Happy Birthday, Dad-- Wish you were Here!

I woke up this morning to yet another carton of curdled milk, and these other things: the kitchen sink drains verrrrry slowly, and the hot tap on the kitchen faucet turns off only after 100 fierce turns. There was a pile-up of dishes from last night: Evan's bottles, a pan and a roasting tin from making chicken stock, my mug and coffee press. It was a vile sight indeed. And though I know I looked the part of Crazy Housewife ready to brandish butcher knife--complete with tangled hair and mascara circles under the eyes--I rescued myself from a tantrum by thinking: "WWDWMTD" or, What Would Dad Want Me to Do?

Well, Dad would want me to act assertively (sanely). Dad would want me to organize (not terrorize) and mobilize (not be petrified with fear). Dad would want me to be Positive. Dad would want me to keep my humor and my wits. You know what? I did.

I completed the laborious laundering; I figured out how to make that bitchy tap work--turn the water on all the way, then crank it off; I made a mental note to make sure that Housing Services was aware of the fridge issue, sans threats of death and other assorted violence; I let very hot water run down the sink until it seemed less clogged, and then I washed the dishes with a spring in my step (though that might've been caffiene).

I know you're thinking this post is all about me, and my trials of Life in Dublin. Well, it isn't. This post is really about my Dad, and to recognize all the things that he has taught me about life. Lessons about fixing things, problems or faucets, are the same as lessons on how to be a good person. Seems that I am capable of both (surprise!).

Happy Birthday, Dad! I wish you many more years so we can all continue to learn about life and laughter from you! I love you in Dublin as I do anywhere else I go-- infinitely!

Little Girl Lost

Today marks an important day-- the partial formation of my independence in Dublin. Here's how I got it...

This afternoon, my mother-in-law and I decided to visit the Dublin Writer's Museum. We walked to the bus stop, hopped on the 11, and got off at Parnell Square. The Museum, which is housed in a Georgian townhome, traces Ireland's literary history from the Book of Kells and into the 20th century. It features manuscripts, authorial artefacts, paintings, and bronze busts of people like Brendan Behan and Oscar Wilde (who most certainly would've made a fabulous friend).

After the museum tour and a small snack in the cafe, I decided it would be a good idea to walk home along the same route the 11 takes back out of the city. Oddly enough, I was also able to convince Marcie that this was a sound, good plan. "I can't learn my way around the city from riding the bus," I told her, "I have to walk around it." And while I firmly believe this is true-- the easiest way to learn to get somewhere is to get inside the map rather than to try to read it-- I was counting too much on my memorization of landmarks, like the bakery with the purple awning is at such-and-such corner, and that's where we turn left-- for a walk home to be a truly splendid idea. Did I mention that it was raining?

So, we took off. And we walked for quite awhile in the right direction, my mother-in-law bolstering my directional self-esteem by asserting that she, too, remembered many of the same landmarks as I. Then, where I thought the bus turned right, near the Home Farm Football Club, we had to stop to ask for directions. Turns out I was wrong (surprise!).

We followed the directions given us instead, and we made it home in a roundabout, square-ish, way that took us in the back gate of the university rather than the front. But, we made it. Now all I have to do is get lost in three other directions, and then I should know Dublin as well as a high school football captain knows his steroids.

One more thing: holla to Marcie, my mother-in-law, who claims not to have walked this much since dinosaurs trod the earth. For a self-confessed "old" lady, she sure did keep up with my Jane-Fonda walking style!

Mother-in-law arrives!

Yes, I! did! write! that! with! an! exclamation! point!! (I've put two at the end there, for emphasis, you see, otherwise you might not understand how glad we-- Andrew, Evan, and I-- are to see her). One suitcase was full of diapers and baby food and toys, and the other was full of stuff for Andrew and I: Coffee (again, capital for emphasis), cornmeal (not to be found here), a Star Wars DVD boxset, three pieces of bling for me-- all with rhinestones and colorful dangly things, and many treats of happiness.

You must understand that my life here was very dark and meaningless, until today.

Another piece of good news: I now have 99 pages of fiction. I wanted to write 100 by Monday, but I missed my goal by one day and one page. A song to commemorate my Greatness: 99 pages of fiction under my belt, 99 more to go, write some down, read it out loud, 99 pages more to go!

