Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

Motherfucking Ireland!!

So, I’ve been here for a little over a week. For those who don’t know, read my blog. HA! But also, I’ve moved from DC to Dublin. Ireland. Like, the country. Right now, my husband has taken my son so I can send out resumes and write on my blog.

So here I am. On my blog. In Dublin. With a pint of Guinness to my right. And here’s the conclusion I’ve come to about this country:

It’s completely underrated!

If Europe were a college, you’d have several stereotypical students here. France would be the annoying, pretentious philosophy student. They drink wine and smoke, right? Italy would be the art major… ugh. I mean… delightful? Poland would be that odd Gamer that comes to class but nobody knows their name. Germany would be the straight A student who is president of the Virginity club, but smokes meth on the side. England would sorta be that general kid on campus who is ok, maybe he parties a bit, but he’s not bad.

But Ireland? Ireland is the frat boy of the group, and everyone judges him for it. But here’s the thing about that kid: what you don’t know is that he volunteers his summers to Special Olympic events, and works to put his younger siblings through school, and yeah he blows off steam, but for good reason.

Likewise, Ireland is a little under rated. This is EASILY the most baby-friendly country I’ve ever been to! Do you know how many times someone has said to me, “Oh! Look at your lad! Isn’t he just the lovliest thing you ever saw?!” Well, yeah… but I think that because he’s MINE. I don’t expect others to feel the same way… but they do. OMFG do they love kids here. And they’re so friendly you could throw up. A bus driver took my dad TO MY APARTMENT because he got lost. Now, yeah, it was along is route, but the driver didn’t have to do that!

Do they drink here? For sure! I live in Drumcondra, right near a major sports stadium, and on the day of the Big Game (some crazy irish shit they only play here with… like…. fuckin’ hedgehogs or whatever) the area was PACKED. And people still backed out of the way to let the lady with the baby through. And drunk people apologized to me. And I won’t even go into how technologically advanced they are! Frankly, I was a little ashamed at how my husband and I gawked at some of the things they have around here. Uh…. when did the frat boy major in programming?!?!?! 

So, you can now reach me at 18 Frat Boy lane. That’s my address. And, if they’ll have me, I’ll raise a pint to them all.

So you online. I’m blogging from Dublin now, y’all!


That Time I was Attacked by a Phantom Hand That Was Actually MINE, But It Still Scared Me, So I Totally Ran Around My Living Room Screaming

This isn’t a long post, I don’t think. I haven’t written it yet, so it might be. I don’t know. It’s my blog, and you’re on it.

Anyway, I like to think I’m many things, but sometimes, smart is not one of them. Case in point: I can no longer watch movies in the dark. It’s not that it scares me, or that I could stand up and trip on my way to the bathroom (although, yes and yes). It’s because I’m incapable of watching tv in the dark like a normal fucking human being, without spazzing out.

One time, I think I was 22 or something (old enough to know better, young enough to still be stupid and pick up Swedish drummers in bars and try to make them talk to me like the Swedish Chef from The Muppets), my mom and I were watching a scary movie in our living room. She had turned out the lights because… I don’t know… do people still do that? She turned out the lights to make it more like a real movie, or maybe to be more scary, or maybe we just hadn’t paid the electric bill. I can’t be sure. Anyway, I was lounging on the couch for probably about thirty minutes. The movie had gotten to a really intense part, and both of us were riveted. I was watching the screen. Something was happening. Maybe our hero was facing off against the evil Snakefishhead (thank you, SciFy network, for such epic gems!), when I looked down. There, just underneath me, was a long, pale arm, sticking out from behind the pillows… Suddenly, it moved!



*Why is there a fucking arm after me? AND WHAT THE FUCK IS IN THIS BOWL?*

My mom sat on the couch laughing hysterically, waiting for me to figure out that the arm that was following me (and sometimes coming right at my face!) was, in fact, my own. I had been laying on my arm in the dark, and so distracted by the movie that I hadn’t noticed when it had fallen asleep. When I looked down, the arm had moved, and I freaked and ran around like a chicken without a head (remind me to tell you the time I was chased around a yard by a chicken without a head. It traumatized me, and now I consider every trip to KFC as my own personal act of revenge. FUCK YOU, CHICKENS OF THE ENTIRE DAMN WORLD!!).

And that, in sum, is why I don’t trust either of my arms. Because I believe that given half a chance, they will turn on me again. One night. In the dark.

…it’s just a matter of time, people.


Love means never having to say, “Don’t put that in your mouth.”

My mother recently asked me how I’m “finding” motherhood. When people ask me open-ended questions like that, I have a hard time determining what sort of answer they hope to get from me. “It’s…err…. well, there’s poop…” I tried.


*Pictured above: someone pooping.*

“No, I mean, do you think it’s hard?”

“Do I….? Is there someone out there who sails through this?”

I realize there are women out there who just ADORE being moms, and have arts & crafts ready for every age and stage of development… but my mom was more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-and-use-a-lot-of-hyphens kind of gal. I don’t see myself being all that different.

For example, it wasn’t until I went to college that I realized some people have homes where each room has a color or theme. Do you know what my mom’s theme to her house would have been? “LOOK! COLORS!” She has art and antiques and a whole host of things that nobody has any business raising a child around… and yet, I don’t think I ever broke anything as a small child.

This past weekend, the hubs and I brought Max up to my mom’s house. While he was playing in her living room, I saw him reach for something… that would be a furniture staple that could, oh I don’t know, KILL MY CHILD.

I might be exaggerating. I can’t be sure. But legit, nothing good could possibly come from your child swallowing a staple. A super-powered spider, maybe, but even then you really just want to be BITTEN by one, not swallow it. Also, a super spider baby seems like he would be really tough to discipline; he’s just be shooting webs all over the damn house and swinging away from you while you’re trying to feed him boiled peas or something… I don’t know. My train of thought may have derailed and hit a small village there, but you get my point.

So, as I sit here in the chaos that is my living room, with papers strewn across my floor and a lazy cat peering up at me, I have to wonder, am I a bad mom for not keeping a neater house with color schemes, and for turning the tv on during the day, and for drinking hot chocolate while breast feeding? I mean, there are kids in India right now who are playing on giant piles of garbage, but some days you kinda feel like a failure for not ensuring that his onesie and socks are coordinated.

Or maybe I’m just tired. I could just be tired.


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