Seven years

Seven years ago, I was a technical writer at a university in south Texas, trying to help department heads hash out some sort of more detailed hurricane plan in the wake of Katrina the year before.
Seven years ago, I had a salary of my very own.
Seven years ago, I saw a lot of movies in the cinema.
Seven years ago, I'd never watched an episode of Curious George.

Seven years ago, my husband was at a conference a plane ride away, and I was eight-and-a-half months pregnant.

Seven years ago, I'd never heard of Facebook.
Seven years ago, I'd already been blogging indolently for a couple of years.

Seven years ago, I knew my life was about to change utterly, and I was about as ready for it as you can be.

Seven years ago - plus a few hours - my waters broke.

Tofurkey or not tofurkey

I love the days when I have a legitimate reason to make B take the kids out for a couple of hours, turn on some music, and potter happily around the kitchen all afternoon. Even though I always say that Thanksgiving isn't our holiday, and so we feel no compulsion to celebrate with anything special, the general widespread culinary busy-ness always infects me and it turns into one of those days after all.

A few weeks ago, as I may have mentioned, I saw a recipe for carnitas on Smitten Kitchen, and decided that maybe we should have traditional Thansksgiving tacos, just as the pilgrims did.

On Tuesday I garnered the ingredients I needed, except for the meat, which I couldn't find in Safeway. Never mind, I thought. Fate will provide. Indeed, in spite of a day sandwiched by a dental appointment for one child in the morning and a doctor's appointment for the other in the afternoon, fate, in the shape of the local co-op supermarket did provide: there was a large pre-packaged piece of pork shoulder in the meat fridge, and when I asked at the counter they said that the butcher would happily let me have just the three pounds of it I needed, and even cube it for me as per the recipe.

Then there was the question of dessert. Dash has been pestering me lately to make caramel, ever since he tasted some caramel dip for apple slices at a halloween party. He didn't eat any of the apple, but he very much enjoyed licking off the caramel. I keep telling him that I've never made caramel, and it's very tricky, and I don't have any cream so I just can't; but evidently the notion took root because as I wandered around the co-op waiting for the butcher to do his thing, I vaguely remembered that there was a recipe somewhere for caramel apple cheesecake. That sounded nice, and I had ricotta in the fridge to use up. So I bought some apples.

When I got home I found the recipe, in Nigella's Feast, but it turned out to need apple schnapps and no actual apples at all. As well as cream and other things I still didn't have. So that idea was shelved. This morning I made chocolate ricotta muffins with the ricotta, which was only about a cupful and not nearly enough for cheesecake anyway. But I still had all those apples.

This afternoon I looked at the clock, asked B when he wanted to eat dinner, and then informed him that they'd better scarper quickish so I could put the meat on right now - carnitas take almost as long as a small turkey after all. Once the meat was aromatically braising in its margarita bath (as Deb calls it), I thought some more about dessert and vaguely searched the Smitten Kitchen website for "apples". Bingo. A last-minute tarte tatin.

I've never made tarte tatin before, and didn't realise that the apples were actually cooked in caramel before being pastried, but once that became apparent, it was the obvious solution. I ended up using the pastry from the first recipe I found and the apple/caramel method from the second, because Deb said it was more foolproof. And I used my stainless steel pan with a plastic handle for the caramel part, transferring to a glass pie dish for the baking. As the arrangement of my apples was more rustic, shall we say, than artistically exact, it didn't destroy anything. And the whole thing turned out most satisfactorily in the end.

The carnitas worked miraculously - one moment I was looking at all the brining liquid still in the pan and wondering whether I should cheat and take a scoopful out to help it reduce; then I did a spot of washing up to clear the decks and when I looked again, there was only a tiny puddle left in the bottom and the chunks of meat were starting to brown up amazingly and fall apart just as predicted. (So much so that I took a photo, even though Deb's is much more appetizing, just to show you that even mere mortals can achieve this.)

We* had our carnitas on warmed corn tortillas, with jicama slaw (about two-thirds of a jicama and one carrot, grated, with three finely sliced spring onions and this dressing), queso fresco, avocado, and fresh limes for squeezing. It was just like being back in southmost Texas in the hallowed booths of Mister Taco. (And believe me, for all I malign Texas, that's one of the things we miss.)

