Bipolar Quinn

Tomorrow I leave this place to begin my next venture…

I'm going to stay with the Pages, a family in west Cork who need help with their children and asparagus farm.  The farm is small and there are only two kids ages one and four. Plus I'll actually have my own space. I'll be upgrading from my 8 x 8 closet with a daybed which doubles as a playground for rampant Greirson children, to my own fully stocked trailer/caravan located just off the property of the Pages home.

I already like the sound of this; both children and asparagus in small batches can be healthy.

As it's my last day here in Dublin, Daniel's been kind enough to give me the day off. And though I'm disappointed with my living arrangement I've been quite taken with this town. I'm going to miss the coast, I'm going to miss these roads, I'm going to miss this ocean, I'm going to miss Starbucks.

But I don't want to spend my last day in Malahide shifting my weight on an old green couch mooching wifi and suffering espresso induced heart palpitations.

Last day at Malahide Starbucks

No, I want to go somewhere, I want to do something, and I want to see someone!

So I text Quinn.

Who's Quinn? Oh, how do I begin...

Ever hear of a "meet-cute"? If you've ever seen a romantic comedy you know what they are. In real life they don't really occur so much anymore, now that social media seems to intercept our every person to person encounter. But if you squint real hard at my story, you might just say it qualifies as a meet-cute. If you don't want to squint… just pretend. Please. For the sake of my already tenuous self esteem.

This is how it happened...

Last Sunday I planned to go into the city with time to check out some vintage stores and maybe go to a couple of museums before they closed. My day was going to plan; I got dressed, had a coffee, walked to Malahide station and was about to board my train when I was suddenly overcome by a feeling of doubt. I only checked my route about twenty times on Google maps before I left. I was certain that this was the right train yet I heard a voice in my head, too powerful to ignore. "No, this is wrong," it said. "This isn't right, you cannot get on this train." So I didn't.

The train pulled away and as I watched it ride into the distance it exploded into flames.

No, sadly the truth is a bit less climactic. I sat down on a bench trying to figure out what had just come over me as I resigned to the forty minutes I would have to wait before the next train's arrival. As I waited a young woman talking on the phone sat down next to me. Her voice felt like home. "Wow, is that what Americans sound like? I never realized how strange," I thought to myself.

Well I couldn't resist asking her where she was from and before I knew it our small exchange turned to conversation. As we boarded the next train together we discussed our backgrounds. My new friend's name is Hannah and she is originally from Ohio but she's going to school in Malahide to study history; I briefly mentioned my studies in psychology and neuroscience when a good looking young man with light blue eyes and brown hair wearing a black peacoat walked over to our seat. "Oh, you're cute. Please don't hit on Hannah, please don't hit on Hannah," I think to myself. He sat down eagerly and smiled at me,

"I heard you saying you're a neuroscientist. That's very interesting to me because I'm bipolar."

Be still my heart. See? Meet-cute. If they can't get Meg Ryan to play me I'll take Kate Hudson. Thank you!

Having lived here for two years by this point Hannah is able to distinguish between a friendly Irishman making small talk and a person who is just... insane. She doesn't hide her disconcertion. But I'm innocent and not quite as wary of strangers so I engage him,

"Oh, really? What medication are you on?"

I've just set in motion the first of what will be many, many, tangents I hear from Quinn. Like many others who suffer this disorder, Quinn has more energy than he knows what to do with. He speaks with such conviction (not to mention volume) that it is impossible to question his sincerity, but it is clear how his high energy can be off-putting to some.

"I don't believe in medication. I treat myself with supplements and mindfulness meditation. People with BPD are usually B3 deficient," he said as he pulled a conveniently placed bottle of Niacin from his coat pocket.
Now, I am not opposed to supplements... except when they're bullshit and don't work. Clearly, for Quinn, they don't work. Not to mention if you saw the dosage on these things you would swear he's using them to treat a manic depressive ox.

But to each his own. Hannah slyly managed to disengage by saying that she needs to show me where to go when I disembark and he catches on, returning to his original seat. Except as fate would have it when I stepped off the train at Tara Street I saw him standing not more than 5 yards away. He was looking over at me and I know he was anxious to continue his impassioned tangent on mental healthcare in Ireland. "Why not?" I think, "He seems harmless. And I can use the company. Plus he's a hell of a lot more interesting than Barry." So we walked into town together and before we parted we exchanged numbers. Oh yea, he lives in Malahide too.

So! That's my dear, Quinn.

