Today I committed to the one thing I've been putting off since I arrived in Ireland...
The mobile phone contract.
For the past 3 years I've been hammering away credit with my archaic, little Nokia phone that only makes and receives calls and texts. Email? Wouldn't dream of it. Applications? No way. Who needs an extra expense and 2 year commitment to a communications conglomerate? Not this gal.
My view began to change about a year and a half ago when I started working for one of the largest tech companies in the world. I would need a smart phone just to do my job. But I hesitated and powered through the lack of technology relying on other resources to assist with my daily tasks.
This whole cloud computing thing changed my mind. In order to support the people I deal with everyday, I would need to understand how the heck this all works. And I'm much more of a visual/learn by doing person than learn by reading/remembering/etc. After weighing the costs of credit vs paying a bill every month, the solution seemed simple. Buy the iPhone and sign a contract.
Well yeah I could have bought the phone outright if I had a spare 600 euro or so sitting around, but I didn't. Plus at this point in my life, I should be able to handle something like a cell phone bill. But signing a contract is a huge (ahem 2 year) commitment to a phone and to Ireland. I feel like such a grown up.
And it's so pretty. A 16 GB, iPhone 4S in white all to myself. I've been glued to it all night setting up my email, texting my friends on iMessage, playing Angry Birds, and talking to that bitch Siri. It really is a lovely little gem and I'm glad I took the plunge and finally signed away my soul to Vodafone.
Hopefully my decision will still be sound when the bill arrives.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Back to the Land of Living
Everyone will be happy to know that my dad's visit to Cork went very well, minus the torrential downpours we had on Saturday that disrupted our trip to the Cliffs of Moher.
In spite of the above, we managed to do a little sightseeing, ate some fine foods, and drank some fine drinks.
The morning dad left to return to the mother land it hit me...a dreaded relapse of the illness I had just taken a week to get over.
Normally every winter I get one bout of the plague (in addition to a sinus infection every two months) that puts me on my ass. Hopefully, this is it because man, it was rough. Headaches, a horrible cough, and extreme tiredness. Breathing hurt and staying awake was a challenge.
After about 4 visits to the doctor I am now on my second round of steroids and have a lovely, strong antibiotic to bust this thing out of me. Lovely enough, it's finally working and I get to return to work tomorrow. This is nice because daytime TV is absolutely horrendous in Ireland. I'm excited to get back to the land of the living because staying home (as nice as it seems) is just down right depressing.
The downside is, the drugs that are helping me have horrible side effects. I have a nasty taste in my mouth 24/7, anything I eat makes me feel sick and bloated, I can't sleep, I'm sweating a lot, and I'm moody. I have a whole new respect for people who are put on steroids for a long period of time. I've been on them for almost 2 weeks and I'm going crazy. I finish my dose of meds on Saturday and am looking forward to it indeed.
So no news really as I've been glued to the couch or asleep for the past 2.5 weeks. The most exciting thing that happened recently is Baxter got into the trash and ate 2 tampons. Yep, color me disgusting. He managed to purge them though (details aside) and is hopefully okay.
Aren't you happy I've left you with that lovely image?
Until next time...
In spite of the above, we managed to do a little sightseeing, ate some fine foods, and drank some fine drinks.
The morning dad left to return to the mother land it hit me...a dreaded relapse of the illness I had just taken a week to get over.
Normally every winter I get one bout of the plague (in addition to a sinus infection every two months) that puts me on my ass. Hopefully, this is it because man, it was rough. Headaches, a horrible cough, and extreme tiredness. Breathing hurt and staying awake was a challenge.
After about 4 visits to the doctor I am now on my second round of steroids and have a lovely, strong antibiotic to bust this thing out of me. Lovely enough, it's finally working and I get to return to work tomorrow. This is nice because daytime TV is absolutely horrendous in Ireland. I'm excited to get back to the land of the living because staying home (as nice as it seems) is just down right depressing.
The downside is, the drugs that are helping me have horrible side effects. I have a nasty taste in my mouth 24/7, anything I eat makes me feel sick and bloated, I can't sleep, I'm sweating a lot, and I'm moody. I have a whole new respect for people who are put on steroids for a long period of time. I've been on them for almost 2 weeks and I'm going crazy. I finish my dose of meds on Saturday and am looking forward to it indeed.
So no news really as I've been glued to the couch or asleep for the past 2.5 weeks. The most exciting thing that happened recently is Baxter got into the trash and ate 2 tampons. Yep, color me disgusting. He managed to purge them though (details aside) and is hopefully okay.
Aren't you happy I've left you with that lovely image?
Until next time...
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Yank Alert!
Tomorrow marks a very important event...
My dad is coming to Cork for a visit.
There are a few great things about this. Not only do I get to see my dad, but my dad gets to be immersed more into Irish culture now that I am living here permanently. My dad has been to Ireland a few times and knows the lay of the land pretty well, so much that you could play "Spot the Yank" and he'd blend in effortlessly (until he opens his mouth and asks for a dry martini at the local pub).
Side note: Did I mention my dad is the 62 year old version of Ron Burgandy?
Anyway, enough about my dad, and more about me. I swear I'm not shallow.
Whenever I have American visitors come to stay, I feel pressured to show them just how wonderful living in Ireland is and that they don't have to worry about me, I'm okay here. I feel the need to expose them to the wonderfulness that is Cork, in spite of the cold, rainy, and damp weather. Basically I want them to leave feeling as though they don't need to call my mother to tell her to hop on the first American Airlines flight she can find to come rescue me.
Preparations have been lagging this time around since I've been sick with the plague for about a week. Well, not the plague, but a sinus infection that's gone rogue and infected my entire respiratory system. I've been curled up with meds, my dog, a blanket, and non stop episodes of Modern Family to get me through this difficult time. After plenty of rest and fluids I'm feeling much better, minus the death rattle cough that's been lingering, but I'll live.
One American trait that I haven't been able to shake since I've arrived in Cork is my idealism and need to strive for perfection. No matter how laid back the Irish can be, my neurosis just won't allow me to stop and sniff the roses. Therefore, before a fellow American arrives (especially a parent), the following must be complete:
1) Living quarters must be spotless.
2) Living quarters must be well accessorized.
3) Car must be washed and looking as nice as possible.
4) Dog must be bathed.
5) Career plan must be formed in head and ready to discuss.
6) Sheets must be clean.
7) Living quarters must smell nice.
8) I must appear as if I really do have it all together.
Aside from having said plague this week, here are the following reasons why the above will never be completely fulfilled:
1) Living quarters must be spotless. I'm just feeling too crappy to care about this. I finally mustered up the energy to hoover the carpet and I had to take a nap for an hour afterward. In addition, Baxter keeps leaving mystery poos everywhere.
2) Living quarters must be well accessorized. I recently bought a new rug for the sitting room and a few picture frames. That will have to do. In Ireland when you rent a house/apartment/dwelling small enough to be a box, but they call it a house, the furniture is included. So are paintings, curtains, and little bits and bobs. Our landlord is a farmer and therefore, our kitchen is a scene out of a modern day Green Acres, our sitting room has sage colored sofas and pepto colored curtains, and there isn't a painting to be seen. I don't see the point in buying many decoratives if we're just going to move again. And as far as art work goes, I'd like to wait to find something worth buying.
3) Car must be washed and looking as nice as possible. I drive a 1997 polo that I bought in cash. I'm 99% sure an old lady owned it before me due to the religious paraphernalia in it and the 50 small dents along the sides. I'm totally stereotyping here, but after all, it only had 50,000 miles on it when I bought it. Just enough to drive to the local shop, bingo, and back home. In any case, no matter how much I wash that baby, it's still going to be a dented, 1997 polo.
4) Dog must be bathed. Check. I did that during my energy spurt along with the hoovering. He still hates me for it.
5) Career plan must be formed in head and ready to discuss. Check and check. Thank you work for giving me direction.
6) Sheets must be clean. Always a must. Check.
7) Living quarters must smell nice. Impossible. Our downstairs toilet has some sort of plumbing issue (it works but at random, terrible scents come from it). Thank god if you close the door, it doesn't permeate further than the hall. However, I purchased scented candles because I wanted the place to smell Autumn ish. To my demise, it is apparently very difficult to find spice scented Yankee Candles in Cork. And when one does find them, they cost a ridiculous amount to purchase. I settled for a generic cinnamon candle from the local Dunnes. It's been lit for the entire afternoon and doesn't smell like a damn thing.
8) I must appear as if I really do have it all together. Read the above. Seriously, what do you think?