And now I'm just waiting, with an extra glass of wine, for B to put Dash to bed before we break out the vanilla icecream and dig in to the tarte. With great forethought, I didn't try too hard to give Mabel a nap this afternoon, so it's 7.15 and she's fast asleep. For now, at least.

*The children, lest I need to comment, did not have any. Dash has had his usual peanut butter sandwiches today, and Mabel, despite being presented with various other foodstuffs, has eaten half an apple for breakfast, three cheesesticks for lunch, and no dinner all all. Oh, and two chocolate ricotta muffins for snacks. Maybe that was an error.

** Mmmm. I have a mouthful of chewy sugary appley goodness as I type. I am a total tarte-tatin convert. A tart for tarte, if you like.  I don't think I'll ever make a plain old apple pie again.

Good things

Back after Christmas, with a bigger tummy and lots more kicking. At my appointment on Monday I'd put on 8lbs in the whole pregnancy, which while still not a lot for this stage, does mean that in the last month I put on as much as in the previous almost-five combined. Anyway, judging by the amount of activity going on in there most of the time, everything's just hunky dory. And I've officially grown out of everything but real maternity gear.

So over the holidays I let my guard slip a little. I stopped being all optimistic about where we lived and when people asked how it was, I was more inclined to say "Well, it's a place to live, and we'll be moving soon" or something equally unflattering. Driving back from the airport on our return, all I could think was how alien it all was, still, after 18 months, and how really the only thing making us come back was the fact that all our stuff was here. Oh, and our jobs, I suppose. But there are good things too about here: I just have to dig a little deeper to find them.

Things I do appreciate about living here, in no particular order:

Mixer taps. It's not that they don't exist in Dublin, just not in the houses we were staying in. It makes washing your face a pain when one side of the sink has water a degree or two away from ice and the other is boiling and never the twain shall meet unless you actually go to the trouble of putting in the plug and filling the sink.

Warmth. I know the climate is a mixed blessing and I complain about the damned heat and the stupid lack of seasons, but it is nice to be able to walk around in a towel after your shower and not have to throw on the first clothes you can see because it's just too cold to linger in less than five layers.
Not living out of a suitcase. Having all my stuff and a place to put it. Which I suppose is how I define home these days.

Turtles. I saw one at lunchtime, in its natural habitat. Don't get that in Dublin in December.
Plentiful and cheap maternity wear. There's a lot more over here than there is at home, though I did well out of the sales over Christmas.

Our car. Driving my own car makes me feel like a grown up.

Better skin. I'd hardly been home a week when my cuticles were starting to shred and I was getting dry patches on my legs. I don't know if it's the humidity or the mildness here, but those are two things I don't have to worry about. (Of course, I have to weigh that against the better hair I always seem to have at home, but let us not speak of that.)

Martin Luther King day. Of course, there are more public holidays at home, but there isn't one next Monday. Nyah nyah.

Anticip-

Updating purely because I'm afraid my diary will get sidelined again if I leave it too long. Deep thoughts are not assailing me much these days, so I've nothing in particular to say.

The amount to which I am looking forward to our upcoming long weekend in Boston is ridiculous. It's only four days, but we get to leave Texas, to see actual trees, to be outdoors in under-80-degree weather, and so on. And hanging out with all the in-laws, going to a big party and staying in a posh hotel are also reasons to be happy.

Pas si mal

Okay, I admit it. Just sometimes, living here isn’t the worst. Just now, the weather’s bloody gorgeous. Too hot for exerting oneself in, but for a short sit out, pretty damn nice. I just finished my sandwich and took my yogurt outside to sit in the sun, because the combination of the air conditioning in here and the coke I just drank had me a bit chilled. I walked around the back of the building and sat against the wall, facing the baseball diamond where some strapping lads were having a bit of a practice and blasting some music in a not entirely unpleasing manner. I just closed my eyes and felt the heat buzz in my veins as it sank in, replacing the cold with hot. They turned off the stereo and the soothing sounds of chirping – dare I say it? – parrots replaced it.

Sky: blue with wispy clouds.
Temperature: 85 F.
Yogurt: refreshing and creamy.
Life? Not so bad.

Pie opportunity

I don’t think I ever got around to writing about the frito pie, did I? Okay then.