Fast forward to today. I'm bored, it's my last day here, I still haven't been to Malahide Castle (yes I'm pathetic) and this is my last chance to go.

We meet outside the courtyard of the castle where once stood a resplendent english garden. It is now an Avoca cafe and tourist gift shop. But remnants of its bygone beauty still line the outer walls in colors that can only be seen to be believed. Lining the ground are bluebells and daffodils and lots of other flowery things I'm not nearly well read enough to name. I should've asked Quinn…

Courtyard Wall outside Avoca

As we wait for the next tour of the castle to begin, Quinn uses his encyclopedic knowledge to educate me on the history of the Talbots, the family who owned the castle, how they tied into the history of the english monarch, the catholic-protestant saga of Ireland, where Ireland stands with England today, etc. He is so bursting with knowledge that if I didn't know any better I would say he wrote the book on Malahide castle. Sure enough, after my history lesson with Quinn, the tour felt a bit redundant.

Malahide Castle

After the tour we take a walk around the grounds while he gives me the abridged version of Oliver Cromwell's "reign of terror" in Ireland. He also slips in some rather ballsy flirting,
"You know when we were walking on the tour I couldn't take my eyes off your ass. You have a really nice bum."
"We're walking around a five hundred year old castle and all you can look at is my ass?" I think.
But I don't even pretend to be offended as the flattery far outweighs his tactlessness.
We make our way over to Avoca where according to Quinn they serve the best cheesecake in town. The restaurant is big and sunlit with glass ceilings and pale floral motifs around the walls. It looks like we're about to have tea in a giant veranda. All the food is displayed behind glass cases like they were waiting for a magazine shoot. This food made to be photographed.

Photographed… not consumed.

Beautiful waste of calories

As I take my first bite into the beautiful slice of raspberry cheesecake I am completely crestfallen.
"I should know better than to trust a man with these things, " I think as I chew over the weak paste of bland graham cracker and slightly sour cream cheese.
While I pick at my photo prop dessert Quinn begins his next tangent about how he would rather take a bullet or go to jail than allow his taxes to pay for legal abortions in Ireland. I attempt a counter argument but he's so vehement about it (not to mention loud), that I consider changing my tactic to just ramming my crappy cake down his throat.

A few hours later, after hearing his take on religion, westernization, overpopulation, and gay marriage (that was a fun one), we part ways. I am exhausted from my day with Quinn but then I think of how much harder it must be for him. While I don't agree with him on most things, I appreciate his remarkable intelligence and his company. To have a mind like his can't be easy.

As the sun sets I walk along the shore of Malahide for the last time. I look out at the strange sea and begin to cry. Three weeks I've been here and now I'm moving on. I know nothing about where I'm headed. I'm feeling calm and anxious all at once. But I'm not lost.

The voice that told me to come to Ireland is the same voice that told me not to get on that train the other day. It's the one that's telling me to stick it out here instead of going back to New York. It hasn't steered me wrong, and I vow to myself that I will always follow it.

Penance

Today the sun is shining and the world is new. I clean the floors all over again after yesterday's escapades in hopes that it will land me back into Daniel's good graces. I ask myself:

Why do I even care?

Who knows.

I walk Gemma home from school and make her lunch: Pasta with butter… and cyanide. Okay no cyanide. But a girl can dream.

I overhear her playing outside with her poor innocent friend, Beth trying to get her to cut open a glow stick using a pair of scissors she snatched from the kitchen. I run outside to stop them which clearly upsets her and she lets me know it by taking Beth up to her room so they can pull all of the clothes out of her wardrobe for me to pick up.

I do not.

Aileen comes home from school at 3:00 and as usual makes her own lunch: four pieces of toast that she eats on every surface of the house except, well, a plate. But I can't hold this against her as compared to her sister she is a dream.

She flits around the house with a folded piece of toast in one hand and a crumpled concert ticket in the other. One Direction is coming to town on Friday and every human under the age of 16 in Ireland is going to be there to see them. Aileen is obsessed. So we sit together and watch a slew of One Direction music videos on my laptop while she sings along and goes all dreamy eyed over the one with the big eyelashes and a Pepe le Pew haircut. I have to say- if I were ten years old today, I would probably love them too. But since I'm not…

Ugh.

I've officially done my penance.

Shit Storms

Today was a bad day. A bad, bad, bad day.

The morning started as it usually does. At about 7:30 I wake to the sounds of pans clanging, doors banging, and a nine year old screaming like the house is on fire. It goes like this:
"No school today?" Sean asks before answering definitively, "No school today."
Well that solves that.
Except it doesn't, and Daniel is forced to burst his little bubble but not without a resounding
"No! No! Naaaaaoohh!"
I've gotta give it to him; Sean's got some serious pipes.

