Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

I Live in a Sorority House… and it’s full of idiots.

I’m not a passive aggressive person. I’m not even an “aggressive-aggressive” person. I’m generally a, “let’s not piss each other off,” person, and I lean toward the “let’s all order pizza, hang out on the couch, and watch some bad movies” kinda gal.

I’d like to think I’m zen about life, but mostly, I’m just lazy. And getting all stabby means I have to get up from my chair.

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*tl;dr*

So, I think we can all be a LITTLE impressed with me, when, upon first moving in to our lovely new apartment, I went straight to the neighbors downstairs and said, “Hi! We’re new, and we have a small child. I really want us all to get along, so if there’s ever ANYTHING that concerns you, please feel free to talk to me.” I EVEN CHECKED IN WITH THEM. AND I WAS NICE. One might even use the word “charming!” It would be ill-advised, but one could!

Anyway, then, a few weeks after that, they wrote us this nasty letter saying that we shouldn’t let our son play in the communal courtyard, because that’s right near their bedrooms, and we should know better. Let’s all take a minute and reread that phrase. Did you see the word “communal” in there? YES, BITCH. That means *I* pay for the space, just like you do. But, since I’m on this “charming” kick, I won’t let our Max play out there, because I am a nice person. And also, my husband hid all the knives.

Then, on Wednesday night, they were playing their music extra loud. And it was that BAD music. Like, euro-trash, disco-sweat, gonna-wear-a-speedo-to-the-beach, whatever-nonsense… but I let it slide, because the husband and I were able to fall asleep, so ok. Then…. THURSDAY NIGHT COMES ALONG. That music is now SO LOUD, my floor is vibrating with the bass. So, the hubs and I put the wee one to bed, strap on our big kid trousers, and go downstairs. Now, we had waited a while, because we remember what it was like to not have offspring and have lives.

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*this looks correct*

…so we didn’t want to be the assholes who go downstairs at 9pm, and tell the whipper snappers to turn it down. BUT WHEN 12-FUCKING-30 ROLLS AROUND, YOUR ASS IS MINE.

We go downstairs, and I knock. I knock again. Now I THUD on the door, because I KNOW your ass is in there, you passive aggressive little shits. Well, they turn off the music and all their lights, and don’t answer the door.

So, since they started this silly note-writing-thingy, I write a note and POLITELY ask them not to play their music so loud past 10pm. That seems fair.

And now I got some crazy ass ranting note BACK from them. We gave it to our landlord. They’re mad because it’s a “circus” up here, what with all the walking we do on our floors. And also because our son cries sometimes at night.

Hey, you know who hates it when our son cries at 2am? ME, MOTHERFUCKER. I FUCKING HATE IT. I HAVE TO GET UP, SOOTHE HIM, GET HIM BACK TO SLEEP…. YOU GET TO STAY IN YOUR NICE WARM BEDS. Is it inconvenient? Sure. And do I feel sorry about that? Eat a bag of dicks Yes, yes I do. But that’s apartment living.

And I say ALL THIS to say, they’re downstairs right now, slamming doors. Guess who can sleep through that shit, because she has had to sleep through a crying child for almost two years? THAT’S RIGHT, MUTHAFUKKAH. SLAM THAT SHIT. I hope you get your fingers caught in it.

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Let’s talk about your Hard Limits; my safety word is “Mercy.”

The husband and I got a sitter and went to the Dublin Burlesque festival. It was AMAZEBALLS! I promised you all a photo of me in my outfit, and as soon as I pry them from my husband’s cell phone, that’s what you’ll have! I was REALLY proud of my outfit!! But anyway, we went, and while I applaud ANYONE with the courage to get up and essentially strip in front of a crowd (that includes actual, self-identified “strippers”), I must say that there were only a handful (b-cup at best. HA!!….sorry) of acts that I thought were actually good.

Ok, I should redefine that. There were several acts that were “good,” but not necessarily to my taste or style. Fair play to them, it takes all kinds. But there was ONE dude who, I think maybe he thought they were casting for Magic Mike? I’m not sure. It was bad. It was like, “$30 bachelorette party male stripper” bad. I mean, he was a good looking dude, and I don’t even mind if that’s your kink, buddy. Run with it. If you get off by being on stage and stripping: a big ol mazal tov from (probably) the only Jewish chick in that crowd. But damn… at least be GOOD at it.

HE STRIPPED DOWN TO BLACK TIGHTY-WHITIES! REALLY?! I mean… at least be creative with your undies. Or at least have a good act!! Whatever. The only boylesque act I saw, and mama was disappoint.

So… what did *I* do with the bulk of my night (other than watch many lovely ladies strip down to their pasties)? Oh, I was on the HUNT! I was supposed to meet up with one woman who was coordinating the show. I met her when I first walked in and introduced myself, but of course we could only exchange brief hellos before she had to run off and help set things up. She told me to come back and find her after the show, and we would talk about getting me into performing. So, like the crazed bloodhound I can be when there’s something I want, I looked for her periodically throughout the evening. Finally, I stood against the wall watching the show. A really nice woman in a kick-ass outfit stood next to me.

“Hey, are you enjoying the show?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am. I just really wanted to meet with D before the end, and I have to leave soon… and I can’t seem to find her.”

“Oh? What did you want to talk to her about?”

“Well, I really want to try to perform.”

“Oh, then you don’t want to talk to D…. you want to talk to me. I run all shows in Dublin.”

…………..I’m not even making this up. She literally said those words to me, and I kinda lost it. My head may or may not have exploded at this point. I AM fairly certain that I grabbed her hand, shook it furiously (I was SLIGHTLY intoxicated), and introduced myself as, “that American chick who SUPER wants to perform!”