I think the point beneath it all is that I experience reverse culture shock before and after an American visitor arrives. All this week I've been thinking about how small our master bedroom is. I'm nearly 27 and I still sleep in a double bed, with another person. I thought about it and my 10 year old sister's bedroom and bed is bigger than mine. But things here are smaller and we live in a duplex, not a house, so what can I expect. I shouldn't have to justify everything being different than where I'm from and I should be well accustomed to it by now, but whenever my people come, I default back to a true Yank. Bigger is better.
In spite of it all, I'm looking forward to seeing my dad. My health is nearly back to normal so I'm sure I'll be able to show him a good time.
One day I'll learn to look at all the positives instead of focusing on the negatives (that was a goal I set for myself when I was 16...look how far I got). And for now I'll focus on how lucky I am to be living my dream. No one said it would be easy!
My dad is coming to Cork for a visit.
There are a few great things about this. Not only do I get to see my dad, but my dad gets to be immersed more into Irish culture now that I am living here permanently. My dad has been to Ireland a few times and knows the lay of the land pretty well, so much that you could play "Spot the Yank" and he'd blend in effortlessly (until he opens his mouth and asks for a dry martini at the local pub).
Side note: Did I mention my dad is the 62 year old version of Ron Burgandy?
Anyway, enough about my dad, and more about me. I swear I'm not shallow.
Whenever I have American visitors come to stay, I feel pressured to show them just how wonderful living in Ireland is and that they don't have to worry about me, I'm okay here. I feel the need to expose them to the wonderfulness that is Cork, in spite of the cold, rainy, and damp weather. Basically I want them to leave feeling as though they don't need to call my mother to tell her to hop on the first American Airlines flight she can find to come rescue me.
Preparations have been lagging this time around since I've been sick with the plague for about a week. Well, not the plague, but a sinus infection that's gone rogue and infected my entire respiratory system. I've been curled up with meds, my dog, a blanket, and non stop episodes of Modern Family to get me through this difficult time. After plenty of rest and fluids I'm feeling much better, minus the death rattle cough that's been lingering, but I'll live.
One American trait that I haven't been able to shake since I've arrived in Cork is my idealism and need to strive for perfection. No matter how laid back the Irish can be, my neurosis just won't allow me to stop and sniff the roses. Therefore, before a fellow American arrives (especially a parent), the following must be complete:
1) Living quarters must be spotless.
2) Living quarters must be well accessorized.
3) Car must be washed and looking as nice as possible.
4) Dog must be bathed.
5) Career plan must be formed in head and ready to discuss.
6) Sheets must be clean.
7) Living quarters must smell nice.
8) I must appear as if I really do have it all together.
Aside from having said plague this week, here are the following reasons why the above will never be completely fulfilled:
1) Living quarters must be spotless. I'm just feeling too crappy to care about this. I finally mustered up the energy to hoover the carpet and I had to take a nap for an hour afterward. In addition, Baxter keeps leaving mystery poos everywhere.
2) Living quarters must be well accessorized. I recently bought a new rug for the sitting room and a few picture frames. That will have to do. In Ireland when you rent a house/apartment/dwelling small enough to be a box, but they call it a house, the furniture is included. So are paintings, curtains, and little bits and bobs. Our landlord is a farmer and therefore, our kitchen is a scene out of a modern day Green Acres, our sitting room has sage colored sofas and pepto colored curtains, and there isn't a painting to be seen. I don't see the point in buying many decoratives if we're just going to move again. And as far as art work goes, I'd like to wait to find something worth buying.
3) Car must be washed and looking as nice as possible. I drive a 1997 polo that I bought in cash. I'm 99% sure an old lady owned it before me due to the religious paraphernalia in it and the 50 small dents along the sides. I'm totally stereotyping here, but after all, it only had 50,000 miles on it when I bought it. Just enough to drive to the local shop, bingo, and back home. In any case, no matter how much I wash that baby, it's still going to be a dented, 1997 polo.
4) Dog must be bathed. Check. I did that during my energy spurt along with the hoovering. He still hates me for it.
5) Career plan must be formed in head and ready to discuss. Check and check. Thank you work for giving me direction.
6) Sheets must be clean. Always a must. Check.
7) Living quarters must smell nice. Impossible. Our downstairs toilet has some sort of plumbing issue (it works but at random, terrible scents come from it). Thank god if you close the door, it doesn't permeate further than the hall. However, I purchased scented candles because I wanted the place to smell Autumn ish. To my demise, it is apparently very difficult to find spice scented Yankee Candles in Cork. And when one does find them, they cost a ridiculous amount to purchase. I settled for a generic cinnamon candle from the local Dunnes. It's been lit for the entire afternoon and doesn't smell like a damn thing.
8) I must appear as if I really do have it all together. Read the above. Seriously, what do you think?
I think the point beneath it all is that I experience reverse culture shock before and after an American visitor arrives. All this week I've been thinking about how small our master bedroom is. I'm nearly 27 and I still sleep in a double bed, with another person. I thought about it and my 10 year old sister's bedroom and bed is bigger than mine. But things here are smaller and we live in a duplex, not a house, so what can I expect. I shouldn't have to justify everything being different than where I'm from and I should be well accustomed to it by now, but whenever my people come, I default back to a true Yank. Bigger is better.
In spite of it all, I'm looking forward to seeing my dad. My health is nearly back to normal so I'm sure I'll be able to show him a good time.
One day I'll learn to look at all the positives instead of focusing on the negatives (that was a goal I set for myself when I was 16...look how far I got). And for now I'll focus on how lucky I am to be living my dream. No one said it would be easy!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Meet Baxter.
Most of the people who know me, know Baxter. But for any strangers stumbling across this page, you now know him too.
Baxter is a long haired, mini dachshund and this picture of him is quite outdated. He's now almost 6 months old and losing all his baby teeth (about 1 a day). I'm such a proud parent.
The boyfriend surprised me with Baxter a few months ago out of the blue. BEST SURPRISE EVER. I came home from a grueling day at work to find a little, black ball of fur cuddled up on my sofa. He was so tiny I could nearly hold him in one hand. Now he's a lean, mean, chewing machine.
So far the most notable things he has digested are as follows:
- Earplugs ( x 4)
- An arm from his favorite chew toy
- The eyes of a stuffed pig
- The corner of the carpet in the sitting room
- His harness (he ate half. I immediately bought him another and he's not allowed near it, except on walks)
- Multiple loose teeth
- Paper...lots of paper.
Thankfully he's managed to...manage all of the above.
Baxter is currently going through a stage where he does not listen. For example, he's currently chewing on the new rug I bought as boyfriend continuously yells, "no." In these situations, he gets put on a time out (quiet time in the kitchen). I always made fun of those people who treated their dogs like children. I am slowly becoming one of them. The Jo Frost of puppies would be proud of my tactic. Maybe I should get Baxter a naughty step.
But in spite all of the chewing, being bold, and testing my patience, nothing beats coming home to a lovely little puppy every day. No matter how hard a day it is, Baxter is there to greet me with a tail wag and a lick to the face.
Boyfriend better watch out, he's got serious competition.
More to come on Baxter as the puppy rearing adventure continues!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Driving Like a Bat Out of Hell
You will all be happy to know that I am officially a vehicle owner. I'm absolutely in love with my euro car and even better, I survived the journey from Dublin to Cork when I collected her (it's for sure a she) on Friday.
I was surprised at how easy driving came to me. Granted, I've been driving since the age of 16, but the fact that it was on the other side of the road on the other side of the car really intimidated me. Our 2 night stop over in Tipperary gave me a chance to try my hand at driving on country roads. Nothing scarier than driving on a one lane road that's supposed to fit two cars in both directions. Or getting stuck behind a tractor and having to pass it when I'm afraid to go faster than 40 mph. Or better yet, praying silently that random dogs roaming the side of the road won't dodge out in front of me. Still, I managed.
Other than completely underestimating the cost of petrol (gas), I'm thrilled to be back on the road. I've been driving myself to and from work for the past few days and actually have time to get up in the morning and do things prior to leaving for work instead of rushing for the bus as soon as I hop out of bed.
Next on the list is a new job. I start next Thursday and am pretty excited about that as well. Last week I was starting to think I was coming down with a bit of Stockholm Syndrome. I was feeling really bad and scared about leaving the company I'm currently with. I started to feel very anxious about going somewhere different, learning a new product, and meeting new people. But as the start date gets closer and closer, I'm more excited to take on the new challenge. Not so excited about the commute to the new place considering I have to go through more roundabouts and drive partially through the city (ahhhh!) to get there. More to come on that!