No, what made today different was that the weather was rainy and depressing and (no thanks to the morning cacophony) I felt too exhausted to get out of bed until 10:00am. Now this should be of no consequence as I usually have the house to myself; I can get out of bed whenever the hell I please provided that I can finish what needs to be done by the time I have to bring Gemma home.  But today Daniel stayed home; the bad weather meant that he would have to drive Gemma back from school.

As I feared, my late arousal did not sit well with him and instead of just saying, "Nice of you to get out of bed you lazy, twenty-two-year-old, american, ingrate," he did the next best thing. He told me that (in addition to my usual chores) I would have to mop and vacuum all the floors in the house.

Before I could say, "Daniel, your children wreak havoc on this place under normal circumstances. Why do you need the floors cleaned today when there is a torrential mudslide outside your door?" it occurred to me that his motive was not to get the floors cleaned. It was to give my sorry ass some busywork.

So instead I responded: "… okay." I mopped and vacuumed and cursed and waited for the inevitable.

When Daniel returned with Gemma the rain let up and the house was spic and span. Gemma was a good little girl while daddy was around, giving her strange performance of lovable baby and melting his big, stupid, heart. She even played outside like a normal child until she came in squealing, "Papa, I have to poo."

After her deed is done she calls, her voice filled with maniacal inflection, "Paaaaapa! Oh, paaaapa!"
"Wipe my bum." she cracks the proverbial whip.

"Smack her, Daniel just smack her," I think to myself. But Daniel abides, flushing her waste and apparently all self-respect down the toilet. Before he leaves for the office he turns to me and, perhaps feeling a pang of guilt for my prodigal punishment says,
"Bryn, thanks again for hoovering today. I really appreciate it. I'll see you guys later!"
My heart stops as I look over at Gemma and see the glint in her eye.

Fuck.

No more than five minutes after he drives away she comes to the door, dripping in mud. No, not dripping in it- basking in it. Mud on her pants, mud on her face, and in her hands two fistfuls of dirt and grass. Written on her sneering face I see the words,
"Your move, bitch."

So I walk over to her and say, "Not my problem," before kicking her in the head.

No, sadly I had to resist. I practice my diaphragmatic breathing and take her to the bathroom to get her washed and changed while she stands there looking pleased with herself. I even concede to get a different pair of pants when the first ones I choose fail to appease the beast.

Then off she goes on her merry way while I wash her clothes in what is now my third load of laundry for the day. Sean and Aileen come home, I make them lunch, and they play outside while I cook dinner wearing my Betty-Draper-gown and pounding gin by the glassful.

Okay minus the last part. But as far as I can tell, all is well at the Grierson's.

Or so I thought. Now it's important to note that "playing the baby" isn't an act reserved for the family alone. Gemma's infantile fantasy extends into all parts of her life. When she's playing outside with her friends I often hear her crawling around saying "Goo-goo, gaga."

Excuse me while I goo-goo gag.

Anyway today Gemma decided she would extend her talents into the realm of method acting. As it starts to downpour again I hear the children in the complex jumping around and think, "Aw, listen to those little Irish kids playing outside even in the pouring rain." Except they aren't playing...

It turns out that while I was cooking and cleaning like a Stepford wife on speed, the "baby" was out there shitting her little pink pants. The jumping around I heard was actually the sound of four year olds on damage control; cleaning up Gemma's mess using all the towels, rags, and yards of toilet paper they could grab from the nearest bathroom.

Crime scene

By the time I get down to see the poop filled catastrophe and the frightened little faces of Gemma's friends (her's of course is as smug as the sky is blue), Liam is standing in the doorway shooting me the look of death.
Yes, Liam, I am responsible for this. Sorry I don't have an exorcist on speed dial.
He takes her upstairs leaving behind a trail of her soiled clothes along with the site of the failed cleanup for yours truly to dispose of.

Thank you, Liam.

Now here's the thing. I am a good person. I am an honest person. I understood what my responsibilities were before committing to do this and I've far exceeded them. I do not mind doing two, three, even four loads of laundry a day. I do not mind making your beds, cleaning up toys, vacuuming your house, cooking your meals, and walking your godless sister home from school. But I have a limit. And I've just reached it.

I put dinner on the table, throw my laptop in my bag and head out to the church of Starbucks before I have a nervous breakdown.