Culinary delights of south Texas, part umpty. Actually, I don’t know if this is native to south Texas or Mexico, or the midwest, or where. But it seems to me like the ultimate trailer trash food. (I mean that in a totally non-insulting, Nigella Lawson way. Though I have to admit that it repulsed me, and I don’t know if Nigella would condone it. But maybe I’m just missing the greatest taste ever, like her recipe for ham cooked in Coke. I haven’t tried that either, but I totally would. Anyway.)

So there was a winter celebration or some such “it’s Christmas but we can’t call it that” event for all the staff back in December. We had fun carnival games like ring tossing and pie throwing and tins of cans knocking over, and they had burgers and hot dogs and frito pies. I joined the frito pie line because it was shortest and everyone at my table was headed that way, and as we shuffled along I asked what a frito pie was. “Chilli and cheese”, they said. Okay. We got closer and I watched what was happening at the top of the queue. First the people doling out the food would pick up a packet of Fritos. (Fritos are corn chips, very bad for you and tasty in that way where you can feel the fat slither straight from your gullet onto your hips but you Can’t Stop Eating until the bag is empty. Luckily, they make the bags fairly small. I honestly can’t think of an Irish equivalent. Let’s say it’s like a packet of Rancheros, just for comparison.)

So, they take the Fritos. They cut along the side of the pack to open it as wide as possible. Then they take a ladle of chilli and pour it STRAIGHT OVER THE CHIPS IN THE PACKET. Followed swiftly by a ladleful of cheese sauce. (I’m sure that should be cheez sauce. The really synthetic luminous sort.)

Hey presto, Frito pie! Eat it with a plastic fork.

I goggled quietly and moved to the hamburger queue instead.

For the record, I didn’t try it so all I’m saying is that it looked gross. If it tastes like ambrosia and/or is the signature dish of your region/family/tribe, well good for you and I clearly missed a treat. And I’m aware that my capitalization of Frito is erratic. I did it on purpose.

Righteous indignation

I realise that commuting by bicycle is pretty unusual in this town. I’m used to getting funny looks, especially since I do sensible things like wear a helmet and a reflective belt when I cycle home from work. I know that the notion of cycling to get somewhere you need to be when you actually own a functioning, fuel-filled car is a bit hard to process for a lot of people here. And I’m reconciled to the fact that almost the only other person over the age of ten that I’ve seen on a bike has been a small Mexican man with bananas in his front basket.

So as I wend my merry way home, musing on tonight’s dinner or how I just might do some pilates today, I expect to get a few looks of curiosity, interest, or even amuseument. I don’t, however, expect a large red SUV full of grown men to swing by, to hear shouts and laughter, and see a handful of ice fired straight at me from the passenger window.

Yes, grown men threw stuff at me for fun, because I was on a bicycle. What are you, six? I wasn’t even wearing shorts - not that that would excuse it in the least, but I suppose I might think it made me a bit more conspicuous. Oh wait, I was on a bike. There’s all the conspicuousness I needed.

Most of the ice fell short but some hit me, one piece got me on the chest hard enough to hurt a bit and leave a wet mark on my t-shirt that lasted all the way home. They could have put my eye out, you know. Once I’d recovered from the sheer amazement, I moved rapidly to fury and swore loudly at them (when I should have been looking at their licence plate). A little futher on, a man whose car was blocking my way said “Are you okay?” as I swerved around him. Still jarred, I didn’t know if he was coming on to me or what, and just said “Fine” in a high-pitched, sod-off sort of voice. I turned around to see him getting back into his car and I realised he’d actually seen what happened and stopped to make sure I was all right. Which was really decent of him. And I’d just been rude. Which made me feel worse. If you’re reading, sorry for being so snotty, and thank you. I hope you realised I thought you were just another person getting on my case for riding a bike. For heaven’s sake.

Back to the unreal life

Christmas was lovely. Home was lovely. It was great to be back. There were, of course, downsides, like cold Irish houses and vicious hangovers and Dublin prices, but these merely serve to remind one that this is the real world. Not this fictitious always-warm, cheap-because-it’s-the-middle-of-nowhere, temporary life we lead for the other eleven and a half months of the year. Dublin hits you with reality like a gust of rain in the face and punches you in the gut with house prices.