So I did it. I always said I would be happy to live in Ireland if I could have a car and get a job here. Done and done. Don't get me wrong, I still miss home and every so often get the "WHAT ARE YOU DOING???!!" voice in my head. This week I'm bummed that my mom and 2 of my sisters are going to all be in Ohio in June without me. If I wasn't starting a new job and didn't just spend my entire bank account on a car, I may have been able to swing meeting them there. This time though I'll just have to get email and picture updates. I'll survive, but I wish I could be there.
Ok, enough sap. Bed time is swiftly approaching. Today I woke up and thought it was Wednesday. Tonight I can take comfort in the fact that when I wake up tomorrow, I'll be correct.
I was surprised at how easy driving came to me. Granted, I've been driving since the age of 16, but the fact that it was on the other side of the road on the other side of the car really intimidated me. Our 2 night stop over in Tipperary gave me a chance to try my hand at driving on country roads. Nothing scarier than driving on a one lane road that's supposed to fit two cars in both directions. Or getting stuck behind a tractor and having to pass it when I'm afraid to go faster than 40 mph. Or better yet, praying silently that random dogs roaming the side of the road won't dodge out in front of me. Still, I managed.
Other than completely underestimating the cost of petrol (gas), I'm thrilled to be back on the road. I've been driving myself to and from work for the past few days and actually have time to get up in the morning and do things prior to leaving for work instead of rushing for the bus as soon as I hop out of bed.
Next on the list is a new job. I start next Thursday and am pretty excited about that as well. Last week I was starting to think I was coming down with a bit of Stockholm Syndrome. I was feeling really bad and scared about leaving the company I'm currently with. I started to feel very anxious about going somewhere different, learning a new product, and meeting new people. But as the start date gets closer and closer, I'm more excited to take on the new challenge. Not so excited about the commute to the new place considering I have to go through more roundabouts and drive partially through the city (ahhhh!) to get there. More to come on that!
So I did it. I always said I would be happy to live in Ireland if I could have a car and get a job here. Done and done. Don't get me wrong, I still miss home and every so often get the "WHAT ARE YOU DOING???!!" voice in my head. This week I'm bummed that my mom and 2 of my sisters are going to all be in Ohio in June without me. If I wasn't starting a new job and didn't just spend my entire bank account on a car, I may have been able to swing meeting them there. This time though I'll just have to get email and picture updates. I'll survive, but I wish I could be there.
Ok, enough sap. Bed time is swiftly approaching. Today I woke up and thought it was Wednesday. Tonight I can take comfort in the fact that when I wake up tomorrow, I'll be correct.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Hit the Road Jack
After a year and a half of being without wheels here in Ireland, tomorrow marks my first day back on the road (actually, the first time being on the road in Ireland) in my first right hand drive car.
In fact, tomorrow will also mark the first time in my life I've ever purchased my own car. The other two were purchased by my father (one when I was 16 and one when I graduated college which subsequently now belongs to my sister. That's what happens when you leave the country and a brand new Honda Civic behind). So the daddy's girl act is up and here I am making my first big purchase.
Except, I would be lying if I said I bought the entire thing on me own. My current salary does not allow much wiggle room and my budget was tight. The boyfriend stepped in and helped out with a deposit and insurance. I have sworn to pay him back (most likely in installments or in home cooked meals) and boyfriend, if you're reading this, THANK YOU SO MUCH. Honestly, I think he's just as happy about this car as I am. No longer will I complain to him (and everyone I know for that matter) about how awful public transport here in Cork is and how unreliable Bus Eireann is. He can forget about ever having to wake up early to bring me to work or stay up late to collect me. And I finally have freedom of the road.
It currently takes me 2 buses and 1.5 hours to get to work. By car it only takes 15 minutes. I can't wait to not have to leave my house at 9:30 to make it in for work by 11 am. Huzzah!
So 1997 Volkswagen Polo here I come. You may be 13 years old, but I don't care. You're automatic, compact, and all mine.
The tricky part is collecting the car from Dublin. For those of you not familiar with geography in Ireland, Dublin is about a 3 hour or so drive from Cork. It's mostly motorway (aka freeway) but yours truly will be making her maiden voyage in her new Polo from Dublin. We'll most likely be making a one night pit stop in Tipperary which will nicely break up the journey, but I have to admit, I am a little nervous. The furthest I've driven in Ireland is to the shop. Which is located up the small hill from my house. It's about a 40 second drive. That's it. That's all I've done. And here I am expected to use my indicators, go through roundabouts, go above speeds of 90 kilometers an hour, and all while doing it on the opposite side of the road to what I'm used to.
Guess I have to break myself in somehow. Please pray for my safety.
So that's the big news from this side of the pond. Now it's off to snoozy dreamy land. Can't be tired for tomorrow!
In fact, tomorrow will also mark the first time in my life I've ever purchased my own car. The other two were purchased by my father (one when I was 16 and one when I graduated college which subsequently now belongs to my sister. That's what happens when you leave the country and a brand new Honda Civic behind). So the daddy's girl act is up and here I am making my first big purchase.
Except, I would be lying if I said I bought the entire thing on me own. My current salary does not allow much wiggle room and my budget was tight. The boyfriend stepped in and helped out with a deposit and insurance. I have sworn to pay him back (most likely in installments or in home cooked meals) and boyfriend, if you're reading this, THANK YOU SO MUCH. Honestly, I think he's just as happy about this car as I am. No longer will I complain to him (and everyone I know for that matter) about how awful public transport here in Cork is and how unreliable Bus Eireann is. He can forget about ever having to wake up early to bring me to work or stay up late to collect me. And I finally have freedom of the road.
It currently takes me 2 buses and 1.5 hours to get to work. By car it only takes 15 minutes. I can't wait to not have to leave my house at 9:30 to make it in for work by 11 am. Huzzah!
So 1997 Volkswagen Polo here I come. You may be 13 years old, but I don't care. You're automatic, compact, and all mine.
The tricky part is collecting the car from Dublin. For those of you not familiar with geography in Ireland, Dublin is about a 3 hour or so drive from Cork. It's mostly motorway (aka freeway) but yours truly will be making her maiden voyage in her new Polo from Dublin. We'll most likely be making a one night pit stop in Tipperary which will nicely break up the journey, but I have to admit, I am a little nervous. The furthest I've driven in Ireland is to the shop. Which is located up the small hill from my house. It's about a 40 second drive. That's it. That's all I've done. And here I am expected to use my indicators, go through roundabouts, go above speeds of 90 kilometers an hour, and all while doing it on the opposite side of the road to what I'm used to.
Guess I have to break myself in somehow. Please pray for my safety.
So that's the big news from this side of the pond. Now it's off to snoozy dreamy land. Can't be tired for tomorrow!
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Easter in Eire
Happy Easter to all of my 5 followers and random readers out there.
As I sit here nibbling on my Easter chocolate I can't help but feel fat. Well, fat and homesick. While Easter isn't the biggest holiday gathering in the Gustafson household, there is in fact a gathering. And, once again, I shall be absent for it. No Easter dinner for moi. I had a burger and chips from the local chipper for my Easter dinner. I miss my mom's cheesy gratin potatoes and the wine flowing plentifully at dad's. But alas, this is the compromise of international, independent living.
Enough woe is me talk and time get down to more interesting things. Today's topic, Good Friday and Easter in Ireland.
There's not too much to say about Easter in Ireland. I mean, it's the same religious focus throughout the world mixed in with bunnies, chicks and baby lambs. Families go to church, children have Easter egg hunts, and chocolate flows from neighborhood grocery stores like the Nile. The Monday following Easter Sunday is a bank holiday and most of us have the day off, there's one important difference, but other than that, Easter is Easter.
Good Friday however is an entirely different story. Good Friday in Ireland is essentially the one day alcohol Apocalypse and that's exactly how the Irish treat it. Being the infrequent church goer that I am (let's save the religion discussion for another day), Good Friday to me is the one day of the year when I'm not supposed to eat meat. Apparently, my parents did not raise a good Catholic, nor did I pay enough attention in Sunday school. I had chicken on Good Friday this year and felt guilty about it. But I know God loves me and won't mind a little chicken in my belly. If I'm worried about what God thinks of me eating chicken on a holy day, then I better start watching my back for the other 364 days of the year.
Moving forward...
