Giants

In a few minutes we're off to Belfast to see our first hockey game on this side of the pond. The Giants are taking on Basingstoke. It doesn't look like it's going to be as much a game as an ass kicking; then again, there's nothing wrong with a decent ass kicking disguised as a hockey game.

In booking the hotel, I managed to avoid the Europa which has the dubious honour of being Europe's most often bombed hotel. Don't ask me how I did that, it's completely unlike me.

A restaurant has been recommended to us by someone who claims to have IRA connections. Since he's completely full of shit about everything except good food, we made a reservation.

Hubby has worked night shift for the past four weekends in a row. We haven't slept away from home since we went to Canada in August. The kids are coming and will be sharing our hotel room, so there's no hope of anything of the adult persuasion.

Before we come home tomorrow, we'll visit the Giant's Causeway weather permitting. If the weather doesn't cooperate, we'll head for Enniskillen and have lunch in a pub.

On a Lighter Note

Today I read Armaedes' 100th post. Congratulations are in order as it's amazing that he's lived this long considering his fondness for offending everybody.

When I realized two minutes ago that I'm home alone and now would be a good time to try and blog something, I was surprised to find that this would be my one hundredth post.

Since I took at least some of Armaedes' advice to heart and resolved to refrain from posting about my boring life or sharing the results of my latest personality test, I've decided to share something which made me laugh out loud today. This came courtesy of my Scottish pal, wee Susan:

Angus walks into his bedroom with a sheep under his arm and says: "Darling,
this is the pig I have sex with when you have a headache."

His wife is lying in bed and replies: "I think you'll find that's a sheep,
you idiot."

The man says: "I think you'll find I wasn't talking to you."

Well, isn't This Special?

This just in:

Dear Anna,Hubby and Kids;

We have wonderful news! Your brother and I were engaged last weekend!! No date yet, but we'll keep you posted!

Love,

Thenextonetofuckupyourplansentirely

Great. Just. Great.

I've Lost the Plot

It's Sunday afternoon and hubby is yet again sleeping off a night shift. I'd like to take the kids swimming or something to give him some peace and quiet but it's pissing rain and the wind is howling as it blasts between the houses. Not great weather to wait for a Dublin bus in.

It's times like these that I want to buy a car. There are several reasons why we haven't done so, all of which come down to money. It's not that we can't afford a car. It's that we can't afford a car and the oodles of travelling that we promised ourselves we'd do while we're on this side of the pond.

In the first two years we were here, we did get around quite a bit. We went to the west coast of Ireland, Scotland, England, France, Germany, Luxembourg, Belgium, Lanzarote (Canary Islands) and I went to Portugal. Last year, we went to the south of Ireland and then hubby's mom got married so we spent the rest of our vacation time and money on our trip to Canada. Somehow that trip seems to have shifted something in our collective psyche. It's as if, suddenly, we've decided that we live here now. That this is home. And everyone knows that once you settle, your life less ordinary becomes a lot more... well, ordinary.

This year, for example, we are going to a family wedding in Wales in July which hubby wants to extend into a two week vacation. Again with the family weddings. It's not that I don't love hubby's family, they are a wonderful bunch of people. It's just that we could (and would) be going to this wedding had we not come to Ireland. Therefore, I can't figure out why I'm here, living in a rented house with nothing to call my own (except of course, my tv licence), if I'm going to travel exactly as I did when I was at home in Canada where I had a great job, a house and two cars.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put my raincoat on and trudge across the village to the grocery store and get something to cook for dinner.

By Default

When we first arrived in Ireland, we didn't know whether we'd be staying beyond the first available flight home and so made a decision to buy as little as possible, especially in the way of electronics which couldn't be used overseas. We bought this computer that has served as our entertainment centre for the last three years. We watch movies, listen to music and keep in touch with family and friends through it.

We've moved house three times in the three years we've been here, for a number of reasons, not the least of which are the rapacious landlords of the Emerald Isle. The third and current house came with a television. At that point we had gone some eighteen months without tv. We chose not to hook it up. The kids complained a little; the video store did not.

And then it happened. The tv licence man came a knocking. A tv licence, for those of you not familiar with the concept, is a yearly tax that you pay for the privilege of owning a television, or in our case, simply having one on the property. These taxmen have power too. They can send your ass to court! We tried to reason with him, offered to show him the dusty thing to prove that it wasn't in use. No dice. We then said that we'd have the landlord remove it. Too late, said he. Pay the tax or go to jail in 21 days.

We spent about twenty days debating the pros and cons of life in an Irish jail. On day twenty one, we bought the stupid licence (one hundred and fifty five smackers for those of you who appreciate that sort of detail). Oddly, however, having a licence doesn't guarantee that you can actually watch your tv. Good money was thrown after bad in the search for a decent antenna. We managed to get two and a half stations with the antenna. And that was okay with me... I discovered blogs and eventually started this one. I even managed to convince hubby to start a family blog with me to chronicle our adventures on this side of the pond.

This Christmas, among the incredible mountain of loot that Santa deposited down our chimney came a subscription to Sky TV. The kids were ecstatic! 999 channels; something for everyone, wuhoo! Except, I can't get near the fucking thing. In the two weeks we've had it, I've managed to watch one episode of The Naked Chef and a pile of crap called Extreme Makeover, Home Edition.

The other evening, when the kids finally unglued themselves from Nickelodeon and went to bed, hubby suggested that I'd enjoy a program called CSI Miami. And I did. Until the first commercial break when he picked up the remote and clicked through all of the other 998 channels to see what we were missing. By the time we got back to CSI, it was another commercial break and I realized I had a decision to make.

I estimated the cost of having the remote surgically removed from hubby's rectum and then went back to blogging.