No one will ever know me as well as this man.

Over email:

Me: I love you because you know the right way to use an exclamation point and you respect it.

Bub: Who abused their punctuation privileges and upset you?

Come get your free smear here.

Recently my sister-in-law (I know. That's a whole different post for a different day) asked me if I like living abroad. My first reaction is yes, of course I do. And then, like any expat, backtracked a bit. Of course we like it. We wouldn't do it for very long if we didn't like it, but there is a downside to everything in life except maybe winning the lottery and being fabulously thin. And hot fudge.

I can name a billion things I hate about Ireland but there is no sense in it. There is no sense in telling someone all that I hate about Ireland because this is where I choose to live. I have not been forced to stay here and Bub and I have had many discussions recently about moving to the US. We are making a decision to stay in Ireland for the time being so it's worth the time and effort to think of things I enjoy about this country. Even when it's overcast. Even when it's poor.

I actually haven't emailed her back yet because I know the answer would be just too complicated for my baby-addled brain to explain at the moment. However, I have been thinking about the things that I really enjoy and today decided that I will come up with a whole list of things I like and post them here as they come to me.

After I trip to the doctor I realized that there is something very positive about Ireland: free smears.

Uh, did she just actually type out FREE SMEARS? Yes. I did. You did not catch the cooties by reading that. It is what it is and every woman over the age of 18 should be getting yearly pap smears. I'll spare the details for all of my male readers but, it's a procedure women go through to make sure the reproductive bits are in order. There. No one died of being hit with the gross.

In Ireland you can go to www.cervicalcheckie to sign up to get a free smear from your doctor. It's the most effective way to detect cervical cancer and pre-cancerous cells. And, hell, it's free if you're between the age of 25 and 60. FREE. Who doesn't love free shit? Who doesn't want some of this for free? I didn't think so.

It's incredible to me that in a country that isn't known for it's incredibly healthcare (not to say that it's bad, but it's not world renowned) offers something like this FOR FREE to save the lives of women. In the US (and, no, it's not the government's responsibility to make sure you get checked out), you have to pay to go to your OBGYN to get this test done yearly and while the US has very proactive healthcare, I imagine if you don't have insurance you're not going to go out of your way to book an appointment at planned parenthood to get a smear. Even in Ireland I hadn't gotten a pap smear in four years because I didn't want to pay the €50. I imagine I'm not the only one. But now, for the low, low cost of NOTHING, I can get checked out. And I did. FOR FREE.

Babydaddy.

Overheard as we left the pediatrician's office:
James squints to an extreme extent on an overcast day

Me: We should have asked the doctor if he's part vampire.
Bub: (grumbling sarcastically) I wonder who the daddy would be.
Me: Ooooh...Edward Cullen!

I know I should be ashamed but I'm just not.

Another summer shot in the ass.

I didn't post anything last week because I didn't want to jinx it. I try not to be superstitious. I walk under ladders, I cross the paths of black cats, I step on cracks in the road and my mother has not broken her back once. But I never, ever talk about good weather. Once you talk about good weather it starts raining. You mention how beautiful and sunny it is outside, and 10 seconds later dark clouds move overhead. I have learned this lesson in past years so this year I have said nothing. But, now that the 7 days of good weather is officially over, I'm going to talk about it all I want.

It was fecking glorious.

That is the only way to put it. It was sunny, and HOT, and just gorgeous out. I have a tan from the Irish sun. I'm sorry, but that's like saying I lost weight because I ate only cupcakes for 2 weeks straight -- it makes no damn sense at all. After two weeks straight of cupcakes my ass would be the size of a thanksgiving day balloon. The Irish sun, at best, should make the goosebumps go away, not burn your skin red. My car said it was 33 degrees one day. 33 degrees equals 91.4 degrees in proper temperature measurements. Heat like that is unheard of in this country and definitely has not occurred often in the 4.5 years I have lived here.

And, now we're back down to 55.4 which is such a colossal let down. I'd hoped that this year would be the year of the proper summer; the summer where I do not have to wear a jacket. And a sweater. And an undershirt to go outside. However, Mister Man vehemently hates the sunshine and made it difficult to really enjoy it. We would lather him up in SPF 50 so thick he looked like Powder. Then we put a hat on his head, and carried him outside eagerly waiting to see his giggling face lit up by the natural light.

His face was something akin to this:


Just picture more squinting with Wexford fields in the background and you have the right idea.

And, even though I might be feeling the exact opposite to Mister Man about the sun, he's expressing the exact amount of WTF I wish to convey about today's gloomy weather. Ah, summer 2009 was lovely.