It just so happens that today is also the day I decided to make my blog public. But I did so hastily and without any revision of the posts that were on here. Without going too into detail let's just say that I managed to hurt someone that I never intended to. Strike two.

As I have my ass handed to me on that matter I also receive the anticipated phone call from a very perturbed Daniel. Too tired to argue and knowing that anything I say would be regarded as an insult to his parenting I just apologize. I spend the rest of the night walking the coast trying to hold myself together and waiting for my strike three. On terrible days, the blows always come in threes.

Well it happened when I came home, got into bed, and tried to start writing this post. My lap top went completely black and for a moment could not be revived. When I got it started again I had lost a few programs off of it including Microsoft Office. Too tired to care.

I hate this day.

Artsy Fartsy Fownes Street

Yesterday I went to a little pink store on Fownes street called MayFly. Essentially a walk-in etsy shop the store is filled with things like handmade steampunk jewelry, hand sewn dolls, hand drawn greeting cards, vintage clothing, pinup posters, and many other wondrous knickknacks and thingamabobs that a girl like me just eats up. I went there two years ago and bought my sister a bottle cap brooch with a picture of Fred Astaire in the middle. Divine.

May Fly

I figured I would try to get some souvenirs for people and I much prefer the idea of supporting local Irish artists and buying something interesting over paying for a made-in-china, piece-of-shit, guinness-bottle-keychain that no one -and I mean no one- is ever actually happy to receive.

Along the way I wandered into a shop called Tola Vintage that is filled entirely with secondhand clothing from the 90's. Floor length, daisy print dresses that your teacher used to wear; oversized denim pants that simultaneously make your ass look flat and your hips enormous; obscenely printed bomber jackets that look like something straight out of Nickelodeon... on meth.

Fownes Street Upper

Somehow it all worked. I walked through only intending to check out the space (essentially a basement with color blocked walls and a floor brimming with unsorted heaps of nylon and denim), when amongst the rubble I spotted a pair of striped, high-waisted shorts. I went to try them on without even checking the size (and therefore only half expecting them to fit) when -to my surprise- they fit! Like a glove.
A glove on a very fat hand...
"You'll lose weight," I thought, "You can wear them in the summer!"

Then I came to my senses, set them down like a good girl and was about to leave the store when I ran into the owner and one of his salesgirl/clothing models. Apparently Tola Vintage is the number 2 boutique on Asos Marketplace and they were taking a break from a photo shoot for their latest shipment.

Among my many gifts I have the uncanny ability to spot a Nigerian.
"How did you guess that?"
"Eh, it's a thing,"
He was very nice and we ended up talking for a long while. Though I don't remember what we talked about I  recall thinking, "Wow it is so easy to converse with strangers when… well, when you're not in the states."

I ended up buying the shorts.

Starbucks, My Sanctuary

So what have I gained so far in Ireland?

Well besides a distaste for small demonic children and probably another ten pounds, I have been spending more time in coffee shops than I ever expected to in a lifetime. My espresso consumption has increased tenfold and my ability to spot a place with free wifi has been perfected into an art form. Since Natasha left I have been trying to budget my time more efficiently but it's proving to be more difficult than I thought. I wake up, make the kids' rooms, start a load of laundry, do a rough cleanup of the kitchen and before I know it it's already 10:30 and I've only an hour before I have to go pick up Gemma from school.

So what do I do with this precious window? I go to a coffee shop. Usually Starbucks, sometimes Insomnia… Pretty much anywhere with heavy cream and wifi.

It is the only time I have when I can be out and around other people until I'm off again at 6. I can get some fresh air, drink my americano, get some work done on my lap top; it is wonderful. Sometimes if I get there early enough I can stay for a full two hours! It's to the point now where the baristas are getting my order made as soon as I walk through the door.

I am officially a coffee shop creeper.

Yes, I hate me too.

Back to the Grind

It's Monday and I'm back in Malahide. Back to clean a house left in a state post-tasmanian-devil and to look after a child who just might be the devil. Natasha leaves for Cannes this Wednesday and then I'm to be stuck here until 6 every evening. Cleaning, doing laundry, watching/staying far away from Gemma until the others come home and then I get to make them dinner.

If there were ever an effective form of birth control this is it.

Fuck these kids.

My South African Angel

The stormy weather has persisted throughout the day and on the west coast of Ireland it only gets worse. The sky is grey and the wind is howling. Our bus driver said it's the worst he's ever driven through.

It is beautiful.

