Hell on Earth aka the Airport

I’ve flown a lot this year. Okay, perhaps “a lot” is a relative term. I’m going to be flying down to San Diego in a few minutes. Again “a few minutes is relative”. Anyway, relativity aside, I fucking hate the airport. Anyone will do. I went on my first flight at the age of six, and it’s only gotten worse. Thanks a lot Obama. Wait, that’s not right. Thanks a lot Trump. Hang on while I throw up in my mouth.

I would write more but I need to pee before boarding. I’m a fat girl about to go on a plane. I’ve heard the rumors. Myth busters be damned.

Tapestry of Profanity part deux

Know when you finally decide to get back on the blogging horse, and you write a beautiful blog full of swears, and then you post it and decide to edit it only in the process you end up deleting the body of the blog? Oh. So it’s just me? Fuuuuuck. But surely you can relate on some level. Such as that one time you decided to get back into regularly going to the kickboxing parlor the next day, only to become violently sick in front of your new person and his best friend and not only are you embarrassed as fuck because they cleaned out your sick out of your car but you now also had to postpone your triumphant return to your favorite stress reliever? No. Okay I got way too specific there.

I feel like some days I just need someone to hang out in my wake tidying up the destruction behind me. Right. I’m being really over-dramatic. And when I wrote it I did so in a voice that makes everything a question with the influx at the end. Influx is that the correct word? I don’t know. This is why I need someone to live on my shoulder or pocket whom I could get these answers I need. Also, I’d have them bring me bagels and other bread products. Maybe alcohol too.

Right. So. Anyway. The whole point of my last blog wasn’t some statement about the nothingness of weaving a tapestry of profanity. It was about putting my post holiday big girl pants on and start making healthy and fun choices again. Really? I could have summed up the lost blog, which was a few paragraphs, just in a few words?! What the hell? Seriously. I am going to attempt to not fuck off any more. I will wear trousers and study and be a productive member of the world. I will.

Tapestry of Profanity

Irish Mothers

I’m always caught off guard when I interact with Irish mothers. I’m minding my own business in the shop or eating breakfast or drinking at the pub, and then suddenly, I’m telling an Irishwoman I’m travelling alone and why I’m not married and/or why I am wearing flip flops. Every time. After coming to Ireland multiple times, you’d think I’d be used to it by now. I’m not. See. My own dear mother is not Irish. She isn’t even Irish-American at all. No. She’s of the rare German-Russian heritage. On both sides. Like if I don’t know better, I’d think she came from a long line of inbreeders. Nope though. She’s just from a Mennonite family… on both sides.

My mother isn’t really up in my business. Ever. She asks me how I’m doing, and it feels invasive for her. Really mom? That the hell? Mind your own fucking business. But I know it’s coming from a good place (okay, I think it is). My mom sends me across the ocean alone and vaguely hints that having some idea of where I’m at would be nice for her. This is the woman who spent 72 hours expelling me from her body. In those terms, I think that gives her some license to ask more questions about my wellbeing. Then again, she doesn’t read this so I’m safe from her actually finding out I could possibly be all right with a little more concern from her.

Irish mothers on the other hand, have raised their children until very recently under the thumb of English oppression. It’s in the shared unconsciousness of the culture that it could be wiped out and is under threat.Therefore, it is the Irish mum’s job to protect her children by whatever means possible. I could delve into the societal and cultural and historical reasons for the reasons why the Irish are the way the are, especially the women. And more specifically the mums. The fact is regardless the knowledge I have about the Irish, whenever I end up interacting with an Irish mother, it surprises the fuck out of me.

It has happened in the North. It has happened in the Republic. In the east and west and middle. These mums are everywhere. I’m not complaining. It’s just an observation. Most recently, I was at breakfast this morning and got into a half hour long conversation with an Irish mother about my travels and her remodeling her house. Hence, she and her husband staying in the guesthouse we’re both at. It led to the internal debate about should I just focus on my food and use her as background noise or should I engage in full on conversation and choke down cold eggs later. There was a compromise. Cold toast helped me swallow the cold eggs. Because go politeness. Also, she’s a mom. You can’t just not talk to a mom, especially when she’s handing out bits of knowledge. So rather than hiding in my room the entire day, I’ll go outside and take a walk.

 

Thoughts on a Train

I rode the train from Cork to Galway today. Well, technically speaking from Cork to Limerick Junction. And from Limerick Junction to Galway. Except it felt like the long way from Limerick Junction. Needless to say, I had a lot of time to think and read and play on the internet on the train. I started reading Good Omens and it seems good so far. I hope it stays good as it’s only one of three books I brought with me on my less than three week vacation. Don’t judge me. As it turns out, I’m really stuck with my internet browsing. Mostly social media. There isn’t much to say about my internet usage. Then there were the thoughts.

