I'm bigger than Obama.

You likely won't believe this, but I have a fan. And it took me almost a month to realize it.

I send big love (not in the polygamy way kind of way) to Grey Mantled Wolf. I stumbled upon his blog after looking into my own analytics for the week and discovered I have two referrals from there.

(Yes, I do know when you are reading and when you're not, mom. Step up.)

So I went and saw a lovely post about how he likes my blog. And to say that you like me out loud to the world on the internet is almost like a marriage proposal at Yankee Stadium in my book. I was so excited that I IM'ed Other Liz about it. Here is the exchange:

Me: I HAVE A FAN!
Me: my first proper fan
Other Liz: oh my god details
Me: [The specific post]
Other Liz: that is AWESOME
Me: awesome
Other Liz: holy awesome

Thank you so much. You should turn your comments on so I can bombard you with gratitude instead of doing actual work while at work. Think about it.

And I know, I really need to take a compliment a lot better than this.

There is no such thing as American't.

I think I have mentioned before that I get asked a lot of questions asked by Americans about living abroad, and Ireland in particular because it seems like such a special thing to do. And, sure, it is because what other situation can you go from feeling vastly superior to the rest of the world (Don't tell me you weren't taught this in primary school) right down to a place where you feel like there is no one listening to you besides your poor significant other who married you and now has to endure your rants with a big broad smile and a sympathetic ear? Being an American expat will do that. And most non-expats will tell you that it was a very bad idea to put yourself in this position in the first place.

And then every so often I will be bombarded by questions about just being an American. Like it’s a state of being. Like it’s worth talking about at all. This list is long and sometimes funny, sometimes offensive but always think I have imparted a little bit of wisdom onto someone who is NOT AMERICAN when I’m done. Some gems are:

1. Do you own a gun?
2. Why don’t Americans like black people?
3. Were you the prom queen? Did anyone get drunk at your prom and then was told they couldn’t graduate with their friends so you held a protest?
4. Do you love George Bush?
5. Do you know where Iraq is on a map?

I actually feel these are all legit questions and only mildly offensive in nature but only because they are based on stereotypes alone. I think stereotypes are there because there has to be a smidgen of truth to them. A lot of Americans own guns – my family included. And a lot of Americans love George Bush and that’s why we don’t let my parents vote anymore.

But I do think the main difference can be seen is how people in relationships behave. People often find it shocking that I married Bub after knowing him for such a short amount of time, and this isn’t because they think we should have been more cautious. They are just in awe that I got an Irishman to marry me without seeing me for 9 years, buying a house together and consider having children out of wedlock before his mother pressured him into making the family respectable and not just shacking up with the American girl.

Luckily for all involved he proposed without having his face broken by my father. You know, the American way of doing things.

So far today is, um, not going so well.

I’ll say what a lot of expats in Ireland want to say but don’t have the balls to come out and say it – Irish people can be pricks.

*Queue indignation and upset from the internet*

This is not to say that other people from other places aren’t pricks. There are pricks in every town and every city in the world. I can think of at least 15 people who annoy the crap out of me in the US alone, and that’s not counting the government or any other civil servants I’ve had to deal with in the past years. Don’t believe me? I’ll give you names:
Jayson, Steve, Lauren, Emily, Sarah, Justin, Patty, Josh, Jaime, Jon, Aaron, ANOTHER Emily, Abigail, Sean, most people on the internet (not you, of course), and Betty. That is just the tip of the iceberg.

And no one would argue with me about that. They say, "Yeah, Betty, she’s a piece of work, huh?" because they are Americans. And there are lots of us – 300+ gazillion or something. That’s A LOT of people to turn out to be homicidal maniacs or bad drivers or jerks. Actually the only place on earth that I did not encounter one prick was Dubai which leads me to believe that the UAE is filled with the loveliest of people who want to build islands in the middle of the gulf, and towers that are outfitted with Armani. They let me go to the bathroom in restaurants when I wasn’t dining there. THAT IS HOSPITALITY. Thank you KFC of Dubai.

Irish people have a reputation for being friendly. Sometimes overly so. Sometimes they tell you that you are wearing a low cut shirt and then ogle you and you’re all, um, personal boundaries? No? Okay, never mind.

And then sometimes they can just be pricks, like a person from any other country in the world except the UAE. Like when they leave their fast food wrappers and cups on the table when they are done eating. Like dumping it in the bin on the way out the door is too much work. Or when they come up to you and yell "WMDs!" on a DAILY BASIS.