We get to the Cliffs of Moher but I only stay for a few minutes before I head into the museum for fear of being blown straight into the Atlantic. The winds are so strong it's hard to remain standing without being pushed over. At this moment I am feeling grateful for my very fat ass.

Maelstrom by the moors. Poe would be pleased. 

By the time we get back to Galway it is dinnertime and I am more than ready for it. I get to the hostel and check into my room- a four bed dorm. I have the place to myself and begin to unpack when I hear:

"What's up bitchessss?" Standing in the doorway is a tall blonde with a gorgeous athletic body. She looks like she could be a pro surfer or an alligator wrangler. 

"Oh, sorry. Thought the other two girls were here. I'm Sarah!"

I love her already.

Sarah is a veterinarian living in Northern Ireland but she is originally from South Africa. I asked her what type of animals she works with. "Cats, dogs, birds, cows, horses, sheep- all kinds!" See? Alligator wrangler. 

She is also traveling by herself and seems to be making the most of it. She is highly energetic, has a warm presence, and is still drunk from last night. Before I can even ask she is telling me where I can get a good drink in town and she invites me to come out with her to a comedy show. I want to take her up on it but first I must get some sustenance. For the last twelve hours the only foods available to me have been museum-café muffins and petrol station deli meats. So basically… I haven't eaten.

I head out and wander the busy little streets of Galway to take in the atmosphere. It's a small city but full of life. There is music playing from every corner, the roads are narrow and cobbled, the buildings are all over four hundred years old and the people are all under forty. It's an interesting mixture.

Bustling Quay Street (pardon the potato quality)

I finally settle on a place to have dinner. It's small and quiet with rustic decor and a very vanilla mix of Duffy and Michael Buble playing on the radio. A soothing contrast from the commotion outside. I order a glass of Spanish red and the fancy chicken dish (which is essentially just a piece of chicken with melted cheese on it and tastefully drizzled tomato sauce around the plate). 

For someone who is on a budget but can't eat pizza or sandwiches… this meal is a fit for a king. 

I head back to the hostel to unload my book bag aka "Hi, I'm a tourist," placard and weigh my options for the night. It's too late to go to the comedy show and the other girls, while kind enough to invite me out with them, seem a little too hardcore for my energy level at the moment. Still I don't want to be trapped in a hostel on a Saturday night in Galway! 

I look in the mirror. I'm wearing the only clothes I've brought with me. A ruddy yellow sweater and my usual pair of black leggings. I am battered from the cliffs of Moher and have the choice of taking a shower in the questionable hostel bathroom or just facing the world looking like I was wrung out to dry. I choose the latter. 

I head out alone and end up in a tavern called "The King's Head," drawn to it by not only its catchy name but the music coming from within. There is a live band there tonight and they're playing "This Charming Man," by The Smiths. I'm almost certain this place was calling my name. I order a 7 euro shot of Jameson and rock out for a while in my yellow sweater and black leggings before I decide it's time to head back. 

Along the way I pass by clubs brightly lit by neon signs and pounding with trance music. It is still rainy and cold and the cobbled streets are slippery, but the girls are fearlessly trekking through it in their mini skirts and stiletto pumps. I wish for a moment that I was dressed that way too, but then I remember that I'm wearing these leggings because I can't fit into a miniskirt... and I would be miserable in one. 

For the second time today, I am grateful for my very fat ass. 

I get back to the hostel at around midnight and as I expected, everyone is still out. I get ready for bed and then, to my surprise, Sarah comes in. She is too tired from last night's escapades to stay out tonight. So we talk for a while; from basic things like where we're from, what our interests are, etc. to what it's like to travel alone, the challenges of meeting new people and trying new things, and the judgement you face as a young person who doesn't really have "a plan." I confess that I struggle with having too many options and not knowing what it is I truly should be doing. She says:

"You think you don't know what it is you want for yourself, but deep down you always know. You just can't worry about what other people think. In the end you're going to do what you want anyway. And what you're doing right now is brave."

She didn't know how much I needed to hear those words.

The next morning I left her a note before heading out for the second leg of the tour:

"It was so wonderful to meet you, Sarah. I hope we see each other again someday."

And I mean it. I really hope I see her again.

Getting To Galway

Today I left for a two-day bus tour of Galway. I woke up at 6:00am, put all my things together, got into a cab and then realized halfway into town that I had forgotten to lookup my reservation number for the tour. I looked frantically through my ipod in hopes that maybe I had the foresight of screen grabbing it when I first received the email, but alas I did not. In my desperation I asked the cab driver, Mr. O’Toole, if I could use his phone to check my email. “Of course ya’ can dear.” He took it off the dashboard, fiddled with it for a moment, and handed it to me.

