The AmeriCan't

As a kid, I wasn't allowed to do a lot of things based on the notion that I would become "Too American."

I wasn't allowed to attend sleepover parties.
I wasn't allowed to go swimming.
I wasn't allowed to eat a hot dog.
I wasn't allowed to wear shorts.
I wasn't allowed to eat marshmallows.
I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend.

It was believed that if I were to do any of these things, I would lose my sense of culture, heritage, and religion. I quickly learned that these rules were imposed on me out of fear and a smidgen of ignorance, but mainly out of love and parental protectiveness. Except when it came to the hot dogs and marshmallows. That was because of religious food restrictions. But, my parents just wanted to keep me close, and away from the lure of glamorous American decadence. They were just trying to do right by me and our ancestors.

As an adult, I have now done all of these things and thoroughly enjoyed each and every one of them. Recently, I was told that I am not allowed to be happy. This is, by far, the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever told me not to do.

I'm engaged to be married to the most amazing person in the universe, and I want to be happy, damnit.

Actually, I AM happy. I'm happier than I have ever been before. My entire body has been smiling since the proposal. I hear birds chirping all the time now, and no matter how grumpy work makes me, or how frustrating job-hunting gets, or how many times I stub my toes, all I have to do is look at my left hand and see the physical representation of a joyful future, and I get giddy. Giggly, even.

So, when I am told that I have to keep this happiness a secret, I don't understand. We're HERE because of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Somebody forgot to read the fine print...

The Secret Lives of Stuffed Toys

My mother asked me if she could get rid of my stuffed animal collection.

Is this the sort of thing that warrants more than a perfunctory thought?

YES. YES IT DOES.

Where do I start? It's so difficult to describe what these toys mean to me without having them here, in front of me. Yes, I know that makes me sound like I don't really care about them at all, but the truth is, they were just more comfortable in my parents' house, safely stowed in my closet, in a cozy nook in my closet. Under a blanket.

I swear, they like it.

Gah. My stuffed animals. Do I start with the fact that many of them were gifts? Or that they were my friends? Or that they were the only things that would listen to me, when I was a child, and even later, when I was an angst-ridden teenager who felt like NO ONE would ever understand me? I loved each and every one of them, and I still do, and now, now they'll be separated from each other and I'll never see them again. It's downright cruel, to be honest.

I feel like a complete nut-job for caring this much, but I am pretty sure that those stuffed animals were the reason I didn't grow up to BE a complete nut-job. You see, I projected every unpleasant facet of myself onto those toys, and they represented all the parts of me that I didn't like. There was Priscilla, the pink bunny who suffered from low self-esteem. She worried about not being liked so that I didn't have to. There was also the Bear Family, who hated the dark so much that they would cuddle up to me at night to keep them safe from the monsters (in the closet, not under the bed). Betsy the rag doll showed up during my adolescence. I'm sorry to say, she was suicidal, and lived on top of my curtain rod, constantly debating whether or not to leap. Ah, well. Teenagers.

I could go on and on about the secret lives of my stuffed animals, but that might make me seem a little crazy.

I have to call my mom and save my friends now. I can only hope it isn't too late. The bears might be okay, but those stuffed bunnies don't do well with change.

delayed reaction

the countdown began yesterday. since then, i have noticed two things.

1) i have NO patience for my housemates anymore. i have a pavlovian response to their presence and especially the door-slamming.

2) i am getting more homesick every day. it's like i delayed my homesickness to the very end, and now it's coming at me HARD.

sigh. i just want to come home.

wild horses can't tear me away

i don't think they were actually wild horses. they were more like tame ponies. maureen and i took another long walk today, to see some other ruins near the campus, and came across some gorgeous animals. two ponies, grazing in what looked like a football field. huh.

we approach, they whinny. we move towards them, they move away. they were calm and regal, and we were fascinated.

horses. just grazing. they were so relaxed it made me think about all the other animals i've seen since i've been here. the dogs aren't on leashes, and they never bark or chase one another. it must be the environment. things just move so much more slowly here. the Irish make jokes about how nothing ever starts on time here. parties don't usually start until about midnight. teachers are late, but never too late, to classes. time moves at a different pace here.

i know that in America, the clocks have been changed, which mean that I am now only 5 hours ahead instead of 6. this is odd. Ireland won't switch their clocks until April. i wish i had the time to find out the reasoning for it, but the one thing that is on a deadline are my essays, and i have more than a few of them to do.