So, I was told to email both of my contacts today or tomorrow, at which point I will be added to the women who “kitten” for a show. That means I’ll assist the performers in getting ready, and clearing the stage of *ahem* garments when the performers are through. That will, hopefully, give me more insight into how a show is done and what is expected from performers. Then, I get to audition.

But first, I have to let the club owners know what I am, and am not, willing to wear.

That’s a loaded question to a woman who openly admits to being part of the fetish scene. No gimp suits? No ball-gags? No 4″ heels, and I absolutely will NOT dress like a pony. Those are my hard limits. Otherwise, why would I be getting into burlesque if I’m overly concerned about what I’m wearing? The whole goal is to take it off by the end of the night, anyway. Hmmm…. should probably wax though, huh?

I guess we’ll see how it goes! Wish me luck, kids!!

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This is what an asthma attack feels like…

On Friday, I woke up from a nap with a little bit of a tickle in my throat. I figured maybe my throat was just dry, but no matter how much water I drank, that little tickle wouldn’t go away.

For those who don’t know, Friday night was the start of Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement. Generally, if you’re in good health and not pregnant, you fast for 25 hours. I was expecting to fast, and then write a loooooooooooooong bitchy post about how much it sucked. But anyway, before we fast, most people go out to a big dinner. The husband and I went to a Chinese restaurant in Dublin. The door was open to let in the evening breeze, which should have been lovely, except for the smokers out front. 

“Should I ask them to close the door?” I asked. Which was stupid. Why didn’t I just GET UP AND CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR?! But I didn’t. I started coughing in the restaurant. As we walked back, that tickle in my throat moved down into my lungs, and I started coughing non-stop.

I know how people view folks with asthma. We’re all short and we breathe heavy, and we can’t play in sports with the other kids. The stereotype is pretty well personified in an episode of South Park, where a Jewish asthmatic kid comes to visit. The thing is, for most of us, it drives us crazy. I remember being a little girl and just WANTING to go run and play, and never understanding why I was always sick. It was humiliating to explain to the other kids why I was wheezing or why I couldn’t get over a cold as quickly as they could. And I think, until fairly recently, that might have even been how my husband viewed it. He’d never REALLY seen me in full on asthma mode, because as much as it may have impacted his life before (read: not all that much, really), I had managed to keep it under control.

But this is Europe. People smoke. People smoke in the US, too, but for some reason my asthma has gotten worse here.

So there we were, Friday night. I’m trying to maintain a conversation, and at some point I stop even trying. Then I stopped walking. Finally, I collapsed onto the ground, coughing and gasping.

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Some folks stopped, and helped us into a cafe where I was able to get a coke (little known trick: if you’re ever with an asthmatic who has lost their inhaler and they’re having an attack, caffeine will slow the attack until you can get serious help). We sat there as my coughing subsided. My husband must have asked me 4 or 5 times if we should go to an ER, but I wanted to get Max home to bed. It wouldn’t do my asthma any good if I was panicking because he was screaming and exhausted.

So here we are now. It’s Monday. I couldn’t see anyone over the weekend because I think the clinics were closed, so I’ve had this low-level ongoing attack for four days.

You know how you’ll see an ad from time to time, and they liken an attack to trying to breathe through a straw? Maybe that’s how it is for some people, but for me, it’s worse. I cough and cough, because my chest tightens. Then I get thirsty, but no matter how much I drink I still feel dehydrated. That’s because my bronchial tubes start filling with fluid. Is this gross? I can’t tell. It moves down into my lungs, and I cough and cough, but no matter how hard I try, I just feel like I’m drowning inside my own body. It’s horrible. It’s horrible, and humiliating, and I wish I didn’t have it. People ask me why I am just NOW thinking about weaning Max, at 15 months. You know why? Because if there is ANY chance that extended breast feeding would mean that he didn’t have to collapse on the street of a foreign city, not knowing when he would be able to catch his breath, I will fucking do it. I’ll nurse the shit outta this kid. I’ll eat fucking goji berries or whatever else. 

So that’s my deep dark secret. That’s my weakness and humiliation. I have another 35 months in a country I really enjoy, but may be slowly killing me.

 

 

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Re-Branding

It’s been exactly 8 weeks. I know that, because pretty much every day I’ve said to myself, “I should blog. It would make me feel better.” but I don’t, because there was too much going on and I didn’t know how to put it all into words. 

First, let’s start with how this blog is going to have to be re-branded. For those of you who either know DC, love DC, live in DC, or are just fairly certain that those are letter which appear in the English alphabet (YAY EDUMACASHUN!), I can, after almost 8 years of living here, no longer call it “Sunny Days in DC”………….

………………………………because we’re moving to Ireland. 

THAT’S RIGHT! I AM OFFICIALLY DOUBLING THE JEWISH POPULATION THERE!!

So kids, let’s put our feet up and talk through our emotions, shall we? Excited? Check. Nervous? Check. Completely fucking terrified because from the time they made the job offer to my husband until the day we leave is about four months? HUGE. FUCKING. CHECK. 

It’s not that I don’t want to move to Dublin…

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*This is what my son will look like in six months*

…it’s that we have next to NO time to plan all of this. So, take an international move with a now-1-year-old, no current job in my new country, a refinance with my less-than-stellar credit after this last year of unemployment, and two cats that have to go through the process of getting (and I am completely NOT shitting you here) “kitty passports,” and you essentially have the recipe for a nervous break down a la Hannah. Naturally, I am coping the only way I know how: I ate enough chocolate and sugar over this past weekend to make me sick. Then I went through a bout of self-loathing (like you do), and now I am recommitting to writing. Sort of. Cuz I’m gonna go to bed after this. 

Also, I photoshop pictures of my son. 

So. I’m moving to Dublin, Ireland. What have you been doing with the last 8 weeks? 

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