Good Friday in Ireland is alcohol free. That's right, one day when the pubs shut their doors and the stores don' t sell booze to the inebriated inhabitants of this fine nation. It's a huge ordeal and there really is a sense of panic in the air. I was in the store on Thursday evening and as I was going in others were coming out with cases upon cases of lager in their arms stocking up as if the world was ending (come on, don't tell me you wouldn't want to have copious amounts of alcohol when the world ends). Just out of curiosity I approached the alcohol aisle to survey the damage. The vodka section was cleared out of merchandise, the beer section left only with a few lonely cans of Dutch Gold, and the wine section was barren.
Pretty crazy I must say. One day, that's all people needed to get through. One day of not being able to buy alcohol. Granted, there was one small difference this year in Ireland. There was a big rugby match on in Limerick this year. Quite the scandal to be honest. Pub owners in Limerick protested the liquor selling laws on Good Friday. After all, they would lose out on loads of business had they been required to shut their doors on Good Friday. And besides that, where would all the thirsty folks after the match congregate? So the powers that be decided to bend the laws slightly this year and allowed pubs in Limerick only to be open for a few hours for the match on Good Friday. This only meant one thing, half the population of Ireland would descend on Limerick city on April 2nd. Craziness would ensue, taps would run a plenty, as thirsty individuals stormed the streets of alcohol mecca.
I'm not sure if that's the way it went down. On Friday I was in bed by 12am watching a terrible moving starring John Travolta (if he's not in tight pants from a movie made in the 70's, I don't want to see it). But what I do know is, mayhem ensued in the booze aisle in Tesco on Thursday night and I survived it.
Now, back to this hollow, chocolate egg...
As I sit here nibbling on my Easter chocolate I can't help but feel fat. Well, fat and homesick. While Easter isn't the biggest holiday gathering in the Gustafson household, there is in fact a gathering. And, once again, I shall be absent for it. No Easter dinner for moi. I had a burger and chips from the local chipper for my Easter dinner. I miss my mom's cheesy gratin potatoes and the wine flowing plentifully at dad's. But alas, this is the compromise of international, independent living.
Enough woe is me talk and time get down to more interesting things. Today's topic, Good Friday and Easter in Ireland.
There's not too much to say about Easter in Ireland. I mean, it's the same religious focus throughout the world mixed in with bunnies, chicks and baby lambs. Families go to church, children have Easter egg hunts, and chocolate flows from neighborhood grocery stores like the Nile. The Monday following Easter Sunday is a bank holiday and most of us have the day off, there's one important difference, but other than that, Easter is Easter.
Good Friday however is an entirely different story. Good Friday in Ireland is essentially the one day alcohol Apocalypse and that's exactly how the Irish treat it. Being the infrequent church goer that I am (let's save the religion discussion for another day), Good Friday to me is the one day of the year when I'm not supposed to eat meat. Apparently, my parents did not raise a good Catholic, nor did I pay enough attention in Sunday school. I had chicken on Good Friday this year and felt guilty about it. But I know God loves me and won't mind a little chicken in my belly. If I'm worried about what God thinks of me eating chicken on a holy day, then I better start watching my back for the other 364 days of the year.
Moving forward...
Good Friday in Ireland is alcohol free. That's right, one day when the pubs shut their doors and the stores don' t sell booze to the inebriated inhabitants of this fine nation. It's a huge ordeal and there really is a sense of panic in the air. I was in the store on Thursday evening and as I was going in others were coming out with cases upon cases of lager in their arms stocking up as if the world was ending (come on, don't tell me you wouldn't want to have copious amounts of alcohol when the world ends). Just out of curiosity I approached the alcohol aisle to survey the damage. The vodka section was cleared out of merchandise, the beer section left only with a few lonely cans of Dutch Gold, and the wine section was barren.
Pretty crazy I must say. One day, that's all people needed to get through. One day of not being able to buy alcohol. Granted, there was one small difference this year in Ireland. There was a big rugby match on in Limerick this year. Quite the scandal to be honest. Pub owners in Limerick protested the liquor selling laws on Good Friday. After all, they would lose out on loads of business had they been required to shut their doors on Good Friday. And besides that, where would all the thirsty folks after the match congregate? So the powers that be decided to bend the laws slightly this year and allowed pubs in Limerick only to be open for a few hours for the match on Good Friday. This only meant one thing, half the population of Ireland would descend on Limerick city on April 2nd. Craziness would ensue, taps would run a plenty, as thirsty individuals stormed the streets of alcohol mecca.
I'm not sure if that's the way it went down. On Friday I was in bed by 12am watching a terrible moving starring John Travolta (if he's not in tight pants from a movie made in the 70's, I don't want to see it). But what I do know is, mayhem ensued in the booze aisle in Tesco on Thursday night and I survived it.
Now, back to this hollow, chocolate egg...
Monday, March 22, 2010
Abandon All Corned Beef and Cabbage Here
Lap top power adaptor...check!
Paddy's day survival...check!
Honestly, Paddy's day wasn't that much of a big deal around here this year. Nor was it last year now that I think about it. I think Americans hype it up to be a huge deal in Ireland. Sure we have our parades, our drinking, our time spent with friends, but mostly everyone looks forward to just having the day off. This year was odd considering it felt like a Sunday in the middle of the week. Mix that with crazy, day drunk Cheltenham fans and you get one beer drenched hump day.
We were very tame this year. We started the day off with a session at the gym (preemptive calorie blocker). Oh yes, we meaning the man and I. Going to the gym as a couple is a funny thing. We normally ignore each other for the hour that we're there. I don't want to see him grunting and sweating while lifting weights and he doesn't want to see me having an asthma attack on the treadmill. We go our separate ways. Him to the beefcake weight room filled with buff men in tiny shorts (it's a euro thing) and me to the girly cardio room where I pretend to work strenuously while nonetheless frequenting the bathroom every ten minutes to a) waste time and make my work out seem longer and b) to check my phone.
Ahem, sorry, tangent. Later in the afternoon we went shopping ultimately to find that most of the shops were well, closed. It was a holiday after all. I walked away with nothing (did I mention the shopping trip was for my belated birthday present?) while he hit a sale and scored a nice pair of new shoes. My bank account will thank me later. And I did get my present only a few days later. Everyone wins!
Our post shopping trip included lunch at a carvery (normally not a fan, but enjoyed this one as there was an option for a goats cheese salad) and later finally, the pub.
Ah sweet relief. We made it to the promise land of Paddy's day. The pub. The pub we went to just happened to be roasting a pig on a spit. Very Lord of the Flies, but very tasty indeed. They carved poor Porky around 9pm and gave out free pulled pork sandwiches. Forget green beer, forget shamrocks, and forget parades, when I can get a free sandwich from a pig that was roasted in front of my very eyes, I'm one happy Paddy's Day camper. I was skeptical at first, but if you don't look at the pig on the spit and just wait for when it's all cut up on the plate in front of you, you forget all about the native/barbaric pig on a rotating pole bit.
We stumbled home with full bellies and swollen livers and snoozed until morn, when we awakened to the reality that is Monday, er I mean Thursday and headed off to work with sore heads and all.
So, while Paddy's day was a semi quiet one, it was definitely a good one. And for any fellow Americans reading this I will leave you with one tip for a successful celebration next year:
It's "Paddy's Day" not "Patty's Day." Who is Patty and why does she have a day?
Slán.
Paddy's day survival...check!
Honestly, Paddy's day wasn't that much of a big deal around here this year. Nor was it last year now that I think about it. I think Americans hype it up to be a huge deal in Ireland. Sure we have our parades, our drinking, our time spent with friends, but mostly everyone looks forward to just having the day off. This year was odd considering it felt like a Sunday in the middle of the week. Mix that with crazy, day drunk Cheltenham fans and you get one beer drenched hump day.
We were very tame this year. We started the day off with a session at the gym (preemptive calorie blocker). Oh yes, we meaning the man and I. Going to the gym as a couple is a funny thing. We normally ignore each other for the hour that we're there. I don't want to see him grunting and sweating while lifting weights and he doesn't want to see me having an asthma attack on the treadmill. We go our separate ways. Him to the beefcake weight room filled with buff men in tiny shorts (it's a euro thing) and me to the girly cardio room where I pretend to work strenuously while nonetheless frequenting the bathroom every ten minutes to a) waste time and make my work out seem longer and b) to check my phone.
Ahem, sorry, tangent. Later in the afternoon we went shopping ultimately to find that most of the shops were well, closed. It was a holiday after all. I walked away with nothing (did I mention the shopping trip was for my belated birthday present?) while he hit a sale and scored a nice pair of new shoes. My bank account will thank me later. And I did get my present only a few days later. Everyone wins!
Our post shopping trip included lunch at a carvery (normally not a fan, but enjoyed this one as there was an option for a goats cheese salad) and later finally, the pub.