homework. sigh. tear me away.

food, glorious food

it's hard to eat here. i can't tell if my nutrition is suffering because this is college or because i'm in a foreign country.

i eat like crap here. it has to stop.

my daily intake of vitamins and minerals tend to come from the following: a box of chips (potato wedges), a capri-sonne juice pouch or two, and a sandwich of cheese and... more cheese.

i'm having people over for meatloaf on wednesday. correction, i'm having some IRISH people over for meatloaf on wednesday, namely because they said, "Meatloaf? What's that? We've only heard of it on 'The Simpsons.'" no kidding. this will be my third attempt to make one, and i'm not sure how it's going to play out. i can't seem to find the ingredients that i normally keep, and i am instead finding all kind of ingredients i never thought i would have use for. foods like: beets. they are fresh from the garden, but i don't think i actually LIKE beets.

god, i'm starving. i'm not saying i can't eat, i'm saying that i don't really enjoy food right now. it's there to provide some sustenance.

note: the KFC here does not sell mashed potatoes. so much disappointment.

(crossing) the fault line

The hot water has gone out again. I think it's funny to say that it's 'gone out.' Where did it go? Is it running errands or on a date?

"Have you seen the hot water, dear?"
"No. Not for some time now. I think it went out."
"Did it leave a note?"
"No, but it never does. You know how hot water is."

While I'm busy personifying things, I would also like to mention the Launderette. The name "Launderette" conjures an image of a sweet, petite lady, dressed in a pleasantly starched apron and bonnet. She clucks her tongue at me when I try to put too many clothes in the washing machine and reassures me that powdered detergent will be fine, although I still worry about the dandruff-like flakes that may not wash off.

Sweet as she is, she costs quite a bit for her services. I have to use tokens to do my laundry. It's approximately 5 euro per wash and semi-dry. 7.10 for one wash and two dryer tokens. In U.S. dollars, that's about... $9.00. Yikes.

"It has to be done, dear," she says to me.

And she's right. Since I've been here, I have tried to maintain my personal sense of style while being aware of youthful, Irish fashion. It's tough. I wasn't really prepared for the onslaught of dresses, tights, ballet flats, scarves, and jewelry that dominate a young lady's wardrobe. Despite packing a moderate amount of clothing, I find that I have too many clothes, yet too few options. Is it silly to worry about appearances? Sure, but I always have, and I'm not sure how to stop now. Oh, you didn't know? I'm superficial and a little vain.

So, for the sake of vanity, I do laundry once a week, and this particular week I did something I thought I would never do. I'm so sorry, but I had to use the dryer before they locked the doors.

"It has to be done, dear," Launderette said. She winked at me and clucked her tongue at you for leaving your things in the dryer for FOUR HOURS. I just want to apologize for handling your personal items, and I sincerely hope I don't have to do it again. You had some questionable attire.

Hey, Launderette? I have a few favors to ask of you. Next time you see some hot water, would you tell it to please come home? Thanks. You're great.

Luck

So what if it's snowing for the first time in years? The cold isn't that bad.

Who cares if I haven't got heat or hot water? I can just heat up a kettle and wash my hair over the sink.

Does it matter if my wallet seems to be hemorrhaging money? I knew this trip wouldn't be cheap.

TONIGHT, BY GOD, THERE WILL BE DANCING!

Traditional Ceili Dancing (pronounced kay-lee), to be exact! It's been a dreadful week overall, with a smattering of joyful interludes. I am so excited to see this and maybe even try it out! When the world gets you down, dance!

several hours later...

My computer broke down, and then I almost did too. This must be the worst string of luck I have ever experienced. I don't know what happened, but it looks like I got some kinda bug. It's kinda funny, actually. After nearly a week of icy showers and no heat, my computer is the one that caught a virus instead of me.

observation #283

not much to report today.

still no heat or hot water. i woke up early only to brush my teeth, wash up, and dive back under the covers before they had a chance to get infected with the nasty chill in the house. and then i read.

for 8 hours.

can i complain about the cold? sure. on the other hand, i just spent the day reading, napping, and snacking. in Ireland. bliss.

best served cold

there isn't any heat or hot water.

i repeat, there isn't any HEAT or HOT WATER.

at least, there isn't any to be found in my house. i'm not sure what to do about it. there are a few little buttons on the heat control panel labeled "BOOST." i pushed those, but found no change in the radiators or water temperature.