Okay, so, my thoughts weren’t groundbreaking or even insightful. Consider yourself forewarned. Every time I ride the trains (hmmm that makes me sound like a fucking hobo but I can’t be assed to edit it, so a hobo I will be), I think about Shining Times Station. You know, Thomas the Tank Engine? No? You lucky son of bitch. The point of this is that Mr Conductor was played by Ringo Starr and George Carlin. I shit you not. So naturally my thoughts wandered to who the fuck was like kids’ show? You know who’d be great for this? The forgotten Beatle and the man who did a schtick called the 8 words you can’t say on television.

Seriously. What happened there? My next thought was more a realization. And that was riding the trains (there I go being all hobo again) makes me tired as all hell. I could barely keep my eyes open. I forced myself to stay awake though, because you know, jet lag is a skanky dick. As jet lag and the steady rocking motion of the train fought against me, I realized it wasn’t just the train. It was all moving vehicles that I’m not in charge of operating… hopefully. If I am in the car or a plane etc, I’m going to fall asleep after a while. Try and stop me! Okay. Please don’t. I just realized I must like the motion of the vehicle. Mmmm turbulence.

And that was that. I told you it wasn’t profound or anything. In other news, I’m sharing a room with two fellas I’ve never met before. It doesn’t look like they’re friends, so there’s that. Sorry. Random sharing. The dude on the bed next to mine is trying to sleep. I want to take a nap. BUT I’m not going to. I’m going to get off my ass and get some food for dinner and some more to send home because I love the food I cannot get in the USA. That’s going to be expensive to send back to Seattle. Ah well.

Yesterday, I got Lost in Paris

I’m on my much anticipated European vacation. Not quite like the Griswalds as I’m not with a family, or anyone else. And, well, yeah, just no. I’ve made a deal with myself. I can keep going back to Ireland and the UK as long as I include somewhere I’ve never been before. Thus, I ended up in Paris this go.You read that correctly. At the front end of my trip, as in when I’ll still be jet-lagged, I decided to try out a new city. So now, on top of being a shitty direction follower (see I can admit my shit), I had the fog of jet lag.

It’s no wonder I got lost. Really. My two goals for Paris were see the Eiffel Tower and go to a bakery. No sweat, right? Wrong. Okay, there are bakeries everywhere. So, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was trying to do the 3 ish mile walk from my hostel to the said tower. One would think that’d be no sweat as well. One would be wrong. Apart from my aforementioned disabilities, it was also a holiday with a couple of major roads (I think it was a couple. Fuck your non grid layout of a city) barricaded due to a motorcade or a parade for the holiday. The holiday being whatever they call Veteran’s Day. At least that’s the assumption I’m sticking to lest I hear otherwise.

There was no way for me to know the road was blocked and there wasn’t any getting around it. (Shut up. There was no way.) Therefore I decided to divert myself by walking up to the famous arch. Side note: In hindsight, I probably should have done more research about Paris before I went. But I can’t change the past. Moving on, at least with my story, when I was done with that, I noticed the barricade was being taken down and decided to make my toward to Eiffel Tower!

Silly me, I thought I could just reverse the directions I followed to the tower to get back to my hostel. Nope. Somewhere along the way, I made a giant circle and had to reset my maps app on my phone to help me know which way to go. Eventually, I made it back to my hostel. But to give you a bit of an idea, my person was pulling a shift and a half at his overnight job in the states, and I was able to keep him text company the entire time. So there was that silver lining. I now have a blister on my heel and had worn holes in my socks.

It’s all part of the adventure. The 9 ish miles I walked yesterday didn’t stop me from doing a literary pub crawl in Dublin tonight. I’ll have stories to tell the kids when they’re older. Not my kids mind you, but someone else’s kids. Tomorrow, fuck walking. If I need to do something, I’ll roll.

Blogging Without Seeing

So last week I took off my glasses and lay the on the bed. Because you know, reasons. A short time later, I had to walk on my bed. Okay, maybe “need” is too strong of a word, but regardless, I walked on my bed. Now if you know me or just have any predictive power, you’ll know my glasses ended up underfoot. They didn’t break too badly. Just badly enough to be unwearable. This is after I had scratched the lenses a few months ago. I’m still not sure how that one actually occurred. Now, I’m hoping the glasses I ordered online will be good enough. Luckily, I don’t need them to see, as even when they’re on I still don’t see as well as I do when I have my contacts in.

Here’s the thing… Sometimes my eyes cannot stand wearing contacts, such as when I have a cold. I’ve had a cold for the past week. Through no power of my own, I’ve managed to keep my contacts in long enough to see what I need. Even if it has been painful at times. However, I had to take my contacts out shortly after I got home from work today, because my eyes were on fire. Not literally on fire, un/fortunately, depending on your point of view, but it was enough for me to pop those suckers out and wish I had spectacles at my disposal at the moment.

All that to say, I’m writing this without being able to see too well. I won’t be doing anything like tweezing or studying later. I may do some sleeping or listening to books on tape. I mean audiobooks, as books on tape aren’t really a thing anymore. Insert sad face here. But I may rub the hell out of my eyes. Just keep going until I can go no more, because I can right now. Normally I can’t due to contacts. And I feel as though I’ve rambled on long enough about my eyeses. Thank you. Have a good evening.