A Rather Short Rundown Of My Grand Old Ireland Trip

For starters, I loved everything about Ireland except the fact that a lot of people smoked. It seemed every time I opened my mouth someone was blowing ciggie smoke into it, and if you know me, you know how often I open my mouth. I think I second-hand-smoked at least a pack a day. I must go on the patch to sort this out.

There seems to be a lot of animosity from the Irish people over something called 'The Spire' which stands erected in the center of O'Connell Street. Originally named Monument Of Light, it is a stainless steel, pin-like toothpick sort of thing. As far as I can tell it does nothing and cost about three million Euro to make. Some issues with it are: it was supposed to be self cleaning but isn't, it was supposed to light up but only about an inch at the top does, and it holds no candle to Nelson's Pillar which stood there before. Some wonderful nicknames the Irish-folk have come up with are: The Stiletto In the Ghetto, The Stiffy by the Liffey, and The Pole in the Hole. If nothing else, it brought me good laughs and a lot of confusion as I tried to figure out what it was.

There are a lot of old things in Ireland, and ten days is not enough time to see them all. I saw a vast amount, but I reckon it was less than a fourth of what the land has to offer. Canada doesn't have old things like Ireland does. We are a baby country and our 'ruins' are about as old as Ireland's newest building.

A lot of people asked if I was a student. Next time I return, hopefully before I am eighty, I will simply tell the people who ask that I am a student so I won't have to explain what I am. Since I don't know what I am, it was a lot of rambling for a very simple question.

Ireland's tallest mountain is 1,038 metres. Canada's is 5959 metres. I would recommend not calling their mountain a hill, they are very sensitive about it. I learned the hard way.

There wasn't any candy I could eat.

Tyson + Buble = True Love

When I was a porky 12 year old, with hair that resembled a bird's nest and purple jeans, my dad took me to see a little play at Granville Island theatre. The name of the show was "Red Rock Diner" and an unknown (at the time) Michael Buble played the Elvis look-a-like in the play. I loved this show. My dad took me to see it three times in the span of a couple months. I fell in love with Michael Buble, to the point where I kept my program from the show and put his picture on my nightstand.

Every time we saw it, we would hang around after to meet the cast. And every time I got Michael Buble to sign my program. He'd give me an awkward side hug, and I'd be elated for at least three days until I asked my dad to take me again. To this day, I cannot believe he took me that many times.

Well, as it turns out, the third time IS the charm. On the third trip down to Granville Island, something truly miraculous happened. After the show, when Michael Buble came out to greet the audience, he recognized me! Hard to believe that a train-wreck, pre-pubescent, dirty shirt wearing preteen could leave an impression, but clearly I did.

Then time stood still as he crouched down in front of me and said, "You must really like the show if you came three times."

To which I replied, "It's my favorite thing in the world."

The truly amazing thing happened. He leaned over and kissed me. In my head it was a four hour make out session, but since my dad was looking on and I was 12 I will be honest, not only with myself but with you as well, and admit, it was less than two seconds. Regardless, Michael Buble kissed me.

I like to consider myself Michael Buble's first fan. And I also like to think his song, Haven't Met You Yet, was written for me. I could be wrong on the last fact, but the first is pretty certain.

Anyways, Leppy and I like to revisit the time when I seduced Michael Buble. It's no secret that we like to consider doctoring pictures as a past time. Today, I got this in my email from her:


Yep. That's Michael Buble in the Red Rock Diner. How Leppy found the picture is beyond me, but I don't question the good things in life.
And here is the video of that song I mentioned. I do have one bone to pick with this video, the way he says 'luck' at a minute and twenty seconds in. It drives me bonkers, look at his tongue. If I was his girlfriend, I would nag him about that.

Jerks

It is no secret to anyone who reads my blog that I'm a jerk. Not only am I a jerk, but I think I'm funny. I'm one of the worst kinds of jerks. Christene, code name Leppy, is also a jerk. And when one jerk responds in a jerky way to another jerk, they must expect a jerky response in return. Here is an example of two folks who have mastered the art of being a smartass:

Angry Pants

The other night at two thirty in the morning I was awoken by a phone call. Someone forgot their key and couldn't get in. I don't like being roused from slumber. I like slumber. I like peaceful uninterupted slumber. Needless to say, I was pissed off.

While recounting the story to Leppy in the morning on our way to work, she laughed when I got to the part where I didn't even bother putting on pants to go open the door. Out the apartment door I went, clad in underwear and a tank top. Across the lobby I marched, flung open the door, and greeted him with scowl. A car ideled in the parking lot, two friends who'd dropped him off sat watching.

It's spread like wildfire through out group of friends. Tyson was so pissed she didn't even give a shit that she wasn't wearing pants. When I said this to Leppy, she said, "You didn't need pants, you had your angry pants on."

Then she told me a story from her childhood. When she used to have sleepovers, her Dad would come downstairs to shout at them to be quiet. He'd be so angry he wouldn't even put on a shirt. He wore his angry shirt.

When you hit that level of anger where you don't even care if you are missing articles of clothing, you know the person means business. And I meant business.
Though I did get a phone call from Bots the next day. She told me I looked *so* cute in my underwear.

Humph. I think my point was missed.