the reception desk is closed. they will be closed tomorrow as well. i am up an ice-cold river without a paddle, so to speak.

i'm telling myself that it doesn't really matter. people don't shower everyday here. it'll be fine by sunday, worst-case scenario, monday. i have blankets. i'm from chicago. cold? what is that, anyway? bah!

on a different subject, i am finding all the little differences in language charming and funny. there is cough syrup specific to "Tickly Coughs" and "Chesty Coughs." as mentioned, the "Boost" button refers to a temporary surge of power for heat or water. even the way Irish people spell and pronounce their names intrigues me. the name "Eoghan" is actually "Owen." i met another girls whose name is "Mairead" and it sounds like "parade." i think i've already mentioned the use of the word craic (sounds like 'crack,' means 'fun'), but there are a slew of other terms that i'm trying to insert in my conversation.

CLASS: as in, "that dress is class!" meaning, good, nice, well done.
PISSED: as in, "we got pissed in Galway!" meaning druuuuuunk.
DRINK LINK: is the term for an ATM. for real.
GRAND: as in, "that's simply grand(like)!" meaning, good, perfect.

those are just a few terms i've picked up so far. the Irish kids get a kick out of hearing me say, "awesome!" and "gotcha."

i just realized how cold it's gotten. i hope i don't get any tickly or chesty coughs.

The Latest in Modern Inconveniences

It has been a horribly annoying day.

It is cold here. Colder than I suspected it would be, but not as cold as Chicago. At least there's sunshine glittering off the mounds of snow in Chicago. Ain't no sunshine when she's gone, or at least in Ireland, eh?

The campus smells like crap. Literally. I'm not sure why, but there have been horses everywhere, which of course means that there is manure everywhere.

My attempts to register for modules (classes) were repeatedly thwarted by the computer system not recognizing my password or username. I asked a librarian for help, but I think librarians are required to be cranky and mean.

My ATM card said that I had insufficient funds. That is a lie. That is all manner of untrue.

I took the wrong bus into town and wound up in some strange strip mall. I walked a mile before I found my destination. I eventually purchased some much-needed groceries and hustled back to campus to make it to the UL Debate Society meeting. I waited for 45 minutes before realizing that the meeting probably wasn't happening.

It's been a stupid day. I'm hoping tomorrow is better.

the non-existent gypsy blood is pumping

Went to a housewarming party for a couple of friends. The place was gorgeous. I'm not that surprised, knowing what D and J do in their spare time. It got me thinking about homes and moving. I feel like I'm always moving.

Number of apartments I have lived in: 9 apartments in the past 7 years.
Number of apartments I left before the lease was up: 3
Number of roommates I had: 8

This is the first time I have been completely satisfied with my neighborhood, my landlord, my building, my location (in relation to my job/school), and I am going on my second year here, so WHY am I getting the urge to move AGAIN? This is a curious issue for me -- perpetually teetering on the verge of nomadic and nesting. I really enjoy change, and love the aspect of moving that requires me to purge various unnecessaries from my life, but I also really like settling into a place and making it a home. Admittedly, the urge to move has tapered off, slightly. However, all that does is remind me of the crappy quality of things I own.

When I first moved out, my mother spouted off some ill-taken words of wisdom: "If you're going to be moving a lot, invest in wicker."

I did, in fact, own some wicker furniture, which made moving in the rain, sleet and snow less hateful. But now...

That stuff is gone and I'm pondering whether or not it might be time to get some "grown-up" household items.

Why would I do that if I'm planning to move again?
Where would I move?
Will it really improve my life, having improved-quality items?
Am I succumbing to consumerism, or am I attempting to plan for my future?

If I am making attempts to plan for my future, shouldn't I know what that includes? I can measure for a new television or dresser, but I can't figure out the scale for the rest of my life right now.

The Grand Plan

I am going to Ireland, damnit. I am going to do the study abroad program and graduate in europe and stay there for however long it takes to become successful and happy. i am going to DO THIS.

for now, i have a stupid waitressing gig and an earth science class.

the road to success is paved with poop.

mouse in my shower

there was a mouse in my shower, the other day. i don't think it was a rat, but i didn't stop screeching and flailing long enough to discern one from the other. it was a rodent. not a cute top-hat-wearing-singing-dancing-possibly-cooking-French cuisine rodent. it was just plain upsetting.

the timeline of events:

i woke up around 7am and puttered about my apartment for awhile; made breakfast, checked emails, read the news, then decided i ought to shower and start my day. i walked over to my bathroom, pulled aside the shower curtain to turn on the faucet, and...