I had a few moments of, anxiety, let’s say, when the whole baby-job-house-future notion started to look like far more than we could chew. The trouble with trying to plan a baby is that once it’s on track you can’t stop halfway through the pregnancy and say, “Let’s just shelve this for now. We can pick it up again later when things have calmed down.” And then, feck, you’re baby-owners in Texas, with all the extra stuff that entails, not to mention the actual infant, moving to who knows where for however long it might be, and will you ever manage to live at home as you keep assuring your family that one day you will?

But I know that life goes on, and people have babies, or don’t, and move to other countries or other states, and live there for a few years or ever, and change their plans and make new ones, and I don’t actually have to have it all set in stone right now.

From. As in "from."

Went to lunch with a couple of co-workers. They’re not the most talkative and when faced with quiet people I just get quieter, so it was all a bit awkward. Anyway, one of the short bursts of conversation went like this:

Him: So, are you from Ireland?
Me: Yup.
Him: Ahh. So what’s it like there; hilly, flat?
Me: Hilly round the edges, flat in the middle.
Him: Riiight. And, have you ever actually gone there?
Me: Where? [Thinking, he probably means to the mountains, but I’m horribly afraid he doesn’t]
Him: [Confirming my worst suspicions] To Ireland.

Gahh. I’ve learnt my lesson with “Irish”, and now accept that to many Americans it means “of Irish decent”. But what part of “from Ireland” doesn’t mean “from Ireland”?

I clarified that I was not merely born there but also lived there until two years ago. Then we all went back to contemplating our tamales and the medieval recorder consort the university had laid on for our holiday pleasure.

Special price, just for you

We went to Austin for the Thanksgiving weekend, and I had started to write about that, but it became long and boring, so rather than never post anything I think I’ll just give you a quick synopsis.
We went to Austin. It was Thanksgiving and we enjoyed not having turkey and relatives thrust upon us. We walked miles in search of breakfast, shops, and whatever else we happened to want just then but couldn’t find. We saw The King and I and Sideways. We ate Thai food because they don’t have that down here. We drank in nice bars, because they don’t have those either. And on the way home I got my shopping fix – we got a lovely red rug to pull the room together, pasta bowls the like of which we’ve wanted forever, and a few modest items of clothing. No presents for other people, just presents for us.




So then last weekend we went to Mexico in search of presents for other people. I had this notion that they’d have lovely soft blankets in muted colours like the one my Dad has that I purloined when I moved out because I liked it so much. I used to fall asleep on it, or under it, and it’s been part of my life for ever. But apparently they stopped making those sort of blankets 40 years ago, or else they just don’t get them in our part of the country. Everything either looked old and grubby and dull or had fluorescent orange and pink in it. Mexicans like their colour, oh yes they do. More colours? Roll up, come on in. Clashing colours? Just what we wanted. Take a seat. Blindingly bright primary colours? Please arrange yourselves beside one another to form fishes and Indians and diamond patterns as garishly as possible, so we can sell you to the silly gringos. “Subtle” is not a word they know. Or even “coordinating”. Or just “not putting every single colour you have in the same thing together”.

Nor had we reckoned on the bargaining. Silly me, I thought we’d walk into a shop, look at the pretty things, find something with a suitable price tag, and pay for it. Instead, first we ran the gauntlet through the Tourist Fodder Shopping Center as all the shop owners called out to us: “Over here, come in my shop.” “Come see my blankets.” “I have junk, you want junk?” (Junk? Isn’t that drugs? In this case, it seemed to be what they call nicknacks and gewgaws and stuff without a name.) “Special price for honeymooners, you come in my shop.” “Wedding rings, we sell you wedding rings.” Okay, which are we? Honeymooners or elopers? “Turn right, you see my shop, lovely things.” I instinctively turned left. Right at the end, we came to a shop with a little man in it who didn’t say anything. Encouraged, I went in and gingerly touched a rug. I didn’t like it much. He jumped up and started showing me more. King size, queen size, red, yellow, blue, serapes, blankets, hand made, very good quality. We really didn’t like anything there, but the interesting thing was that with no input at all on our part he beat himself down from his initial “very special price” of $30 to about $12 as we finally left the shop, protesting that we really truly didn’t want it, but we might come back later. Ah, the politeness of the Irish, trying to leave a shop without offending anyone.