Ah sweet relief. We made it to the promise land of Paddy's day. The pub. The pub we went to just happened to be roasting a pig on a spit. Very Lord of the Flies, but very tasty indeed. They carved poor Porky around 9pm and gave out free pulled pork sandwiches. Forget green beer, forget shamrocks, and forget parades, when I can get a free sandwich from a pig that was roasted in front of my very eyes, I'm one happy Paddy's Day camper. I was skeptical at first, but if you don't look at the pig on the spit and just wait for when it's all cut up on the plate in front of you, you forget all about the native/barbaric pig on a rotating pole bit.
We stumbled home with full bellies and swollen livers and snoozed until morn, when we awakened to the reality that is Monday, er I mean Thursday and headed off to work with sore heads and all.
So, while Paddy's day was a semi quiet one, it was definitely a good one. And for any fellow Americans reading this I will leave you with one tip for a successful celebration next year:
It's "Paddy's Day" not "Patty's Day." Who is Patty and why does she have a day?
Slán.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Lap-topless Lament
My laptop needs to go to the hospital.
Well, not my laptop, more like my power cord. After years of being the frayed fire hazard that it is, the power adapter finally stopped working. I know you're probably thinking how stupid I am, that I'm putting myself and my housemates at risk with said frayed cord, but we have smoke detectors in every room. We'll be grand sure.
Currently I'm at the desktop. I have no bond with this computer. I miss my crappy, 5 year old monster lap top. One day we shall reunite. Hopefully this weekend when I can get to the nearest electronics store. No doubt that will take me 2 buses and a headache, but hey it will be an adventure.
Let's see. I probably shouldn't be trusted with this blog right now. I might run the risk of only complaining throughout the entire thing. Between turning 25, filing my US taxes as an expat, and dealing with my new found hatred for Cork public transport, I am not the happiest who in Whoville.
But, I'll press on. It's St. Patrick's Day on Wednesday and I have the day off. That could amount to one of two things, a beer day or a day in bed. Decisions decisions. Perhaps we combine the two? Yes? No?
More on that come Wednesday...
Well, not my laptop, more like my power cord. After years of being the frayed fire hazard that it is, the power adapter finally stopped working. I know you're probably thinking how stupid I am, that I'm putting myself and my housemates at risk with said frayed cord, but we have smoke detectors in every room. We'll be grand sure.
Currently I'm at the desktop. I have no bond with this computer. I miss my crappy, 5 year old monster lap top. One day we shall reunite. Hopefully this weekend when I can get to the nearest electronics store. No doubt that will take me 2 buses and a headache, but hey it will be an adventure.
Let's see. I probably shouldn't be trusted with this blog right now. I might run the risk of only complaining throughout the entire thing. Between turning 25, filing my US taxes as an expat, and dealing with my new found hatred for Cork public transport, I am not the happiest who in Whoville.
But, I'll press on. It's St. Patrick's Day on Wednesday and I have the day off. That could amount to one of two things, a beer day or a day in bed. Decisions decisions. Perhaps we combine the two? Yes? No?
More on that come Wednesday...
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Bitch is Back
Well, well, well. Look who it is...me!
It's no lie, I'm horrible at committing to my blogs. But I feel a change in the air. No time like the present to make that leap. So here I go.
I miss writing. Not to mention, I've been holed up in my sitting room all week with a terrible dose of tonsillitis. I don't know how much more daytime television I can handle.
So, it's been a year since I've touched this thing and a lot has happened in a year. I found a big girl job (sort of) and am still living in Cork. I've managed to blend in well here and have settled in to a new group of friends. I've got favorite coffee places, favorite shops, a regular hairdresser, a G.P., a bus pass. Look at me go! Cork is really starting to feel like a second home and I enjoy my life here. However, I do have my days and nevertheless, cultural differences to still gripe about at times. But for the most part, it's all good. The current goal is to buy a car and once that happens, there's no stopping me.
Considering I've spent the last week under a quilt on my sofa up to my ears in used Kleenex, there's not much to write about at this time. Unless you'd like me to describe how swollen my tonsils are. However, the biggest headline in the news of my life is that I turn 25 on Saturday. DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNNNN. That officially puts me in my mid twenties. I've been sort of dreading this for the past few months. I was planning to combat it with copious amounts of vodka come Saturday, however, Mr. Tonsillitis and my Augmentin Duo prescription put a firm halt to that one. I shall just have to improvise.
So my friends, I promise to update more. To be continued. I shall keep you posted.
It's no lie, I'm horrible at committing to my blogs. But I feel a change in the air. No time like the present to make that leap. So here I go.
I miss writing. Not to mention, I've been holed up in my sitting room all week with a terrible dose of tonsillitis. I don't know how much more daytime television I can handle.
So, it's been a year since I've touched this thing and a lot has happened in a year. I found a big girl job (sort of) and am still living in Cork. I've managed to blend in well here and have settled in to a new group of friends. I've got favorite coffee places, favorite shops, a regular hairdresser, a G.P., a bus pass. Look at me go! Cork is really starting to feel like a second home and I enjoy my life here. However, I do have my days and nevertheless, cultural differences to still gripe about at times. But for the most part, it's all good. The current goal is to buy a car and once that happens, there's no stopping me.
Considering I've spent the last week under a quilt on my sofa up to my ears in used Kleenex, there's not much to write about at this time. Unless you'd like me to describe how swollen my tonsils are. However, the biggest headline in the news of my life is that I turn 25 on Saturday. DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNNNN. That officially puts me in my mid twenties. I've been sort of dreading this for the past few months. I was planning to combat it with copious amounts of vodka come Saturday, however, Mr. Tonsillitis and my Augmentin Duo prescription put a firm halt to that one. I shall just have to improvise.
So my friends, I promise to update more. To be continued. I shall keep you posted.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Pancake Tuesday
Blogging at last, blogging at last. Thank God almighty, I'm blogging at last!
It feels like it's been forever since I updated this little ditty. But you know what I've come to realize? Blogging is hard sometimes. Writers block does indeed exist. And sadly, recently inspiration only comes to me in the forms of my morning shower, as I'm falling asleep at night, or when I'm buzzed from one and one half glasses of wine. So unless I want to combat this with writing my ideas on the shower wall with shaving gel or by carrying a notepad around with me to the pub (which most likely I would have to tie around my neck as to avoid losing it from drunkenness and risk looking like a total loony) then it looks like I'm stuck to writing an entry when it's just plain convenient. Or, when I've checked my facebook at least 10 times in one hour and have run out of things to browse on the Internet.
Here is a bit of trivia for all of you. Tomorrow is Tuesday here in Ireland as it is in most places of the world (unless you're in China or something, and it's already Tuesday there and therefore, tomorrow is Wednesday, right?). But this Tuesday is much different than all of the other Tuesdays that have come before it this year. Here in the Republic of Ireland and the UK tomorrow is "Shrove Tuesday" or "Pancake Tuesday."
Funny how this day should come up after I composed my post about Irish breakfast cuisine.
If I knew that Pancake Tuesday existed a month or so ago, I would have without a doubt included it as a topic in my breakfast post.
Honestly, I haven't got a a clue what the story behind Pancake Tuesday is. And quite frankly, some of the Irish don't as well (hey at least I fit in there!). So in my curiosity I turned to the all knowing (whether it be fabricated or embellished a bit, who cares?) website that is wikipedia. I began reading through the web page and got to the second paragraph and then began skimming. I saw the words "protestant" and "Fat Tuesday in the U.S.A." and stopped there. Most likely because I'm convinced that I have some form of adult A.D.D. Anyway, I gathered that Pancake Tuesday probably has something to do with lent and religion and sins and all that jazz. Right? I don't know, go look it up.
In any case, the good news for me is that pancake mix DOES exist in Ireland! And they have many styles including crepes or American style pancake mix. I picture these American style pancakes to be 3 inches thick and at least 1,000 calories per flapjack. To top it off, each one has been diagnosed with heart disease and high cholesterol. What, that doesn't sound like the picture of American pancake health to you?
In addition, apparently there are different ways to dress your pancakes on Pancake Tuesday. No, I do not mean in pancake Jimmy Choos. I told my friends my favorite way to eat pancakes is with butter and a little maple syrup. I also explained that I liked bananas in my pancakes. You know, the classic banana pancakes. They looked at me and explained that syrup was strictly reserved for American pancakes and then proceeded to ask me if I like to have my pancakes with "feckin ice cream and sugar." I guess they have a point. So, if pancakes here aren't matched with syrup, then what the hell do you put on them? Apparently lemon and sugar is popular as well as nutella. I also read in a magazine this past Sunday about a recipe for savory pancakes which included crepes stuffed with onion, sage, thyme and other things I don't know how to prepare.