OGOD. something small, brown and furry was staring directly at me in my birthday suit. and then it began running the length of the tub, unable to climb the surface and get out. back and forth. it ran.

i screamed. then i covered myself, as if i was worried about a rodent seeing me naked. as if i was worried that it was going to run back to all of it's rodent-buddies and talk about how it saw a naked chick. i don't know what i was thinking.

apparently, i was thinking enough to grab my robe and run to the kitchen where i grabbed some TUPPERWARE. yes, tupperware. i wanted to keep the mouse as fresh as possible, after it was done showering.

i ran back to the bathroom and decided i didn't want to touch the curtain, so i climbed from my toilet to the sink and watched the tiny, frightened creature continue to run the length of the tub, until it wore itself out and stopped, panting in a corner. i felt so bad for it. except i didn't. i was scared out of my mind.

i called my building manager.

"Matt. There is a fucking MOUSE. IN. MY. SHOWER." i breathed into the phone, as quietly as possible, because, you see, i didn't want the mouse to know i was talking about it. god, panic will do some strange things to a person.

"What? A mouse? Waitaminute. Who IS this?"

"Ah. Right. Sorry. It's Shama. In 1B. With a mouse. Please come and get it. Soon."

he showed up and walked straight over to the bathroom while i cowered in the kitchen. i found an old shoebox and walked it over just in time to see Matt, framed in the doorway, wearing one shoe on his foot, clutching the other in his hand before he swung downwards. he bludgeoned the poor thing to death. i witnessed a murder.

i ran back into the kitchen, trying to breathe. i had enough wherewithal about me to write a quick email to my editor at "Conscious Choice" about why i was going to be late. as i sent the email, Matt came out, holding the shoebox and giving me a reassuring look.

"It's okay. I think it was some one's pet," he said.

Aw, crap. now i was worried about some kid's pet instead of some random pest. i cried, bleached my tub and went through the rest of my day, completely disturbed and upset.

the was a mouse in my shower. what do you DO with that?

One Year Later...

... we find our heroine sitting in her apartment, furiously pecking away at her keyboard because she still hasn't learned how to touch-type. One year later, she is still in school, pursuing her undergrad degree, although she now has a sense of urgency that never existed before her 27th birthday. She gazes around at her surroundings, fondly reminiscing about the day she moved in, one year ago.

She silently catalogs the minor shifts and changes that were never made.

"Those curtains still need to be lined."
"The front hall's closet door is still broken."
"That picture still needs to be hung."

She notes the changes that were made, and she is quietly triumphant.

"I like that new bedspread."
"Those flower boxes are nice."
"I'm so glad I changed that rug."

Minor accomplishments and small defeats color her memories from the past year of existing in this residence. She is still single and lonely. She still smokes more than she'd like to admit. She has learned more than three chords on her guitar, but she has retired the keyboard (for the time being). She has switched jobs three times and changed her name once, only to change it back, almost immediately. She has cultivated a love for cooking and cleaning, though she still loathes doing her dishes. She eats better. She laughs more. She wakes up early and remembers birthdays. She writes regularly. She hates what she writes semi-regularly. She makes attempts to get paid for writing, but she is convinced that everyone else hates what she writes also.

She has lived in this apartment for one year, today. For the moment, she is pleased with the past year and is looking forward to another. She wishes they hadn't raised the rent on her. This next year had better be worth it. She expects it will.

Guide To Laundry Room Etiquette

Don't touch my stuff. Simple. Don't take my sopping wet laundry out of the washer and place it on TOP of a filthy dryer when my EMPTY laundry basket is sitting DIRECTLY on top of the washer where my clothes were. Do not touch my underthings. That makes me feel gross and weird. If one of my socks or sweaters happens to fall onto the disgusting cement floor, where i'm sure rats fornicate, i will be upset. i will be even MORE upset when i come downstairs, after my allotted hour, to find my wet clothes sitting on a filthy dryer, and one of my socks and sweaters on the disgusting ground next to it. I don't touch your stuff. Even when you leave it in the washer or dryer for DAYS at a time. I don't touch your things because I respect your privacy and your property. You don't know me, and I don't know you, so how can we trust that our hands are clean, let alone our laundry after its been man-handled by God-Knows-Who?

DO. NOT. TOUCH. MY. LAUNDRY.

etiquette lesson OVER. harumph.