His background was a sweet picture of what I assume was his baby granddaughter. “Aw, how adorable,” I thought. I clicked the browser and it promptly opened to Pornicle.com Hmm. That’s one I haven’t heard of. "Six o’clock in the morning, on the job, and still finds time to jerk off. Now that’s dedication," I thought to myself.

But now I was in a difficult position. Do I close it? Or do I just leave it and start a new tab? I decided to close it. Better to let him think his fiddling was successful and that I was none the wiser to his early morning porning.

Anyway I successfully retrieved my reservation number, we got into town with time to spare, and it only cost me 33 euro! Yep. Thirty-three fucking euro on a trip that would otherwise only cost me three. But I think of it as a necessary expense. If I didn’t have to take a cab then I might not have had a kind person to lend me his phone.

Today I learned: Smartphones are actually quite useful. For many, many things. 

Barry

My sad little rant was cut short when I was approached by a guy who was in the Starbucks at the time I was writing it. I put out into the universe that I was in need of company and company I received.

Kids, be careful what you wish for.

He sat down and we talked for a while. He seemed nice; tall, prematurely balding, a little goofy looking but an ostensibly harmless demeanor. Let's face it though, I was so in need of conversation when he approached that I would have taken anyone. He revealed that he too is a "traveler," (although I would hardly call myself a traveler, I'm certainly considered one whilst here in Ireland). Barry's lived in Thailand, Tasmania, Beirut, Australia, New Zealand- you name it- he's been there. At first I thought, "Wow, what a worldly fellow. I bet he's got some interesting perspective or at least some decent stories to tell."

Nope. In fact it turns out that this man is one of the least interesting people I have ever encountered in my life. Now I am not suggesting that in order for a person to be interesting they need to be witty or entertaining or even mildly intelligent. But at least have some fucking interests. Some opinions? I've had better conversations with a sac of peanuts.

I know what you're thinking. Has she really had conversations with a sac of peanuts? It's possible.

Anyway! As it turns out he is living in the same town as me. Oh, goody. So when we left Starbucks we took the train back together. Before we parted he asked if I had plans for the weekend.

Did I? Oh yes. Yes! Thank god, yes. I'm going to Galway tomorrow.

Sorry, Barry. Truly. I know I sound cruel but I just can't bear another second of staring into your dead, dead eyes.

I'll have that seat reserved in hell now. Thank you!

A Day in the City

I have no idea how people sit in coffee shops and write. My brain is so overwhelmed right now it feels impossible to reflect. I just spent the last three and a half hours trolling the streets of Dublin with a shit eating grin and a giant back pack strapped to my shoulders. I am a grade A tourist.

As much as I enjoy walking around the city by myself I can’t help but feel a pang of loneliness. Everyone seems to be walking in pairs or groups. And it makes sense. When I see something I like, my first instinct is to share it. I have no one to turn to and say “Hey look at that!” Hence the shit eating grin. I'm saying everything to myself.

I know I’m not the only person who goes traveling alone. But I also find it hard to meet people. So I took a leap of faith and put up post on Reddit Meetup. I figured maybe there are other people on their own in Dublin who wouldn't mind some company. But alas, no responses. It got eleven upvotes though! Whatever that means...

The Devil Lives in Dublin

Oh my. So today I picked Gemma up from school for the first time. I was warned that she wouldn't talk to me but this didn't stop me from trying. As we walked home I made jokes, sang songs, and ultimately made an ass of myself until we reached the front door of her house. When I opened my bag to look for the keys I pulled out a package of chocolate coated rice cakes. That will teach me to stray from my diet.

We got inside and the first thing she did was ask me for a rice cake... well, she asked her mother to ask me for a rice cake. I was thrilled when Natasha said that Gemma wanted one. "Here's my chance to break the ice!" I thought.

Nope. I only wish now that I could turn back...

Picking flowers/plotting her attack on the walk home

Gemma finished her rice cake, Natasha left the house and my day turned into an episode of the Twilight Zone.

I went into my room and Gemma followed me. She walked over to the shelf where I keep my rings. "Aw, she wants to play with my jewelry," I thought.

She rifled through them, picked out my favorite one (bless her satanic intuition), and began to violently throw it across the room giggling at my pleas for her to stop. When she got bored with that she picked it up, ran to her room and hid it. Before I could get to her she was standing at her door. She looked up at me with her sweet little face and hissed, "You will never get this ring back."
       