So, apparently I can't get my pancakes and syrup for breakfast anywhere...still. But I can get mix to make them at home when I want to. And better yet, I can get them once a year with cheddar cheese, garlic chutney, and roasted red pepper to obtain absolution for my sins . No thanks, I'll hold out for my visits back home to the local IHOP.
I asked Darren yesterday if he wanted to have pancakes for pancake Tuesday in which he hastily replied, "hell no." We did our weekly shopping tonight and purchased all the makings for spaghetti bolognese for tomorrow night's dinner. It's spag bol Tuesday at our place tomorrow. Who needs fancy pancakes anyway?
It feels like it's been forever since I updated this little ditty. But you know what I've come to realize? Blogging is hard sometimes. Writers block does indeed exist. And sadly, recently inspiration only comes to me in the forms of my morning shower, as I'm falling asleep at night, or when I'm buzzed from one and one half glasses of wine. So unless I want to combat this with writing my ideas on the shower wall with shaving gel or by carrying a notepad around with me to the pub (which most likely I would have to tie around my neck as to avoid losing it from drunkenness and risk looking like a total loony) then it looks like I'm stuck to writing an entry when it's just plain convenient. Or, when I've checked my facebook at least 10 times in one hour and have run out of things to browse on the Internet.
Here is a bit of trivia for all of you. Tomorrow is Tuesday here in Ireland as it is in most places of the world (unless you're in China or something, and it's already Tuesday there and therefore, tomorrow is Wednesday, right?). But this Tuesday is much different than all of the other Tuesdays that have come before it this year. Here in the Republic of Ireland and the UK tomorrow is "Shrove Tuesday" or "Pancake Tuesday."
Funny how this day should come up after I composed my post about Irish breakfast cuisine.
If I knew that Pancake Tuesday existed a month or so ago, I would have without a doubt included it as a topic in my breakfast post.
Honestly, I haven't got a a clue what the story behind Pancake Tuesday is. And quite frankly, some of the Irish don't as well (hey at least I fit in there!). So in my curiosity I turned to the all knowing (whether it be fabricated or embellished a bit, who cares?) website that is wikipedia. I began reading through the web page and got to the second paragraph and then began skimming. I saw the words "protestant" and "Fat Tuesday in the U.S.A." and stopped there. Most likely because I'm convinced that I have some form of adult A.D.D. Anyway, I gathered that Pancake Tuesday probably has something to do with lent and religion and sins and all that jazz. Right? I don't know, go look it up.
In any case, the good news for me is that pancake mix DOES exist in Ireland! And they have many styles including crepes or American style pancake mix. I picture these American style pancakes to be 3 inches thick and at least 1,000 calories per flapjack. To top it off, each one has been diagnosed with heart disease and high cholesterol. What, that doesn't sound like the picture of American pancake health to you?
In addition, apparently there are different ways to dress your pancakes on Pancake Tuesday. No, I do not mean in pancake Jimmy Choos. I told my friends my favorite way to eat pancakes is with butter and a little maple syrup. I also explained that I liked bananas in my pancakes. You know, the classic banana pancakes. They looked at me and explained that syrup was strictly reserved for American pancakes and then proceeded to ask me if I like to have my pancakes with "feckin ice cream and sugar." I guess they have a point. So, if pancakes here aren't matched with syrup, then what the hell do you put on them? Apparently lemon and sugar is popular as well as nutella. I also read in a magazine this past Sunday about a recipe for savory pancakes which included crepes stuffed with onion, sage, thyme and other things I don't know how to prepare.
So, apparently I can't get my pancakes and syrup for breakfast anywhere...still. But I can get mix to make them at home when I want to. And better yet, I can get them once a year with cheddar cheese, garlic chutney, and roasted red pepper to obtain absolution for my sins . No thanks, I'll hold out for my visits back home to the local IHOP.
I asked Darren yesterday if he wanted to have pancakes for pancake Tuesday in which he hastily replied, "hell no." We did our weekly shopping tonight and purchased all the makings for spaghetti bolognese for tomorrow night's dinner. It's spag bol Tuesday at our place tomorrow. Who needs fancy pancakes anyway?
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Habla el Irish?
As my assimilation into Irish culture continues (for the long term that is), I find that I'm experiencing "what the hell?" moments less and less. Great for the adjustment process, bad for the blog.
I find myself using Irish terminology way more than its American counterparts. It's much easier to converse with my Irish friends and pseudo family when I use their words. While I feel like I'm sort of losing my American vocab and sort of selling out, it's also kind of fun to stop and notice myself speaking like everyone else here. Don't worry, there is no accent yet. At times, I can hear myself picking it up and when that happens, I try to compensate by sounding REALLY American.
Anyway, I just wanted to share with you some of the words that have recently entered my vocabulary. And if I'm not saying them yet, I'm sure I will be soon.
Examples:
1. Bin. A bin is a trash can. Don't forget to bring the bins up every week for the rubbish collection.
2. Rubbish. Normally, I'd say "trash" back home in the states.
3. Cinema. It's Friday night and there's not much going on. Back in America I would call my friends and say "hey do you want to go to the movies?" Here it's, the "cinema."
4. Film. If you saw a trailer on t.v. during an average commercial break, you might find yourself leaning over to your lover and saying, "that movie looks great." Would this happen in Ireland? No. Here you'd find yourself saying "I want to see that film." Please note that "film" is pronounced "fil-im."
5. Holiday. This is equal to the word "vacation." Madonna knew that one. Do you?
6. Tele. This is a word that I often use over here. For example, as I'm writing this I have the tele turned on for background noise. Did you figure it out yet? "Tele" is the same thing as "T.V."
7. Nappy. I don't understand this one and in fact, I still feel a little silly when I say the word "nappy." We call it a "diaper" in America. It's so much more official sounding in America. I wonder where "nappy" came from.
8. Buggy. This is the same as a stroller.
9. Boot. Your spare tire is not in the "trunk" it's in the boot.
10. There is no word equivalent to "freeway" and I find that annoying.
11. It's not a "cell phone" in Ireland. It's a "mobile."
12. Yesterday I called the two stands next to our bed "night stands" Darren corrected me and told me they were "bed side lockers."
13. During the holiday season, all I heard was "Santy! Santy Claus. What is Santy bringing you?" I'm sorry, when did we drop the last "a" off Santa and add a "y"?
14. In addition to the above, I also heard "Did you get me a pressie?" No, but I bought you a "present."
15. The word "pet" is often used as a term of endearment. Hmm...
16. If you'd like a towel for your shower, you can find one in the "press." Not the hall closet or the cabinet, the "press."
17. Immersion. Everyone should you tube Des Bishop and watch his comedy sketch on this topic. It's hilarious! You see, in older homes in Ireland (and some newer ones) you basically have to flip a switch in the "hot water press" to have hot water when you shower. Our house is not like this, but Darren grew up in a house like this. Basically they tell you to "turn on the immersion." Can you imagine being here for the first time and having someone tell you this?
18. "Cot" is the same as "bed."
19. A "jumper" is the same as a "sweater" and a "hoodie" is what the Irish call a hooded sweatshirt.
20. Excuse me but where is the bathroom? I'm not sure what you're talking about because here we say "the toilet." So literal. Way to go Ireland.
So there are 20 new words that you can all add to your vocabulary! I hope you all found this entry educational.
I find myself using Irish terminology way more than its American counterparts. It's much easier to converse with my Irish friends and pseudo family when I use their words. While I feel like I'm sort of losing my American vocab and sort of selling out, it's also kind of fun to stop and notice myself speaking like everyone else here. Don't worry, there is no accent yet. At times, I can hear myself picking it up and when that happens, I try to compensate by sounding REALLY American.
Anyway, I just wanted to share with you some of the words that have recently entered my vocabulary. And if I'm not saying them yet, I'm sure I will be soon.
Examples:
1. Bin. A bin is a trash can. Don't forget to bring the bins up every week for the rubbish collection.
2. Rubbish. Normally, I'd say "trash" back home in the states.
3. Cinema. It's Friday night and there's not much going on. Back in America I would call my friends and say "hey do you want to go to the movies?" Here it's, the "cinema."
4. Film. If you saw a trailer on t.v. during an average commercial break, you might find yourself leaning over to your lover and saying, "that movie looks great." Would this happen in Ireland? No. Here you'd find yourself saying "I want to see that film." Please note that "film" is pronounced "fil-im."