Or, when you’re getting on the train in the morning and a small woman with big bug-eyed sunglasses on quite literally trips you so she can have the last seat in the carriage. Trips you. And you fall. And she steps over you to get to the seat.

I’m not saying there aren't pricks everywhere, but there definitely are a few here.

My dad DOES swear a lot. It made me a better person, promise.

So I jumped the gun a bit. It might still be warm out. And I might not have worn a coat to work for the last two days. I also might stop talking about it or I’ll jinx it and then Dubliners will chase my ass out of town. I have to say, though, when the wind hits your bare legs while you’re standing in the shade it feels rather chilly.

Lesson: Wear pants. Or don’t shave your legs.

My clothes for the season are also doing a change. I have whipped out a skirt I bought two years ago for my honeymoon. Miraculously it fits because I am a devoted diet-y who can fit into all of 2006’s fashions. 2005, here I come. I’m wearing a short sleeved linen top because I think I’m in Miami. All I’m missing are the flip flops and since I somehow only have ONE PAIR that do not match this outfit, I have to wear closed toed shoes, reluctantly. I need to learn how to get appropriate shoes for the appropriate season, even if I don’t agree with how the season is turning out.

It reminds me of the time in college that I insisted on wearing my Birkenstock sandals to class in March. In four inches snow. I had to sit on my feet for 45 minutes when I got back to my dorm room so they could thaw out and I called my dad crying because of the pain. I also called him the first time I slept through a lecture. I didn’t adapt to college very well.

Lesson (as told by my father, both occasions): Don’t be so fucking stupid next time.

Lastly, my eating habits are changing with the weather. I like alcohol more when it’s sunny out, probably because when I drink I get hot and at least when it’s spring I’m wearing less clothing. Friends come around more when I’m drinking, not surprisingly. Just this past weekend we had friends over for some Sam Adams and Wii play and a lovely, fresh, vegetarian dinner. This weekend I’m having a sleepover where martinis and margaritas are on the menu.

Lesson: Drink more; you'll make friends that way.

A good, American Saturday night in with friends.

The only thing missing was jet lag from a six hour flight west, and I could really live without that for another 25 days.

My kid will beat your kid at beer pong.

So, the summer in Ireland is over. That’s it. Six days of sunshine and moderate warmth and now we get to go into quasi-spring/autumn mode where we hope week after week that it will stop raining and the temp would rise above 55 degrees but the stupid weather man keeps telling me that it’s going to RAIN UNTIL THE DAY I DIE.

I met with Evil Liz today for lunch. We sat by the canal in coats and fleece. The original plan was to sit in the sun and feel like we were back home where, oh, it’s raining and cold there too? Well, where we could pretend like we were in Hawaii. That’s in America. It counts.

Instead, we sat in the cold and discussed how American university experiences are so much better than Irish ones. Where else can you take a course on humanities and "Movie Appreciation" and STILL GET A LEGIT DEGREE? I took tennis and "Pop Culture in the New Millennium" and somehow I’m surprised that the Irish don’t take my degree all that seriously? C’mon, how can they not see the benefit in "Technical Writing 101"? You never know when you’ll need someone to write a manual on how to change a tire and then I’M YOUR GIRL.

If we have children I’m convinced I will send them off to an American school, should we live there or not. I want to be able to go to football games and I when I’m there I want the players to be wearing helmets and pads and not super tiny shorts. If an Irish college can provide this, I all in. A class on basket weaving in the 19th century and few games of flip cup wouldn’t hurt, either.

Meet Ms. February

This side of the world has these wondrous things called BANK HOLIDAYS. They are holidays given for no good reason, usually over the "summer", on the first Monday of the month. There are no names attached to them, like "I'm Not Fecking Going to Work Day" or "Thank Goodness We Were in That War Day". They are just days we get off because we like to be at home so we can watch the rain fall outside our windows and watch Oprah and Dr. Phil without using holiday time.

This bank holiday this Monday I plan on engaging myself in some Mario Kart fun. We got this game the day it came out here in Ireland (which was before the US. Yes, saying that does make me feel good.) and we have been playing it constantly. This, I am told, is much better for you than going outside to breathe fresh air and exercise. My wrists have had an incredible workout. Look for me in the 2012 Olympics in London.

Oh, and I look super-hot in the pink jumpsuit, so I'm sure there will be calendar to follow.



Bub will be Mr. September, the sexiest month of all. (He has since gotten a haircut.)

An appeal.

Dear Ireland,

I have a complaint to make. No, this isn’t about the weather, although that could use a bit of a clean up, nor is it about the shitty public transport system, or the mismanagement of our hard earned money. Nope, this is about the ingrates you let into your country.