Billy Connolly Keeps Me Company At Work

I love Billy Connolly. Always have, always will.
Today I thought it would be a good idea to listen to Was It Something I Said while at work. I've been laughing so hard people have been coming to my desk and asking me what's going on. They don't laugh when I recount it for them. I've heard some of the stuff off this DVD before, but seriously...this guy is epic.
Here, a treat for you:

No One Wants To Read Books By Girls

Just watch, fucking amazing.

Burgers and French Fries

It takes very little to keep me happy. My happiness doesn't lie in having flowers bought for me or fancy presents left on my pillow. I don't want a mound of chocolate or a ton of compliments. I don't need to be snuggled after sex or consoled when I cry. I don't want someone to take care of me financially, ensure there is gas in the car, or buy that really cool thing I love.

No. To be honest, I can buy presents for myself and ensure I am taken care of. I don't want to be touched if I am crying, which happens next to never, and snuggling sort of makes me grumpy. I often scoff at compliments and can fill the gas tank myself. So, these are things my lover need not worry about.

There are three, yes only three, things that will keep me happy:

1. Being left alone. I like solitude. I like quiet. I like having the house to myself, to do as I please, when I please, how I please. This seems simple, but I have yet to meet a guy who can just leave me alone and trust that nothing is wrong. I don't like being touched all the time. I don't like undivided attention all the time. And honestly, when I say I'm not upset, or mad, I'm not. I just want to be alone.

2. To be considered. Co-habitation is hard. Relationships are hard. I think if both parties were more considerate then everything would be better. Consideration comes in a couple different forms. One, considering whether the person you are with would appreciate your socks on the floor or drinking glasses all over the place. Two, considering if your inconveniencing them. If they're supposed to pick you, keeping them updated on what you're doing and what time you might be done. This is as simple as a phone call. And three, consider what they want and like. If I like the bed made and you're the first one out of it, you make it. Put the toilet seat down. And turn the TV down if I go to bed before you.

3. Burgers and french fries. It's the best meal in the world and easy to make. I like curling up on the couch with my burger and fries and watching Criminal Minds (or some other show). This is what I consider a good night. I don't need dancing, bright lights, or a big city date. I want a veggie burger and some fries and some show about crime of some sort. It's about an hour out of the day, but it makes everything that much better.

No joke. Three things. That's it.

Divorce Party

My friend recently got divorced. I won't state her name because I want to maintain Leppy's privacy. (oops) Regardless, it's been one of those things that you witness and think, "Shit, I never want to do this." Cross that off the old bucket-list. It is time consuming, confusing and costs a lot of money. Not to mention it is emotionally draining. Ending a relationship is hard enough let alone when it spans over a year. It's like beating a dead horse that only gets more and more rotten.

Apparently, and this just came to my attention recently, there's a new thing called a 'divorce party'. People who separate throw a party to celebrate the end of a marriage. While investigating online there is often cake, presents and invitations.

My initial reaction: What the fuck?
My secondary reaction: You've got to be kidding?
And last, but not least: What a fucking joke!

First and foremost, don't get me wrong, I understand there are a lot of marriages out there where the end needs to be celebrated. Especially if they are abusive and one person is gaining mad freedom. And to be honest, it wouldn't have shocked me if Leppy decided to have a divorce party.

She didn't. When asked, she said, "No, I wouldn't want it getting back to DingleHopper*. It might hurt his feelings." What a fucking charming girl, huh? Considerate, loyal to the end, pleasant and unwilling to hurt. Makes me sick, really. Considering he was the one who threw himself a divorce party. This is completely ridiculous. First off, it is the wrong half of the couple having a party.

What is he celebrating? That his top-notch wife left him after three months of being married because she wasn't happy? Is he celebrating the fact that he wasted a shit-load of money on a wedding that lasted less than a year? Or is it the fact that he can now check the divorced box when he cruises PlentyOfFish?

I chalk his decision to have a Divorce Party up to him not thinking. Or him copying his current girlfriend. Or him thinking he is funny when he isn't. But more so, not thinking. Was she really *so* horrible that he needed to woohoo it up? No. And he knows that. Still, he makes a big to-do about it, when in reality, he's getting divorced and he's barely thirty. It might be cool for Hollywood, but it isn't cool for regular people. Is being divorced something to be proud about? Certainly, it isn't party worthy.

I would never have a divorce party, for one very simple reason. It demeans the whole relationship. These two were together for five years. And throwing a party in the wake of its demise is a slap in the face, not only to the other person, but to yourself and the time/energy/money/love that you invested in it. I find it crass. Oh, and not to mention, it's embarrassing. Yeah, hi mom, dad, friends and family, things didn't work out. And no, you don't get your money and gifts back, but I am going to have a party to celebrate?

There is something wrong with that logic.

Thus in conclusion, Divorce Parties are fucking stupid. Being divorced is not something to flaunt. Do you really want to flaunt the fact that you failed at being married? It's like throwing an 'I gained fifty pounds' party, or an 'I lost my job party'. Flaunting failures isn't in my M.O. But, clearly, it is in other people's. Invite me to your divorce party and expect a gift, a slap upside the head. What happened to privacy? What happened to respect for the other person? What happened to respect for yourself and the decisions you made?

Enjoy your failure. Have some 'you failed' cake and wash it down with an 'aborted marriage' beer. How does that taste? Like ever so delicious inadequacy. Let's throw a fucking party, invite our friends, so we can all celebrate together. What a joke.



*Name has been changed to protect the ex-husband's identity.