Po' Bastard's Teriyaki-Pineapple Turkey Burgers

Most Po' Bastards are already aware of the miracles of mince. I will now share one of my favorite uses for the ever-versatile, ever-cheap turkey mince. Eat and enjoy, boy-oh-boy!

Po' Bastard's Teriyaki-Pineapple turkey Burgers

Ingredients:
-1 lb. of ground (minced!) turkey
-one small can pineapple chunks (or rings, whatever) and reserved juice from can
-teriyaki sauce
-one egg
-one slice of bread, torn into small chunks
-salt and pepp

Method:
In a large bowl, mix the turkey, egg, torn bread crumbs, about two tbsp. of teriyaki sauce, two of the pineapple juice, and the salt and pepper. If you are using pineapplr rings, take two of them and cut or tear them into pretty small chunks. Add to the mince, and squish it all together pretty well. Then, make patties as for a hamburger. You will get quite a few out of this much meat, maybe 6-8 reasonably large, but not gluttonous-sized ones. Put the formed patties on a plate, and douse with a little more teriyaki. Cover with plastic wrap and sit it in the fridge at least 30 minutes, but hopefully longer so they can marinate and stiffen up.

Pre-heat the oven to 375. Heat one tablespoon of butter in a non-stick skillet. Cook the patties until brown on each side, then remove them to an oven-safe dish. In the same skillet you browned the burgers in, add 2/3 c. water, remaining reserved pineapple juice from can, another shot of teriyaki. Let this boil for awhile until a bit reduced; making sure you scrape the pan to get off any tasty browed bits. Pour this sauce over the burgers in the oven-safe dish, and then put it into the oven. Cook for 25 minutes or so.

Notes:
I would like to try to serve these in a good, lightly toasted and buttered bun with an extra slice of pineapple on top. That sweet Hawaiian bread in the orange package comes to mind. But, since we don't have that in Dublin, Andrew and I have been eating them with plain rice, some of the cooking juice spooned over the top. We also tried them with some packaged, dried Rice-A-Roni teriyaki noodles, which taste like astronaut food anyway. I don't recommend this last option.

I will give a prize to anyone who tries this as first described in the above paragraph. I will give an extra prize to anyone who adds some slices of salty turkey bacon.

Food to please the pagan gods of nomadic peoples!

Stewart, Patron Saint of Television

One of the days that Andrew was downtown this week, he popped by Jay's flat. We don't know Jay at all. The reason Andrew stopped by was to pick up a television that belongs to our friend Stewart, who is from Ballymina, and is studying right now at Central Michigan University. Jay and Stewart are friends, and Jay's dad brought Stewart's TV down for us one of the times he passed through Dublin recently.

All that is a really long way to say, thanks to Stewart et al., we are now able to experience the weirdness and wonder that is Irish television. It seems to be much more the former than the latter, actually.

Example 1: Last night, I watched a two-hour special about the Alternative Miss Ireland Pageant, which is held at the beautiful Olympia Theatre; and is a fundraiser for several HIV charities. If it happens while we are here, I have resolved to go see it. Alternative Miss Ireland allows any human--gay, straight, bi, trans-- to enter and win the pageant. Oh yeah, and animals can enter too. It is hosted by Panti and her two lovely assistants, and there are daywear, swinwear, and eveningwear competitions. You can imagine the guts and the glory of these events. My favorite, well, I had a lot of favorites, actually-- was the inventive and engaging performance by the current winner. She started out on stage in a fancy frock, lip-syching, dead-on, I might add, to "Total Eclipse of the Heart," went offstage briefly, and HE came back in a sleek black long leotard thing and Irish dancing shoes, and did a Riverdance. The crowd went crazy.

I liked watching this program. It seems to me that we can learn much from Alternative Miss Ireland: how to have fun, how to do good for others, and perhaps most importantly, how to build unity and community between an increasingly diverse world.

Alternative Miss Ireland: you might have an American entrant this year. I'll probably sing "What's Love Got to Do With It," though while wearing flats because I will most certainly fall if I wear heels.