So a valuable lesson was gleaned – we were supposed to bargain, and we could probably get them down to half price. Armed with our new knowledge we went somewhere else a while later and bought an enormous, but very nice, red diamond-patterned blanket. The initial “very special price, just for you” was $75. I offered 30, which was probably too much, but he made it clear that I was consigning his wife and 23 children to a life on the streets with no shoes and not a tamale to their name. We finally agreed on 40, though he was already putting it in a bag for us while we thought we were still discussing whether we really wanted it. Then the calculator came out to convert it to pesos, and we didn’t have quite enough – we only had 4000 even, which we were roughly estimating to be $40 but is really a bit less. He took what we had, as it was demonstrably all the cash we posessed. I’m sure his wife and children are currently rolling round in all the tamales they could want.

Institutional old-people hair

The hilarity of life in southmost Texas continues.

On Friday I had a good haircut that had grown out far too much. Today I have a bad haircut that will take a long time growing in before I can go and get it fixed – which will involve being told off by a sarcastic Irish hairdresser for letting someone with no clue anywhere near my hair. I know, but I couldn’t help it. It was one of those avalanche things where once I’d started the ball rolling I just had to go ahead and get the inevitable bad haircut.

This is how it happened. I grew my hair for the wedding, to put it up, as you do, and all my friends (not my mother, though, who apparently won’t be happy till I have a buzzcut or something) said my hair was lovely long and I should keep it that way. It seemed to be behaving much better at home than it ever did in PA, though, and I had no way of predicting how it would react to the reported extremes of humidity in Texas, so I thought I’d keep it like that for a little while and see how things went. It did okay, but by last week – by weeks ago, really – there was just way too much hair and I really needed to get it cut. My hair is very thick and slightly wavy, and my face is not large, so too much hair swamps me. (This is why Mum is always trying to get me to cut it.)

Fine, but I’d been reliably informed that there were no decent hairdressers in this neck of the Texas woods. Impossible, I thought. We have a mall. We have civilization. On the other hand, on further examination, the place in the mall charges $12.50 for a unisex cut, which seemed a bit below my budget. I’m prepared to pay, ooh, even twice that for a cut that will grow out well. I just have to find one. I looked in vain at the women I know to find one with a cut I considered good, but they all have the sort of hair that doesn’t appear to have any style. You know, American hair, in the bad, Rikki-Lake-audience sense. I communicated this to my mother, who now thinks I live in a town populated only by 300-pound people with bushy hair. She’s only half right.

Finally, I took my life (hair) into my hands and asked my co-worker: the self-styled she-who-knows-everything. (Self-styled there doesn’t relate to her hair. She has a stylist who’s a friend, but is out of town and therefore not suitable for me.) Triumphantly she came up with an answer: her sister’s lady. I’ve never met the sister, but was informed that her hair is good. Or maybe it was “fine”. Not “crappy”, anyway. I would have remembered that.

So, my co-worker (let’s call her Maria) rings her sister (let’s call her Leonora) and puts her on to me. Leonora says yes, she has a very good lady she’s been going to for ten years now, very reasonable, knows what suits your face shape, and so on. Just one thing: she works in a nursing home. Here’s the number; give her a ring and say Leonora recommended her to you.

Ohhhkay. That all sounds fine. Except for the nursing home bit. What? Is she a receptionist who will turn around and snip at my hair between answering the phone? Is she a nurse who’ll pretend I’m a patient in need of a haircut? Well, anyway, now I had to call her. I couldn’t say: “No Maria, I’m not going to use your sister’s recommendation because it sounds funny and I’m prejudiced against people who work in nursing homes. And I don’t trust your taste and I think your sister who I’ve never seen has a bad American-lady haircut.” So I was committed. I knew this would happen when I asked Maria in the first place, which is why I’d put it off for at least a week. I didn’t know it would involve a nursing home, but I knew there’d be something funny and nonstandard about it, instead of just saying, “You could try the salon at York and 5th [made-up address to preserve anonymity of non-existant salon]. I hear they charge a bit, but they do a good job.” Oh no. Instead I get Mrs. Funny Nursing Home Lady.

So I called, and she said “Saturday, 11.30?” and I said fine, she gave me directions, and that was that. Okay. So she hadn’t actually answered the phone as if she was the receptionist, but I got the feeling it was a cellphone.