5. Holiday. This is equal to the word "vacation." Madonna knew that one. Do you?
6. Tele. This is a word that I often use over here. For example, as I'm writing this I have the tele turned on for background noise. Did you figure it out yet? "Tele" is the same thing as "T.V."
7. Nappy. I don't understand this one and in fact, I still feel a little silly when I say the word "nappy." We call it a "diaper" in America. It's so much more official sounding in America. I wonder where "nappy" came from.
8. Buggy. This is the same as a stroller.
9. Boot. Your spare tire is not in the "trunk" it's in the boot.
10. There is no word equivalent to "freeway" and I find that annoying.
11. It's not a "cell phone" in Ireland. It's a "mobile."
12. Yesterday I called the two stands next to our bed "night stands" Darren corrected me and told me they were "bed side lockers."
13. During the holiday season, all I heard was "Santy! Santy Claus. What is Santy bringing you?" I'm sorry, when did we drop the last "a" off Santa and add a "y"?
14. In addition to the above, I also heard "Did you get me a pressie?" No, but I bought you a "present."
15. The word "pet" is often used as a term of endearment. Hmm...
16. If you'd like a towel for your shower, you can find one in the "press." Not the hall closet or the cabinet, the "press."
17. Immersion. Everyone should you tube Des Bishop and watch his comedy sketch on this topic. It's hilarious! You see, in older homes in Ireland (and some newer ones) you basically have to flip a switch in the "hot water press" to have hot water when you shower. Our house is not like this, but Darren grew up in a house like this. Basically they tell you to "turn on the immersion." Can you imagine being here for the first time and having someone tell you this?
18. "Cot" is the same as "bed."
19. A "jumper" is the same as a "sweater" and a "hoodie" is what the Irish call a hooded sweatshirt.
20. Excuse me but where is the bathroom? I'm not sure what you're talking about because here we say "the toilet." So literal. Way to go Ireland.
So there are 20 new words that you can all add to your vocabulary! I hope you all found this entry educational.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Breakfast of Champions
Many studies have established that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It's what gives us that extra boost in the morning and prepares us to take charge and seize the day. Personally, I always thought a double shot from Starbuck's could do the same thing in a more compact and convenient form. Granted, like an infant, when I fail to eat breakfast I get very cranky. Therefore, those scientists must know what they're talking about.
My breakfast in America consisted mainly of me scarfing down a piece of toast or a bagel in my cubicle while checking a plethora of morning voice mails left by angry claimants. That's a pretty positive way to start the day, no?
But weekend breakfasts are much different than the daily kind. Weekend breakfasts are a time for socializing, treating oneself, or hoping that copious amounts of food will cure one's post Friday night binge drinking hangover.
In college my friends and I would frequently wake up after a night of painting the town red, roll out of bed, and stumble to a place where the syrup flows like the amazon, where bacon and eggs come out hot on your plate in less than 20 minutes, where angels sing "rooty tooty fresh and fruity" from the depths of their souls...a place called the International House of Pancakes.
Ah, IHOP an American institution attempting to spread culture to bargain hunters of all ages. Where else can you get pancakes in different styles derived from 3 european countries? So what if the only thing that makes each pancake (actually, more like crepes) different is the type of berry or nutella they're served with?
What I'm getting at is IHOP or any other American breakfast chain (or non chain for that matter) serves the following staples in a weekend brunch or breakfast: pancakes, waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage, omlettes, french toast, breakfast burrito (for most border states), juevos rancheros (oh how I miss thee), eggs benedict, fruit bowl, oatmeal, cereal, bagel with cream cheese, and lox and bagels. You get the picture.
We indulge in these delicious breakfast staples and truly take the variety offered to us in America for granted.
In Ireland, I frequently crave the delicious taste of fluffy, buttermilk pancakes. I miss the comforting feeling of warm, maple syrup. I try to fill the void that has been left by the lack of Bisquick in Ireland as I am forced to eat this for breakfast:
Behold, the full Irish breakfast. The answer to a hungry farmer's prayers on a Sunday morning. The cure of all hungry Irish bellies. The girl next door of breakfasts.
Basically a full Irish breakfast cosists of the following: Eggs, toast, rashers (I still don't really know what part of the pig this comes from), sausage, black pudding, white pudding, baked beans, and a grilled (um..I think?) tomato. Sometimes you'll find it varied and including mushrooms and chips (that's fries to my fellow yanks). And to spice it up even more, many people dip the goods in brown sauce (I still haven't found an American comparison. Think A1 steak sauce but thicker and less tangy).
I think the goal of the full Irish is to see how many different forms of pork can be crammed onto a plate. Excuse me, would you like a side of breakfast with your helping of pig?
I can kiss the days of sweet breakfast foods good bye and in turn, welcome with open arms my future of savory only breakfasts. But pudding is sweet, you argue. WRONG! In Ireland, pudding is pork meat and fat mixed with bread, spices, and oatmeal. There are two forms, black pudding and white pudding. The only difference is that black pudding has blood in it. Mmm...yummy, right? I'm sure you'd trade your Denver omlette for some bloody poser sausage any day right?
But, when in Rome as they say. I've adapted quite well to the full Irish breakfast. I just leave a few items out, like the black pudding and most of the baked beans (baked beans are reserved for the Fourth of July and can only be eaten if made by either my mother or my best friend's mother in my opinion).
Last weekend we were at a restaurant for brunch when alas, I spoted on the menu (dun dun dun) a belgian waffle! My tastebuds nearly jumped off my tounge as they danced in a triumph. As I read the description I noticed that the waffles were served with ice cream. No thank you. A) I'm no longer 5 years old and B) I asked for brunch, not dessert. I settled for a breakfast ciabatta because a) it was different than the full Irish breakfast and B) ciabatta just sounded exotic. Believe me, it is compared to traditional Irish food. Hell, Tabasco or cilantro or puree are words that just sound so pretty to me lately.
So the bottom line is, breakfast in Ireland is boring. Hands down, it just is. Ireland is great at many other things, but I truly think the ball was dropped on breakfast. Literally, that's probably what happened.
So please if you're feeling generous, send over a box of Bisquick. Hopefully the postal service won't mistake it for some kind of powdered, illegal substance or Anthrax. In the meantime, I'll be on the hunt for a waffle maker.
My breakfast in America consisted mainly of me scarfing down a piece of toast or a bagel in my cubicle while checking a plethora of morning voice mails left by angry claimants. That's a pretty positive way to start the day, no?
But weekend breakfasts are much different than the daily kind. Weekend breakfasts are a time for socializing, treating oneself, or hoping that copious amounts of food will cure one's post Friday night binge drinking hangover.
In college my friends and I would frequently wake up after a night of painting the town red, roll out of bed, and stumble to a place where the syrup flows like the amazon, where bacon and eggs come out hot on your plate in less than 20 minutes, where angels sing "rooty tooty fresh and fruity" from the depths of their souls...a place called the International House of Pancakes.
Ah, IHOP an American institution attempting to spread culture to bargain hunters of all ages. Where else can you get pancakes in different styles derived from 3 european countries? So what if the only thing that makes each pancake (actually, more like crepes) different is the type of berry or nutella they're served with?
What I'm getting at is IHOP or any other American breakfast chain (or non chain for that matter) serves the following staples in a weekend brunch or breakfast: pancakes, waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage, omlettes, french toast, breakfast burrito (for most border states), juevos rancheros (oh how I miss thee), eggs benedict, fruit bowl, oatmeal, cereal, bagel with cream cheese, and lox and bagels. You get the picture.
We indulge in these delicious breakfast staples and truly take the variety offered to us in America for granted.
In Ireland, I frequently crave the delicious taste of fluffy, buttermilk pancakes. I miss the comforting feeling of warm, maple syrup. I try to fill the void that has been left by the lack of Bisquick in Ireland as I am forced to eat this for breakfast:
Behold, the full Irish breakfast. The answer to a hungry farmer's prayers on a Sunday morning. The cure of all hungry Irish bellies. The girl next door of breakfasts.
Basically a full Irish breakfast cosists of the following: Eggs, toast, rashers (I still don't really know what part of the pig this comes from), sausage, black pudding, white pudding, baked beans, and a grilled (um..I think?) tomato. Sometimes you'll find it varied and including mushrooms and chips (that's fries to my fellow yanks). And to spice it up even more, many people dip the goods in brown sauce (I still haven't found an American comparison. Think A1 steak sauce but thicker and less tangy).
I think the goal of the full Irish is to see how many different forms of pork can be crammed onto a plate. Excuse me, would you like a side of breakfast with your helping of pig?
