not, I will draw you one tomorrow)

The second story is called King of Trident (that shit is copyrighted so I don’t want to read any other stories by the same name in the near future or I will fight someone) and it does not involve the ruler of the Sea or anything else that I learned in mythology. It involves me having to cut Trident gum out of some kid’s sexy region and it also involves me acting like a gymnast and an unfortunate situation where I found myself wearing white tube socks. Mr. H rolled his eyes when I said I was going to write this one but everyone loves a story about gum in pubes so I feel compelled to give the world what it wants. I am a giver, what can I do?

The last story is set in Panama City beach, circa 1999, and involves a night where a blue tarp, the police, a two star motel bedset and a porta potty are all key characters, especially the blue tarp. It’s probably one of my favorite stories to tell, though I don’t tell it a lot because I am also a main character and it was not one of my finest moments in life. Or was it? Jury is still out.

So, in case you were wondering, the above is what’s keeping me (not) busy lately.

Also, please notice the amount of items I thought to tag is almost as long as the actual post. I should stop doing that.