Example 2: This morning, Little House on the Prairie was on. What's that all about? Does Ireland have a fondness for tear-jerking, calico-and-bonnet wearing, horse-and-buggy frontier family dramas? Will Baywatch be on later?

My Autograph

Everyone already knows that I don't have any friends here. But what you might not know is that I don't care. Why don't I-- who is known to be a very social person-- care? Well, because I am good enough, smart enough, and witty enough to invent My Own Friends.

If you are good enough, smart enough, and witty enough, you can invent Your Own Friends, too. Follow this model: move as far away from your friends and family as you can; do lots of laundry, never use the dryer; ration your coffee so it lasts for two weeks; say "gurdygurdygurdy" to your kid; if and when you are lucky enough to meet a new person, think of him or her as a model for a character and not as a potential friend; bemoan your poor spatial intelligence; loathe the bus; save crappy-tasting roasted parsnips to make an ugly but tasty soup for lunch. Then you'll be on the road to success...

My friends are the cast of characters from my hope-to-be-book. I have all these friends, in no particular order of preference: a gay pedicurist, a lady who believes the size of her ass caused her divorces, an albino stripper, a guy who thinks he can turn water into wine, a burn victim (called Joan--HA!), a waitress, a crafts store cashier, a bad rock-n-roll singer, and many many more.

Every day, I spend 2-4 hours with these people. We think of new stuff to do all the time. Sometimes it's really really fun, and other times it can be really annoying when they don't do what I want. The best part is that they always ask me for my autograph.

Do you want my autograph? Do you? Please?

Random thoughts... helping me to avoid real writing

I've just been to visit punkfitnessdetroit.com. I've mentioned this awesome class in a previous post, but I strongly urge everyone to try it out. It's the most rockin' good sweaty fun you will ever have in a fitness class. I only made it there one time before we moved to Dublin, but there's no class like that here-- so, my current options of step, circuits (NO!), boxercise, and more step-- are pretty grim in comparison. But, because packaged biscuits here are soooo good, and because it's easy to eat a brownie when I'm bored in the afternoon, I gotta do something, right?

I will never know what it is about taco salad that makes my stomach hurt. Every time I eat it. Was it the minced turkey? The salsa? The chips? Sour cream?

My friend Steven teaches English in Japan. After the election results were in, he had a party with friends so they could recover from their misery. There was eating, singing, drinking, and dancing. I wish I could've been there. Interesting thing I heard on Dublin City's "Special Interest" station today: 70% of Irish people would've voted for Kerry.

Evan cried when I told him "no-no" he couldn't play in the recycling. He cried like it mortally wounded his feelings. I can now go to bed with the satisfaction of knowing that I am The Meanest Mom in The World.

Friends, Friends,... 1, 2, 3.....

The title is lifted from a song my mom sings to her pre-schoolers. If memory serves me right, the lyrics go a little something like this: "Friends, friends, 1, 2, 3... you're my friend, you're my friend, you're my friend, too..." There's more, I'm sure it ends in a ryhming couplet of some type: see/me, knee/tree, friend/hand (if anyone can name the literary device used in this last pair, you will win a very posh prize). Anyway, the reason I have chosen this title for this particular post is to wallow, ever so briefly, in my friendlessness here in Ireland.

Let me share my pain with you...

I went to two churches, one about three blocks away-- Our Lady of Victories--, and another right here on campus-- no name, it's just the Inter-Faith Centre, where most things that happen are Catholic, not inter-faith. At both masses, I was the second youngest person in the room. Masses here seem geared toward individual prayer and reflective thought, which is great if you're into that sort of contemplative junk-- which, clearly, I am not. It wasn't at all like the church I grew up in, where we ate donuts (manna) and drank coffee (made from Holy Water) and gossiped (cardinal sin) every Sunday after mass. My kind of Catholicism lets me make friends! And gives me free food! So, I didn't talk to anyone at either Irish mass, and no one talked to me, and I felt really one with God. Aces.

I've also tried to make friends in the children's play area at the park across the street. What sucks about that avenue, however, is that there isn't a helluva lot to talk about. "I see you have a kid," "Yes, I do," "It's fun, isn't it," "Yes," "I like my kid, do you like yours?" Evan really isn't old enough yet to do anything on the playground. When I put him in the swing he looked at me like I was sending him off in a flying saucer. Meeting other mommies at the playground only works if your kid is old enough and mobile enough to interact with other kids. When I hang out there with Evan, it just looks desperate.