I can kiss the days of sweet breakfast foods good bye and in turn, welcome with open arms my future of savory only breakfasts. But pudding is sweet, you argue. WRONG! In Ireland, pudding is pork meat and fat mixed with bread, spices, and oatmeal. There are two forms, black pudding and white pudding. The only difference is that black pudding has blood in it. Mmm...yummy, right? I'm sure you'd trade your Denver omlette for some bloody poser sausage any day right?
But, when in Rome as they say. I've adapted quite well to the full Irish breakfast. I just leave a few items out, like the black pudding and most of the baked beans (baked beans are reserved for the Fourth of July and can only be eaten if made by either my mother or my best friend's mother in my opinion).
Last weekend we were at a restaurant for brunch when alas, I spoted on the menu (dun dun dun) a belgian waffle! My tastebuds nearly jumped off my tounge as they danced in a triumph. As I read the description I noticed that the waffles were served with ice cream. No thank you. A) I'm no longer 5 years old and B) I asked for brunch, not dessert. I settled for a breakfast ciabatta because a) it was different than the full Irish breakfast and B) ciabatta just sounded exotic. Believe me, it is compared to traditional Irish food. Hell, Tabasco or cilantro or puree are words that just sound so pretty to me lately.
So the bottom line is, breakfast in Ireland is boring. Hands down, it just is. Ireland is great at many other things, but I truly think the ball was dropped on breakfast. Literally, that's probably what happened.
So please if you're feeling generous, send over a box of Bisquick. Hopefully the postal service won't mistake it for some kind of powdered, illegal substance or Anthrax. In the meantime, I'll be on the hunt for a waffle maker.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Intro
For those of you who know me, I'm back in Ireland for the fifth time and have been living here since September, 2008. The only difference is that this time, I have no return ticket home.
For those of you who do not know me, let me give you the back story. Buying a one way ticket to a foreign country may seem quite adventurous and daring, but let's just say I've been easing myself (and my friends and family) into this idea for quite some time.
My first Irish adventure began in 2005 when I studied abroad for a semester in college at the University of Limerick. Four glorious months as a visitor in Ireland brought me the following: friends and acquaintances from around the world, an addiction to European chocolate, a fondness for tea with milk, and most likely an onset to cirrhosis of the liver. But the most valuable thing I walked away with (well, more like sat away with...if you think about it, I was sitting on a plane bound for Los Angeles for 10 hours) from Ireland was my boyfriend, Darren.
Of course leave it to me to fall in love with someone who lives half way around the world from my home. Someone who's accent is so strong, after three years together I still have to ask him to repeat himself on a daily basis. Someone who puts butter on his sandwiches in addition to mayonnaise (an Irish thing, I'm sure I'll get into it at some post). And someone who pronounces the word "three" as "tree" (yet another norm for the Irish).
In any case, as I subtly mentioned above, our relationship managed to survive 2.5 ish years of long distance. Darren spent a summer in California as I in turn spent one in Ireland. Mixed in with those two summer stays were a couple of winter and spring ones here and there as well. With the long breaks that college offered, it was easy to make transatlantic trips for extended periods of time. Plus, airfare was pretty reasonable as this was prior to the global recession and the whole world going tits up thing.
Eventually, I decided to take a transition job at an international Disability Insurance company after college. I got an apartment in Burbank with 2 former Chapman University students and lived up the glamorous southern California lifestyle. That is, if you call driving a 2007 Honda civic and frequently ordering take away at my neighborhood sushi restaurant so that I could catch up on my tivo-ed episodes of "Rock of Love" glamorous. But something was always missing and I often times wondered what life would be like if I actually moved to Ireland for more than a 4 month period of time.
As I sat behind my desk in my cubicle working for the man (at a painfully decent salary that sadly, I miss) I realized that it was now or never. I was technically still in my early twenties and therefore, had some time to spare to make drastic, impulsive, and life altering (side bar: is it just me or are the terms life altering and life threatening really similar?) decisions. After consulting with Darren, my family, and friends, I purchased a one way ticket to Cork, Ireland and have been here ever since. Currently, I'm going on month 4 and so far, am happy with my decision.
But being happy with my decision does not mean there aren't bumps along the way in this journey. No matter how many times I come to Ireland, my transition is always a long and continuous process. For a country that some people call America's 51st state (just because it's westernized? I don't know) its differences to America outweigh it's similarities.
So that is what this blog is about. The bumps along the way. The story of a yank in Ireland. I figured it's a) much easier than emailing people monthly updates and b) something I can do before work in the morning. Plus, perhaps my inter-cultural mishaps may prove to be entertaining and hey, maybe everyone will gain a little more knowledge about the Irish along the way. Contrary to the stereotype, they're not all bar fighting, beer guzzling, jigging leprechauns.
My new year's resolution, well one of the 10 plus, is to update this blog frequently and to keep with it. So go ahead, be daring and add it to your favorites. Forward it to those you think will be interested in hearing about a life abroad. Enjoy it while you sip your morning cup of java. Or indulge while your boss thinks you're drafting the morning report, assisting that client on the phone, or finalizing tomorrow's proposal. Hopefully management hasn't advised the IT department to block blogspot yet.
Ready, one, two, three...go!
For those of you who do not know me, let me give you the back story. Buying a one way ticket to a foreign country may seem quite adventurous and daring, but let's just say I've been easing myself (and my friends and family) into this idea for quite some time.
My first Irish adventure began in 2005 when I studied abroad for a semester in college at the University of Limerick. Four glorious months as a visitor in Ireland brought me the following: friends and acquaintances from around the world, an addiction to European chocolate, a fondness for tea with milk, and most likely an onset to cirrhosis of the liver. But the most valuable thing I walked away with (well, more like sat away with...if you think about it, I was sitting on a plane bound for Los Angeles for 10 hours) from Ireland was my boyfriend, Darren.
Of course leave it to me to fall in love with someone who lives half way around the world from my home. Someone who's accent is so strong, after three years together I still have to ask him to repeat himself on a daily basis. Someone who puts butter on his sandwiches in addition to mayonnaise (an Irish thing, I'm sure I'll get into it at some post). And someone who pronounces the word "three" as "tree" (yet another norm for the Irish).
In any case, as I subtly mentioned above, our relationship managed to survive 2.5 ish years of long distance. Darren spent a summer in California as I in turn spent one in Ireland. Mixed in with those two summer stays were a couple of winter and spring ones here and there as well. With the long breaks that college offered, it was easy to make transatlantic trips for extended periods of time. Plus, airfare was pretty reasonable as this was prior to the global recession and the whole world going tits up thing.
Eventually, I decided to take a transition job at an international Disability Insurance company after college. I got an apartment in Burbank with 2 former Chapman University students and lived up the glamorous southern California lifestyle. That is, if you call driving a 2007 Honda civic and frequently ordering take away at my neighborhood sushi restaurant so that I could catch up on my tivo-ed episodes of "Rock of Love" glamorous. But something was always missing and I often times wondered what life would be like if I actually moved to Ireland for more than a 4 month period of time.
As I sat behind my desk in my cubicle working for the man (at a painfully decent salary that sadly, I miss) I realized that it was now or never. I was technically still in my early twenties and therefore, had some time to spare to make drastic, impulsive, and life altering (side bar: is it just me or are the terms life altering and life threatening really similar?) decisions. After consulting with Darren, my family, and friends, I purchased a one way ticket to Cork, Ireland and have been here ever since. Currently, I'm going on month 4 and so far, am happy with my decision.
But being happy with my decision does not mean there aren't bumps along the way in this journey. No matter how many times I come to Ireland, my transition is always a long and continuous process. For a country that some people call America's 51st state (just because it's westernized? I don't know) its differences to America outweigh it's similarities.
So that is what this blog is about. The bumps along the way. The story of a yank in Ireland. I figured it's a) much easier than emailing people monthly updates and b) something I can do before work in the morning. Plus, perhaps my inter-cultural mishaps may prove to be entertaining and hey, maybe everyone will gain a little more knowledge about the Irish along the way. Contrary to the stereotype, they're not all bar fighting, beer guzzling, jigging leprechauns.
My new year's resolution, well one of the 10 plus, is to update this blog frequently and to keep with it. So go ahead, be daring and add it to your favorites. Forward it to those you think will be interested in hearing about a life abroad. Enjoy it while you sip your morning cup of java. Or indulge while your boss thinks you're drafting the morning report, assisting that client on the phone, or finalizing tomorrow's proposal. Hopefully management hasn't advised the IT department to block blogspot yet.
Ready, one, two, three...go!
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