Saturday morning I looked at my long locks in the mirror and knew in my heart that this was the last I’d see of a good haircut till at least Christmas. Then I set off to find the nursing home. Unfortunately, it was exactly where she said it would be. I entered, smelled the institutional old-people smell, and knew everything wasn’t going to be okay. I asked for the lady by name: let’s say it was Jacinta, which is an Irish hairdresser name and was not this lady’s. She evidently wasn’t the receptionist, at any rate. I was sent to the beautician’s room, which for a short moment made me think things might turn out okay. A glance around proved she did have a basin, so presumably my hair would be washed and blowdried, not just cut. There was a price list on the wall: cut $10.00. Yers. I would have paid a little more than that, but I suppose the senior citizens can’t have an expensive beautician.

Jacinta sat me down, asked me what I wanted, picked up a plant spritzer, and started cutting. Yup, it was a dry cut. She didn’t even bother to re-comb my parting so it might be straighter than wherever I’d put it that morning. A little spritz, a little chop, there goes my hair. I had to take my glasses off (since due to my Bumpy Eyelid condition I still can’t wear my lenses; come to think of it, I don’t have a prescription for lenses so I’ve none to wear. That was cunning of my eye doctor), so I couldn’t really tell exactly what was going on. The obligatory hairdresser conversation ensued:

- Are you from around here?
- No, I’m from Ireland.
- Harlingen?
- No, Ireland.
- Oh, Arlington, Texas.
- Irlanda.
- Ahh.

Clearly, she had nothing to say about Ireland, so she told me about how her grandson’s hair is going to be the same colour as mine. Then her husband and son turned up and her son told her a long and boring story as she continued to chop away at my pride and joy. Soon I was being handed a mirror and turned around to appreciate her handiwork. I would have liked it better if I hadn’t bothered to put my glasses back on. The left side was longer than the right, which I pointed out and she happily fixed. After that there was nothing more I could do, despite the sinking feeling. (Sunk, really.) She said I owed her five dollars. Yes, very reasonable around here really is very reasonable. A little too reasonable, even. And off I went, hair still a bit damp from the plant-spray water and wavy in all the most annoying places. Not quite the straight, shiny, bouncy salon-fresh-fabulous hair you expect the day you go to the hairdresser, even if it turns out to look just the same as usual, only shorter, as soon as you wash and dry it yourself two days later.

So now I am sad and I have Bad Hair. There’s no point going back and asking Jacinta to fix it, because she obviously thinks it’s a perfectly good five-dollar haircut. And indeed, the longest bit is down to my collarbones and the rest is layered, which is exactly what I asked for. But to me, “layered” doesn’t mean “there’s one layer here, at the bottom, and then there’s another here, an inch and a half higher up.” I shouldn’t be able to see the line where the layer starts – it should all blend seamlessly. This would be way beyond Jacinta’s scope, because the old ladies with blue rinse perms don’t ask for that sort of thing. (And remember, Leonora’s been going to her for ten years. I can’t wait to meet Leonora.)
So the first thing I do when I step off the plane at Christmas will be to go and find a hairdresser in Dublin, possibly called Jacinta, who will ask the dreaded question “Did your mother cut this?” I’ll confess to living in the back of beyond in the continent that taste forgot, I’ll show due remorse and beg forgiveness for being so stupid as to get my hair cut in an old people’s home (no, I won’t admit to that bit) and I’ll entreat them to make me look like a person who can in fact tell her arse from her elbow and a hairdresser from a receptionist. In the hopes of ending up with a cut that grows out so well that it lasts me until the following Christmas.


2:23 pm - 15 November 2004

Good Texas. Niiice Texas.

Texas is a long way from anywhere, and it’s roasting hot and there’s no discernable downtown, but I suppose it has a couple of things going for it.