TV is bad for you.

While feeding Mister Man tonight (yes, he still gets a 10pm bottle. We are working on it.) I decided to watch Prime Time Investigates, a weekly television series that looks into the cause an effect of current issues. Drugs, sex, rock and roll. All that. Tonight's show was "The Fall of the Celtic Tiger" or some other melodramatic title that manages to make the phrase "celtic tiger" more annoying than it already was. I'm usually pretty good at telling the difference between what is actually dramatic and what is made dramatic for television. Tonight, either my radar wasn't on, or the shit has really hit the fan and now I am well aware of it.

I knew thing were tough. I know several people who have lost their jobs in the last few months and me and Bub have discussed our future financial position on a few occasions. I wasn't living under a golden, diamond incrusted rock. Bub and I are extremely lucky and I KNOW IT. We are both employed at the moment. However, I am fully aware that at any moment our luck could run out. And then I'd have to live with my mother in law. I love my mother in law, I really do, but she takes pleasure in doing laundry. HOW DOES SOMEONE LIVE LIKE THAT? I couldn't take that much well intentioned insanity. And I don't think she would let me watch The Hills on Sunday.

Now, I'm just worried. I worry about our jobs, apartment, savings, child, LIFE and I'm not sure how people who are properly in a bad position, people who are losing their jobs and their houses are actually coping. I cried while watching Prime Time tonight because I legitimately felt horrible for the woman who didn't pay her mortgage since 2002 and her house is now being repossessed by the bank. I feel badly for the Romanian family who only had one little construction income coming in and was told he was likely to be laid off in two weeks. I feel badly for the homeless guy who is living behind a relocated Bank of Scotland in Dublin city centre. These stories, although sometimes played out for the camera, involve real people and for once I am having a hard time making it an "us" and "them" scenario in my head. Did the sad music and faces add to the intensity of my emotions? Yes, definitely. Does it make it any less scary? Absolutely not.

And really there is nothing more than I can do except hope that everything works out for the best and that RTE finds programming that doesn't scare the crap out of me. The summer is coming and Reeling in the Years should be on again. Ah, the good times.

"Dude, if you wake the baby I will throw you out a window"... and other polite things to say to your friends.

I just went through a night of having three children under the age of two in our house and nothing happening. I sit here amazed that there weren’t at least two meltdowns (by the children) and one cat fight (between the mothers). The whole evening went by with all children sleeping and no need to kill anyone for waking the baby. My brain did not implode. I call this a success.

I don’t ever remember a dinner date ever taking so much effort to coordinate. First there was the strategic cleaning of the house where Bub volunteered to take Mister Man out for a few hours while I dusted and vacuumed without worrying about disturbing/waking/annoying the baby. This was incredibly helpful as I finished more in those two hours than I have in the 2,568 hours I have been home with Mister Man.

Then there was the brief baking I did to make sure there was something for dessert after our take-out meals. I’m a horrible cook but a pretty good baker so I like to dazzle people with my ability to make yummy cookies and cakes. This is how I keep my friends -- fatten them up so they can't get away at great speed. However, doing this with Jammers under your feet is dangerous and irritating. He likes attention. So do peanut butter cookies. Who wins? Exactly. And I made the mistake of making these while he was going down to bed. That only took 45 minutes of screaming and Bub’s intervention.

Finally, it was getting everyone into the house without waking anyone under three feet tall. I shushed and gave dirty looks to whoever spoke above the noise level of the dead. We managed to order food, have it delivered, engage in lively conversation, laugh, drink wine and eat WITHOUT ONE CHILD CRYING.

I think we used up all of our good luck for one year. See you in 2010, my friends!

Stage five is right around the corner.

Recently I haven’t really felt like updating my blog because I feel like I had nothing good to update it with. Yes, Mister Man, Bub and I are all okay. We are a happy little family over here in Dublin. Sure, Mister Man throws some noisy and messy parties in his newly acquired room, but he’s always there to clean up the puke the next morning. What more can we ask for?

However, two weeks ago today I found out some pretty shit news about my family. My mother has been diagnosed with cancer.

At first I was shocked. Then physically sick to my stomach. Next was pure anger and insulting friends and family by asking them to pray for my mother because I can’t since I don’t believe in a god. I’m pretty sure that is considered cheating.