Fine, you little shit. I'll just have your mother get it from you later. I walked into the kitchen defeated, but relieved to be away from her wrath… or so I thought.

I turned around to see that she has followed me. She closed the door behind her and said, "I get to eat in the kitchen. You don't." Clearly she's forgotten all the times I sat with her to eat dinner… in the kitchen. But why argue with the child? I walked calmly toward the door and she placed herself firmly in front of it. "You will never see your mommy again," she swore.

Oh. My. God. I almost reached for a knife but then I remembered…
"She weighs 30 pounds, Bryn. Just open the door."
So I swallowed my horror and I opened it with ease while her body remained fully attached. Before retreating to my bedroom I made a futile attempt at retaliation,
"Gemma you're mean. I don't play with mean girls."

As you might imagine, she was unfazed by my remark. I realize now how pathetic that statement really was. But it was that or "Fuck you, little girl."

Ah, but it didn't end there. She proceeded to follow me to my room all the while spitting at me. Yes friends, spitting at me. I closed the door and she spit on my door. I opened it, she ran inside and spit on my mirror.

Okay that's it.

I conjured what I thought would be an intimidating tone of voice and said,
"I am an adult. You are a child. You do not have to like me but you will listen to me. You need to leave. NOW."
She responds:

"There's going to be blood coming out of your head."

Today I learned: Don't give rice cakes to children of the underworld.

Day Two. I Am Landed.

This will be a day behind but I've been a bit delirious thanks to good ol' jet lag.

I woke up after two hours of sleep and made myself some eggs with avocado. After that lasagna nightmare they were the best eggs I'd ever had. Then I spent an hour with Natasha as she took me around the house showing me all that needs to be done on a daily basis. It goes like this:

. Clear the plates, utensils, pots, pans, egg-scrap-shit-show left over from breakfast. Then wash the dishes and clean the counters. Take the compost, the recycling, and the trash to their respective bins outside the house.
. Clean the toys off the floor in the basement den. (The toys of course being those highly unnerving lego and play mobil pieces that seem to multiply as you're putting them away).
. "Hoover" the den. And all the stairs in the house. And the kitchen. And the upstairs den. And all five bedrooms.
. Clean the bathrooms: Collect the toys from the tub, clean the sinks, clean the mirrors, clean the toilet, collect the dirty towels for the laundry. 
. Fold the clean clothes from the laundry and put away in the children's rooms
. Take clothes out of washing machine and hang out to dry on clothesline
. Collect dirty clothing from the bedrooms and start another load of laundry

All this takes around an hour to an hour and a half depending on how much there is to do. Mind you, Natasha doesn't keep paper towels in the house. Or napkins. Or tissues. She uses rags and small towels to clean everything. The sink, the counters, the windows, even the dishes. I thought, "Wow. How eco-friendly of her." But as I looked around I realized that she is just cheap. Very, very, very, very, very cheap.

This nice German lady puts us Jews to shame. She has literally just enough plates and cups to accommodate each member of her family plus one. Having dealt with the laundry twice already I've noticed that each child only owns about three shirts… and all about two sizes too small. Natasha explained that their school uniforms are hand-me-downs from their cousins as the new ones are too expensive to buy at forty euros a piece. 

Then there's getting the garbage from the kitchen to fit into the bin outside. I have to get inside the bin and stand on the trash to compress it, as they won't pay for the tag required for biweekly removal. The problem with that logic is that for a family of six, once a week isn't nearly frequent enough. It is currently overflowing even after my daily rain dance on top of it. 

After I finished the exhausting task of cleaning the house Natasha took me with her to pick Gemma up from school so I could learn the route. When we got back I felt utterly depleted and there wasn't much time left in the day for me to go to town so… I didn't.

Dinner tonight was rice, steamed broccoli, and fried zucchini. Not fried rice, not spiced rice, not sautéed rice, just… rice. Now I understand cutting corners when it comes to clothing that your children will inevitably grow out of, paper goods that are really a convenience more than a necessity, and I even get the stinginess when it comes to trash removal… sorta. But feeding your children? Come on.

We sat down at the table and the kids took their share of the food first. When it was my turn to eat what was left of the broccoli was two stems. Two stems that Natasha so generously offered to me because, "The kids won't eat the stems." Well of course they won't, Natasha. Nobody eats the fucking stems. 

Ultimately my dinner consisted of two broccoli stems and some fried zucchini. Oh wait! I also got to eat Aileen's leftover meat sauce from the night before. Good thing I saved it. 

