I Heart DCU

I've lived on college campuses for a long time now-- let's see-- FOUR out of nearly FIVE years of marriage. After we moved back to MI from Glasgow, we moved to the Married Projects at CMU, and lived there quite happily for three years (in fact, that was Evan's first home). And, after a short summer stay with my mom and dad, we now live in the Postgrad Projects at DCU.

For the most part, living on a college campus is great fun. It has definite advantages: the #1 being, of course, that if you are a student or on campus, it is close. And you do get more room than a dorm room, and you do get to poke holes in the walls and have illegal air conditioners and have guests park without a permit and no one much cares. That being said, the #1 disadvantage is being too close to people of 18 years of age for nine months of the year.

18 year olds are very special people, in both good and bad ways. Most of them, even those who do not believe they are walking cliches, are indeed that. There really isn't much difference between an 18-year-old sorority pledge and an 18-year-old goth chick. They're both looking to pull blokes or birds, and many of them do that under the influence.

In fact, there are many 18-year-olds under the influence underneath my window at this very moment. It happens to be BEACH PARTY!! (exclamation points NOT optional), at the DCU Student Union, and there's a live band playing outside and kids walking around with plastic cups and plastic leis trying to get laid.

Thank God the Order of Malta ambulance service is also parked outside. Some poor 18-year-old is likely be rushed to the hospital after a fight over an 18-year-old goth sorostitute. I'll be awake to hear it all, even if I don't want to be.

Oops, she did it again.

Can you bloody believe it? The Wee Queen of Pop, Shitney Spears, is prego. Ain't it CHAV-tacular? What's worse: it was ALL over the news on RTE 1, 2, and 3, as I'm sure it was in America, Land of the Free--Home of the Chav.

What kind of world is it that we must, must, must be so interested in the reproductive "miracles" of half-talent, Size DDD, singing-millionairesses? If this girl has a girl, the child is likely to be named summat like: Sunshine Raindew or Savannah Honeydaisy. The girlchild will grow up with a mummy whose solution to all problems is: when in doubt, bare the navel. What a sad state of affairs indeed.

And just in case you're curious, Britney, I won't be coming to the shower-- no matter how much you beg and plead and cry. I just can't support you in this. Chav it your way.

Po' Bastard's Lonely Peanut-Butter Chocolate Pudding

With Po' Bastard's partner, Bacon Bringer, currently "researching" in Glasgow, Po' Bastard is understandably lonely. Her heart swims in a sea of sorrow. So, what better cure for sorrow than chocolate dessert, right? The only problem is that Po' Bastard is not a whole-cake eater, or a whole-pan of brownies chomper, or even a two-doughnut muncher.

So, wanting to maintain her girlish figure yet also relieve the heaviness engulfing her heart like a storm cloud over Phuket, Po' Bastard did a google search under "chocolate pudding for one," came across this recipe, and made it immediately. Most convenient: made in the microwave, so you can repeat the process easily, again and again, until fully healed.

Ingredients:
-1 1/2 tsp. cornstarch
-1/2 c. milk
-pinch salt (though you could definitely leave it out)
-1/4 c. chocolate chips (or any chips you have-- white chocolate, butterscotch, chocolate raspberry, maybe even cinnamon)

Method:
Mix the cornstarch, milk, and pinch of salt together until smooth. Put this mixture in the microwave on high for 1 min. to 45 seconds, but don't let it boil. Take it out, stir in the chocolate chips until melted in, and then microwave it again for another 45 seconds-- again, do not let the mixture boil.

Notes:
-Po' Bastard used peanut butter and chocolate chips, but still added a dash of salt to the recipe. This is not recommended, as peanut butter is already rather salty. Next time, she would leave it out.
-This proably hardens up quite nicely in the fridge. Po' Bastard couldn't wait that long and ate it while it was still warm and runny, and it was still very good indeed.
-People who will like this recipe: Roy Orbison; anyone who lost their virginity on Prom Night and regrets it; anyone partial to wearing floral sweaters while listening to anything by Phil Collins; and Mario Rico.

My Affair

Two answers for your two questions: no, I don't feel guilty about it; and yes, Andrew does know.
I've been seeing another man for about 5 months.

His name is Frank, he's 35 years old, and he works here at the university. Our connection is not a carnal or cerebral one. In fact, I'd describe our relationship as observational friendship from a distance. You see, my kitchen window looks directly into Frank's office window, and we wave to each other one time a day Monday through Friday. He sees me cook, do the dishes, bathe Evan and play with him; I see Frank stare at his computer for hours on end, always wearing the same Bill Cosby-esque jumper until his heater kicks on and he ditches it to reveal the blue button-down underneath.

We started seeing one another one evening when I was dancing around the kitchen, trying to keep Evan entertained after a long day of, well, keeping him entertained. Frank caught me mid-jig, and I looked over and saw him smiling. He smiled, I waved, he waved back, and that's how we met. We've been happy together ever since.

I make conclusions about him based on superficial evidence. For example, I believe Frank is single--he spends very long hours at work, sometimes from 10:00am-7:00pm, but that he is in the market for something loving and long-term: careful attention to covering the gray in his hair speaks of a man trying to turn the younger ladies' heads. However, this is unlikely to occur if Frank continues to dress un-smartly smart-casual. I also believe that he is quite shy, but has a gentle sense of humor: one night, as I was feeding Evan, Frank looked over at us on his way out his office door. He waved at Evan, turned the light off, then turned it back on, and smiled and waved at Evan again. It was distance peek-a-boo, a new twist on one of Evan's favorites.

I did meet Frank one time in person. It was just after the holiday season, and I was walking in Albert College Park with Evan and my brother-in-law, who was visiting at the time. I recognized the bulky khaki jacket and the navy blue beanie right away. "Excuse me," I said, "But aren't you the man I see from my window every day?" He looked at me and squinted (Frank, as it happens, also has a lazy eye), and said, rather shyly, "Yes." I introduced myself, Evan, and David a little too effusively, which perhaps explains why our conversation was brief and consisted of non-essential uninteresting details: where I was from, that at he'd worked in Chicago, etc. Sadly, I didn't get to confirm any of my judgments about him.

I haven't seen him in person since. Frank's been out of work this entire week, so I don't know if he was a temp employee or if he's on vacation with a nice nerdy girl who wears ill-fitting pants and also looks at a computer all day. But I've been looking for him because I miss him.

Frank doesn't know it, but our connection is perhaps the best illustration of how living in Ireland feels for me. I see a lot of faraway things close up, but I don't dare touch them. It's better that way: staying a bit of a stranger gives me endless opportunities to invent.