Right now I’m just sad. And, yes, I have just realized that I have gone through four of the seven stages of grieving. At least I am more than halfway to acceptance, although right now there isn’t a light at the end of this tunnel for me and so it’s a day by day thing. I call my mom to check in, I judge how well she is really doing by her voice and not her words. My mother, even when diagnosed with cancer, having her lungs collapse, and going through hard-core treatment, will be stoic and act like everything is a-okay. Hell, it might really all be a-okay; who am I to say it isn’t? She has on numerous occasions pointed out the up side to this cancer diagnosis:

No need to shave the legs
Free stuff from the American Cancer Society
Wigs!
Weight loss

I’m starting to realize that if you can’t look on the bright side of life when douchebag diseases have got you down, then you don’t deserve to ever look at all. This is what the bright side is for.

So, here I am, at a quarter to one in the morning writing a blog post to assure myself that it is going to get better as long as we keep looking at the positive like my mom already started doing at the beginning of it all. I just need to catch up.

My maturity level stunted 19 years ago. No one is surprised.

A year ago I let this blog know that I used to love Luke Perry with such a passion that I would write him letters asking if he would come to my house and hang out with me. I once even wrote a letter to the whole cast of Beverly Hills, 90210 begging them to come to my pool party. They didn’t come. They didn’t even send a fruit basket. I blame Brenda.

And now, 18 years later, I can be found on the couch every Monday night at 9pm watching 90210. The new 90210. Brenda and Brandon are replaced with Annie and Dixon. Cindy and Jim are now Debbie and Harry and Kelly is, well, still Kelly. This is supposed to be West Beverly High 20 years later and for the most part it is -- it seems the parts of the cast are appropriately covered. A sweet girl, a bitchy girl, the hot guy, the sensitive, hardworking son. All accounted for. They even wear lycra.

But these kids are dealing with things that would have made Donna blush (and remember Donna was the drunk one). From episode one they are discussing sex and drugs like it’s no big deal. There is a stint in rehab and a teenage pregnancy and no one bats a beautifully mascara’ed eyelash. They even curse and say things out loud that in my late-twenties I still wouldn't utter, like this gem:

“Yes, George, I was at the gynecologist, who told me to remind you to keep your vagina clean.”

Did she just say vagina? Somewhere Steve Sanders just passed out. He would at least have said, “Her, uh, you know.” Much more age appropriate and I don’t blush when I hear it in front of my mother.

In 1990 none of these things were a running story-line, they were all touched on but at the most it made one episode only to be cleaned up by the end, with everyone learning the valuable lesson that sex/drugs/rock and roll is not for the cool, popular kids and Dylan McKay (I love you) will not like you if you go and drink in the woods with your friends. In 2009, the popular girl sleeps around and her best friend has a major drug problem AND is knocked up. Double-trouble. All this magic by episode 13. It took Andrea and the gang at least three years to cover stuff this good.

I like it, though. I can’t help it. I like being back at West Beverly High and seeing the revamped Peach Pit. I like that the characters are so open about their very adult problems and wear designer labels I only discovered in my twenties and will not own until well into my forties. Hell, there is even a girl who runs a WBHH gossip vlog and an alcoholic grandmother. Can this show be anymore relatable to today's youth? I think not.

If only Luke Perry made an appearance I would ditch my love for this guy and start writing to Dylan Luke again. But this time, they'll be emails. Rob Estes would be proud.

Parenting without adult supervision means there is nothing in your fridge.

If you looked in my fridge you would see Hershey Kisses, Girl Scout cookies, bread, Mickey Finns, Snowcaps, bottles of formula, and some cheese. It may not surprise you that this morning my mother left Ireland and returned to the US. Her visit was unbelievably helpful and instead of being thrown into parenthood headfirst I was given the option of going in the shallow end with swimmies clinging to my arms.

Because of her visit and help, my son and I are incredibly comfortable with each other. I still can’t read his signals -- I don’t know why he yells a lot of the time, but I wouldn't doubt if he is trying to start his own language not by using consonants and vowels but volume and pitch -- but I am slowly learning his routine and working around it. This is making both of our lives a little easier and today, the second time I have been alone with him for a full day since he was born, I kept my cool and acted like a real adult with responsibility. I kept my shit together and I’m damn proud of myself. Then I took a nap.

Now, I have to man-up to my other responsibilities. I have made a vow to make sure to make dinner while Bub is given Mister Man his 6pm feeding. This would requiring having more than chocolate, cheese and booze in your fridge. Tomorrow will involve the adult-like duties of food shopping, buying some more baby equipment for our child’s well-being, planning out our weekend with my visiting friend Margaret (yay!), filing my taxes, and buying Twilight on blu-ray because my highest priority for tomorrow is to see this man sparkle in high-def.

I'm getting to it, I swear.