On the bright side- if things continue like this I'll be a size two by June.

I Thought You Said She Was Blonde

Yesterday I landed at 6:30am. Natasha picked me up at 7:00 and on the way to the house we drove through town. It was completely desolate on account of the bank holiday.

When we got to the house Natasha warned me that my room was being occupied by her ten year old daughter, Aileen. "She has never slept a night that room. I think it's because we just put new curtains in there." Yes, Natasha, she did it because of the curtains. So rather than retire to my room as I so desperately needed, I went into the kitchen with Natasha.

First I meet Gemma. She is four years old and looks like a cherub; curly blonde hair and sweet little face. She walks in still half asleep in her pink pajamas, takes one look at me and goes straight to her mother's arms. Natasha told me that Gemma is extremely shy. When we picked her up from school the next day I saw that she doesn't even talk to her teacher.

Then I meet Sean. Oh, Sean. He is nine and also beautiful. He comes darting into the kitchen and is already saying my name, "Hi Bryn," he smiles. Sean is autistic. He spends all day running in and out of the house taping pieces of paper to rakes and poles stuck in the ground in the backyard. They're his "flags." I look outside and the yard is littered with paper from his flags that get inevitably blown over by the Irish wind. I admire his persistence.

Then as though it was planned, I meet the next eldest, Aileen. She left my bedroom to meet me to size me up. Her friend accompanied her and Daniel tells me to guess which one of them is Aileen. Well let's see... 

One of the girls has an adorable smile and giggles a lot. She has a turned up nose and dirty blonde hair like Gemma, and bright brown eyes like Sean. The other one has thick, shiny black hair tied in two braids. She has an absolutely striking face with the look of sheer defiance written all over it. Think Wednesday Adams only prettier.

"I thought you said she was blonde,"she says to Natasha. 

Yes. This one is their daughter. 
         

The welcome sign on my door

Within hours of my arrival Natasha and Daniel have left me alone with the kids. I go into the kitchen and find Sean "making cupcakes." I'm finally starting to feel the half a valium I took almost 12 hours ago as I walk over and see he has a bowl filled with what looks like 5 pounds of flour. He is anxiously awaiting his next instruction and I have no idea what to do. "Chocolate cupcakes!" he says. He found the hot cocoa mix and has poured it into the flour. Great. He certainly is resourceful. He grabs pink food coloring out of the cabinet and drops some in. Resourceful and creative?
        
Now it is my turn. The kitchen is stocked with literally ten food items and I've no idea where to find a single one. I open the fridge. The only things in it are a half gallon of milk and a huge brick of butter. Done. I try to salvage what I can of the floury concoction: 2 eggs (not nearly proportionate to the amount of flour in that bowl), a bit of butter, some milk, sugar, baking powder, salt, and prayer. Then in walks Liam.
         
At fifteen Liam is the oldest child. He looks like your average Irish guy- skinny, fair and freckled. He sees our bowled catastrophe and tries to lend us a hand. He manages to form the clumpy mixture into something that at least resembles cake batter. 

Mission accomplished? Sure. Until Aileen walks in, gives me the look of death and says, "What did you do? Don't you know how to make cupcakes?"
        
Liam puts the cupcakes in the oven that I have no clue how to work and then we talked a bit. He's only fifteen but it's as close as I'm getting to having company that's even close to my age so I am wholly grateful for his engaging me. He's nice... but I find it unsettling how completely untroubled he is for a fifteen year old boy. Now what does that say about me?
       
After we talked and took out the doomed cupcakes for which Aileen was quick to offer her critiques, "They just taste like flour. And why are they pink?" I finally went into my room and took a long overdue nap. I awoke around dinner time. Natasha was making lasagna bolognese. 

Fuck.
       
Still feeling delirious and quite hungry I joined them for dinner and had my piece of lasagna. There was also a "salad" set on the table. It was a bowl of roughly chopped iceberg lettuce next to a spray bottle of vinegar. 

Double fuck.
       
When dinner was finished the family went upstairs to watch a movie and Natasha put me to work clearing the table and washing the dishes. Aileen had steamrolled all of the meat sauce out of her lasagna and  while my first instinct was to clear the plate into the trash, Natasha told me to save it in tupperware.  I know, I am a wasteful American. Then I went to bed and tried to fall back asleep while the kids ransacked the house extra nice for the morning. Oh joy.
     

Summary for my first day:

I made pink floury cupcakes, took a nap, ate a slice of lasagna (and survived), cleaned the kitchen, went back to bed.