Things might be looking up a little. When I went to aerobics tonight, a very nice girl named Sharon talked with me for awhile; she mistook me for a Canadian. I had to tell her the truth. She said whenever I fancy a coffee after, I should tell her. I tried very hard not to hug her, hold her hand, or cry in gratitude. You don't make new friends by being a clingy freak-lunatic.

My sister Angela offered a useful tip on how to make friends: have a lemonade stand. I think I'll give it a go first thing tomorrow.

Temple Bar-barism

Yesterday we went exploring around the neighborhood of Temple Bar: this is the "arty" section of Dublin, with the vintage clothing stores, the cafes serving various soy delicacies, the requisite independents: bookstore, record store, gallery, film theatre, and-- Farmer's Market!

The market was contained in a market square, but they had copious amounts of one of My Favorite Things: butternut squash. I was so excited to rifle through the bin and find a smallish one, heavy for its size (this is good, means its ripe or something), knowing that I could purchase it and reproduce my butternut squash soup in the comfort of my suburban Dublin home. I went to the checkout, where the squash weighed in at 1.5 lbs., and I paid 3.00 Euro for it. That's about 4.00 or something. This squash grew from solid gold, on the grounds of a palace.

In America, squash gets a bad rap, I think. People seem sort of grossed out by the mushy texture, or think they have to doctor it with lots of marshmallows or syrup to alter the taste. I am here to tell you all you need is a little oil, salt, pepper, and herbs de Provence. It's awesome that way.

You're lucky to be able to get squash on the cheap: .79 per pound, or maybe less on sale. Eat it, lots of it, I beg you-- because I can't, and dream of it.

Washer Woman

A few weeks back, Andrew and I decided to purchase a very important piece of equipment for our house. It isn't a hand mixer, because it would be sheer frivolity to indulge my baking hobby on a Po' Bastard budget; and it isn't a bread box; or a toast rack (God, I love those things); or a broom. It is a laundry rack. Excuse me. It is a Clothes Airer.

This Clothes Airer is about 5 feet high, has three sturdy tiers, and can be folded up to fit in a pocket. Just kidding on that last one. This Clothes Airer has become the bane of my existence. While we will save 130.00 Euro this year since I'm no longer putting clothes in the dryer, I will not, not, not save any TIME. I do about 4-6 loads of laundry per week, depending on how many accidents Evan has, or whether or not the sheets need to be washed, etc.

Doing the laundry goes like this: I put Evan in his jacket, I put him in the strap-on, I load up the bags (there's never only ONE), I load my pockets with packets of detergent and change, and I walk like a camel carrying a nomad's tent across campus. The laundry room isn't far away, but it's very far away when carrying lots of stuff.

DCU has about 10,000 students. Not all live on campus, probably only a few thousand do. There are NINE washers and NINE dryers to service that many people. Thankfully, another laundry room opened last week. Now there are 18 washers and dryers. Clearly, this is Easy Street.

Happiness is.... a COMB!!

Evan found my purse. He dumped the contents on the floor, and amidst the coins-- found a comb! The look on his face was one of extreme mirth and wonderment: what is this thing for? So, I showed him. I sort of wish I wouldn't have. The comb is his current favorite toy. He'll pick it up, smile, say something that sounds like, "Gurdygurdygurdy. Geedlegeedle," and then wait for Andrew or I (usually me) to proffer a head forth for combing. The problem being, of course, that he lacks the dexterity to comb properly. So, while he tries to make me look so pretty, he mostly succeeds in winding my hair around the comb multiple times, or creating snarls the size of Madonna's during the "Lucky Star" era. However, I do welcome the tangles. It is really cool to watch Evan learn about the function of things.

Sounds like all you are voting like mad! Way to go! There's a need for change. As a rule, I don't vote for frat boys, beer-bongers, or adults whose parents still carry them around in a bitch sling. And those criteria are not just for Presidents. I use the same set when voting for Homecoming King.

Root veggies are in season and all is well with the world!