Going Dutch

The scene: It's a weekend morning, the whole family is in the living room. Kids are watching cartoons, Dad is reading the paper, Mom is checking her email. All are wearing pyjamas of some description, coffee and tea are prominent.

Girl: Will I teach you how to speak Dutch?

Boy: Go on then!

Girl: Okay - we'll start with "no". Say, "nae".
Boy: That's easy; nae!

Girl: Well done. Now, I'm going to teach you how to say yes. Repeat after me... Imanasshole.

Boy: I'm an asshole. MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Parents: Fall off their chairs laughing.

True story. Girlchild is the coolest seven year old ever!

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Sometime around 1973, a friend of my Dad's who worked at the local radio station made him a huge reel to reel tape of all the easy listening hits of the time. Most of it was country music.

My parents played that tape every Sunday morning for several hundred years. When I was a little girl, I loved it; the catchy tunes and pretty lyrics really moved me. My Dad was in the military and we were relocated every four years or so, but without fail, the "Sunday Morning Music", as it came to be known, moved with us.

As we got a bit older, my brother and I became less enamoured with the music but we didn't complain too loudly; I think on some level we were comforted by the familiarity of the songs. I imagine it's similar to how some people feel about attending mass on a Sunday.

I remember sharing with my boyfriend who was a hard rock fan, the history and importance of Sunday Morning Music to our family. I told him that it didn't matter how drunk we'd been the night before or how hungover we were at the time, Sunday Morning Music was cranked and we were expected to get up and join the family for brunch. While he liked the concept, he couldn't get his head around the fact that my brother and I never tried to change the selection of music.

Recently, that old boyfriend of mine caved and in a moment of weakness ordered Sky TV. One of the consequences of having commercial television is... well, commercials. Because they are like their mother and highly suggestible, when Time/Life started advertising its new 100 country classics, our kids listened.

You can imagine my surprise and delight to hear my lil Pussycat Doll and Mister McFly belting out bits of Merle Haggard, Kenny Rogers, Dolly Parton, Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynne (and many more). I was so moved that I asked for that Time/Life collection for Mother's Day. Hubby promptly sat down at the computer and fired up Limewire. He downloaded a hundred songs and made me a playlist that would rival any commercial collection.

This morning, I got up and walked down to the shops for the Sunday papers and some fresh croissants to have with our Sunday Brunch. As I type this, Crystal Gayle is asking to be called Angel of the Morning. Johnny Cash is going to Walk the Line next and then Kris Kristofferson is gonna tell me about Bobby McGee.

Thirty odd years later, Sunday Morning Music has come full circle for me.

yesterday

I know I was supposed to be posting about our second day in Northern Ireland but I've had a hard week and just don't feel like it. Here's a slice of yesterday for you:


Today was a difficult day. My boss is a complete fucking idiot. It does no good to have the entire staff team and all the clients tell me how much they wish I was in her position when we all know I'm leaving in about 8 weeks. We found out at today's team meeting that she borrowed the petty cash for her vacation this week which left us with no money to do the work. I had to use my own money to buy ink for the fax machine. She'll likely get away with that. Fucking cow.

Just as I was leaving, the receptionist told me that my most fragile client came to the office looking for me while I was in a meeting. The receptionist said my woman was in the worst state she's ever seen her. And that's saying something. I got to her house to find her clutching a photo of her daughter. She shared her suicide note with me. It was beautiful and I told her so.

I then told her that she was being selfish and cruel. I told her that she is the perfect mother for her daughter and that all mothers make mistakes but that there is nobody better on this planet to raise our daughters. That everybody hurts and we can heal pain but not death. It wasn't until I shared with her that our accountant was killed in a car crash yesterday that she crumpled up the note and pulled herself together. I was only an hour late getting home.

When I got there hubby had his back firmly planted in my direction. I didn't even have the energy to ask what was the matter. In fact, I'm not sure I care.

Around 9pm there was a knock at the door. It was Serena. She's 6 months pregnant and full of drama. The daddy fucked off across the world soon after she told him they're expecting. Probably a good thing. They bring out the worst in one another.

He's now offering to support the child pending the results of a paternity test. I don't quite understand how this test will work with him in New Zealand and her in Ireland. Seems to me if she was going to lie about this child's parentage,she'd have found a man who can control his drinking (and thus his bladder function) and who actually has a job. Personally, I think she and the baby would have been much better off if he never found out. Then again, where's the drama in that?