Three years ago when I sailed flew over from the US, you let me in with open arms and very little hassle. I was in panic attacks for a while thinking I would get to the immigration window at Dublin airport and you would tell me that what qualifies me to come into the country was completely invalid, that I had to leave immediately, and that I better do it fast before you told my dad and then I would be in BIG TROUBLE.

But, no, you opened the doors for me to easily step through, let me get a job, a bank account, and even a mobile phone network. It took a while to get a credit card but eventually you even gave me that privilege and since then I have been living here like I have been here my whole life.

Well, yesterday, you decided to bestow this honor onto another American. She came into the country last week toting a marriage certificate from the commonwealth of MASSHOLEachusettes, and after telling her that her husband isn’t really Irish, having him prove that he actually is Irish (because that’s what it means when a birth cert says you were BORN IN SLIGO), today you have given her a little immigration card and have sent her off to get a most coveted PPS number that will allow her to work and pay all sorts of exorbitant taxes.

Bad idea, Ireland. You lose the Smart Country Award today. Maybe you were confused? Her name is Liz and we both share a resemblance to the Notre Dame Fighting Irishman. Did you think it was me? Because it’s not, Ireland. That’s not me at all.

First off, she’s 10000 feet tall, as is her husband. This means that one day they will produce the largest babies in Ireland and that’s just a strain on this little country’s resources. Think of the milk that will need to be consumed by the kid! What if they have multiples? And she is AMERICAN. You know that we eat more than any other nationality. LOOK IN MY REFRIGERATOR.

Also, there is only so much room in this country for an American Liz. I have taken that honor. I was thisclose to being beaten by this Elizabeth, but luckily it’s not an Elizabeth competition, just Liz. I hold that crown and you just can’t up and take it away from me. You’ll just have to ask her to leave.

I include a photo of the offending Liz with this letter so there will be no confusion when it comes to booting her out.

All the best,
Liz



P.S. LOVE the new developments on the M50. Seriously, spectacular work.

Court 52 is where it's at.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of sitting in Court 52, at the Richmond Court on Dublin’s Northside. I was there to testify against my mugger who thought that pleading not guilty wasn’t a waste of mine, and the court’s time. I really appreciated that.

Let me tell you, the crème of the Irish crop can be found at that courthouse, and if you want some new friends, all you have to do is show up every day. They all knew it each other – they are always there. One strapping young man had 75 convictions under his belt and happily admitted so while on the stand, but not before going back into the gallery to give his classy lady friend his precious bag of potato chips from the back pocket of his track suit. Because god forbid his Tayto gets crushed while justice is being served.

What I couldn’t believe was 75 convictions and he was maybe 21 years old. Where does he get the time to commit these crimes? I would think he spends all of his time either in jail or in the courthouse. Also, wouldn’t you maybe rethink your line of work if you have 75 CONVICTIONS? You obviously suck at your job if you have 75 CONVICTIONS. Did I mention there were 75 CONVICTIONS? Did I do it in all caps as well? Did I italicize it too? With 75 CONVICTIONS you should look into new work. There is a new position opening up here, maybe he should go for that? And, what’s more, with 75 CONVICTIONS do you think maybe your biggest worry shouldn’t be the bag of chips in your back pocket?

These people were just the lowest of society I have ever been in the company of and I have very little tolerance for such hatred of law and order and a little bit of human decency. You’d think that if you had ANY respect for yourself and what you’re about to go through, you wouldn’t be in head to toe Nike on your court date. You’d at least put on your best pair of jeans and a Lacoste polo shirt to add a little bit of panache. Maybe a Burberry cap to top it off? Most of them were in what I would consider workout clothes or pajamas but is the daily uniform for Dublin scumbags.

The only person I give any credit to was the upstanding gentleman who was found with a BRICK OF WEED (it comes in bricks?) hidden behind his bed that has a street worth of €2100. He was being accused of dealing. He was in a suit and tie. He only got a €200 fine. If I’m ever on trail for murder, I’m wearing my prom dress.

But my mugger, he decided not to even show up. He pled not guilty and then didn’t even bother to come to court so I could punch him in the junk or watch him cry as he was sentence to three months in jail for trying to rob me, which was added onto the five month sentence he got THE DAY BEFORE for trying to rob someone else. Watch out, Tayto-guy. I think someone is trying to give you a run for your money.

I'm pretty sure he just mocked me via email.

"Did you know Noel Fielding is dating Courtney Love?!"

"OMG! For realz???"