She came to use the internet to pick out a crib for the baby. She is a complete and utter financial disaster, so when she told me she went out and bought an Adidas tracksuit and runners for the baby, my eye started to twitch. This is a woman who has deferred her student loans since 1999 because she can't afford to make a payment. Fucking Adidas gear for a newborn!

Serena did my eyebrows while she was here... not her best work I'm afraid. I am currently sporting two dark sperms over my eyes. Talk about a facial. Hopefully I can fix them before I have to go out in pubic, er public.

Da Nort, Day One

Last Saturday morning a workmate of hubby's gave him a lift to the airport where he collected our rental car. He came back to pick us up and for a change, we were all ready to go. A good omen for the trip ahead.

It was a bright sunny morning and all the neighbourhood children were out to wave us off. The way they carried on, you'd think we were moving back to Canada rather than driving a mere ninety minutes for an overnight visit. Briefly, I wondered if they were just waiting for us to leave so they could hone their burglary skills. Life in Dublin has touched me in so many ways...

My cynicism faded as we hit the M1 and the Corsa that seemed so zippy and easy to handle in the village began to roar and shake under the strain of the 120km/hr speed limit and terror took over. To drown out the sounds of the car and the screams in my head, I popped in a cd that I'd cleverly brought along. Of course, that lasted all of twenty seconds until the kids insisted that we play their cds. Incidently, if you've never heard your seven year old daughter belt out the words,"Don'tcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me", it's probably better to get it out of the way before you are hurtling down the highway in a gutless tin can on the _other_ side of the road.

Having never been to Northern Ireland before, we weren't sure what to expect in terms of a border crossing. As it turned out, there wasn't one. When we passed a trailer that had a sign painted on its side offering to exchange euros to pounds and sell us fireworks, we figured we'd arrived.

With hubby's lead foot and my expert navigational skills in sync,it was smooth sailing all the way and before the kids could utter the forty ninth chorus of, "are we there yet", we were all checked in and having a refreshing beverage in the hotel's bar.

I am one of those people who can't really tell people apart. If someone looks similar in any way to someone I know, I assume it's them; I'm generally wrong. So when we had been in Belfast for all of an hour and I said, "I know that guy" and stood up to say hello, it was no surprise that hubby responded by saying, "you do not know him Anna, sit down" and the children prepared themselves for the ensuing embarrassment by hiding their faces in their hands and slouching in their seats.

For a change, I was right! Geoff was an administrator at the college where I took my massage course last year. He's American, from Ohio and we'd talked hockey a couple of times while I was paying my tuition and such. When I went over to his table, Geoff recognized me immediately and said, "Oh my God! What are you doing here??" Until that very moment, it hadn't occurred to me that he might not be there for the hockey game. He was and seemed truly amazed by the coincidence. We exchanged pleasantries and went our separate ways.

For us that meant out for dinner to Scalini . Great food, friendly staff and excellent service at a very reasonable price made for a happy little family! The only drawback was a lack of a non-smoking section. It's hard to taste the delicate flavours of one's meal when your nostrils are being assaulted by someone sitting a few feet away enjoying a cigarette between courses.

And then we were off to the game. The arena was fairly small - like one you'd find if you went to a junior league game in Canada which meant that the seats I thought would be mediocre turned out to be great. The game was also very much like a junior game - without the hitting. With the new rules about two line passes and pints of really nice lager to drink, the game had a much more European flavour than we were expecting. Add to the mix a pack of American-style cheerleaders (it used to be an insult to be called a puck bunny), sponsored everything (the ref was sponsored by spec savers!) and it was like no hockey game we'd ever seen before.

Belfast won 6-4 but to give Basingstoke credit where it's due, they played the better game. Considering that the Giants lead the league and Basingstoke owns the basement, the actual game was more than a bit of a surprise in that the Bison led for nearly 55 minutes of the 60 minute game and twice were up by three goals.

After the game, we grabbed a taxi and headed back to the hotel. On the way, we all agreed that it was great to see Theo Fleury play and we all enjoyed his enthusiasm with the crowd, but it was players like Captain George Awada and playing Coach Ed Courtenay that made us all want to see another game.

As soon as we walked through the door of the hotel, boychild's gameboy mated with that of another boychild so we ended up hanging out in the lobby and having a couple of drinks from the bar while the kids played nicely, even including the girl without being threatened - er, reminded.

When we got to the room, hubby turned on the tv and I promptly fell asleep. Consequently, I missed boychild's appreciation of all the excitement and junk food he'd had which he expressed by puking all over the bathroom.

We sure know how to fill a day!