For instance, at home I went through a couple of phases of going swimming after work once or twice a week. To do this, I’d get on my bike at 5.30, ride to Rathmines in whatever raining or wind or pleasantness the weather was throwing at me, and go to the not-very-nice public swimming pool. Paid my 1.80 (very reasonable), changed in the somewhat basic changing rooms, put my stuff in a basket, taking care to cover up keys and purse with a nice topping of beach towel, and handed the basket to the attendant, who’d give me a rubber band for my wrist or ankle indicating how long I could swim for. If it was summer (and it was more likely to be, because that was why I wanted to get a bit fit – for “fit”, read “thinner”) the pool was invariably filled with screaming schoolkids and teenaged foreign students, shrieking and pushing each other in until the lifeguard yelled at them. I’d swim lengths, but not in the cordoned-off lanes, generally, because that was where the serious swimmers were, who did the crawl and would plough into a slow-moving breast-stroker like me. The last few meters in the shallow end involved a lot of ducking and weaving every time to avoid all the kids and families and loitering teens. (Yes, teens can loiter in a swimming pool. They can loiter anywhere.) The water was slightly chilly, and probably had more than a tinge of urine. Anyway, after 20 lengths I’d feel very virtuous and pull myself out, conscious of everyone watching my retreating ass as I went back through the sheep-dip thingy for my basket. (Maybe they were. They probably weren’t. But I always watched everyone else, so I expect they were.)

A quick shower and back to the privacy-free changing rooms, and the regular comment to self about how much harder it is to put on a bra when you’re damp. And wishing I’d brought a pair of tracksuit bottoms so I didn’t have to put all my work clothes back on again. And taking my towel-dried hair and mascara-run face (oops) back out into the chilly Dublin May, to find an irate man to whose bike I’d accidentally locked mine about to call the police to bring a hacksaw and chop it up. (Okay, that only happened once, and they’d probably have chopped my lock rather than the bike. But I was very careful after that to check the lock from all angles, like a magician proving that there are no strings holding up the floating box with the lady inside.) Finally the tough haul up the hill (not steep, but long) home to the flat. Even if it was raining at this stage I probably wouldn’t bother with the waterproofs, because I was damp already.

In contrast, there’s here. Here, I get home, hang out on the sofa (mmmm, new sofa) a bit, see what Rachel Ray’s up to, and think I’ll go for a swim. I put on my togs in the comfort of my own bedroom, throw a t-shirt and a pair of shorts over them, and pad over to the pool in flip-flops, with a towel and possibly a book under my arm. Forty seconds later, I’m opening the gate to the pool area. There’s nobody else there, because it’s a weekday in October, and that means pool season is over for Texans, apparently. I swim as many lengths as I want, with nobody to get in the way. Then I sit on a sun lounger if there’s still some warmth in the air (as there often is, because it’s southmost Texas after all) and dry off a bit and read some before knotting the towel round my waist, putting the t-shirt back on (some semblance of modesty, please) and heading home to shower and dress in the comfort of my very own home.

Okay so I haven’t been to a bar since we left Pennsylvania, so there’s nothing here I’d consider to be a normal restaurant, so it’s too damn hot outside and too feckin' cold inside. But the swimming is good.

What I did in my summer holidays

I was reading back yesterday over my old entries (and for someone who never updates, I almost have a respectable number) and I decided that, in the interests of any unknown readers I may one day have, I should actually provide a little up-to-date information.

So, we got married in July. We did not have a rehearsal dinner (unless you count the four of us - bride, groom, best man, bridesmaid - going for something to eat after the rehearsal; but nothing big and official and paid for by in-laws). I spent the evening before my wedding accompanying my Dad to pick up relations from various points of arrival, and then helping entertain said guests because they all felt they couldn't go to their allotted B&Bs until the last one, who was on standby from London, finally showed up. Around midnight, I think, Bridesmaid and I pled girly obligations and went to do our fake tan and stuff, and everyone took the hint and sodded off, much to my parents' relief. I slept lightly and was awake by about 6am, doing pilates on my bed and thinking I should really get some more sleep.

Anyway, the wedding was fab and I won't go into details. Everything went smoothly and even when the priest decided at the last minute that he'd love to come to dinner, that was easily dealt with at the hotel by the wonderful staff, who treated us like royalty. Our photographer was such a lovely man and such a nice addition to the day that I wouldn't have cared (much) if all the photos came out duds. (They didn't, though.) Dinner was yummy, there was lots of dancing, and everyone said I was beautiful. There's something about your wedding day that allows you to just take compliments that would otherwise feel ridiculous and accept them graciously as your right, just for that day.

It all went far too quickly, but I was perfectly sober all night and thus remember as much as I possibly could. We ended up in the residents' bar at 3am - just because we could - eating chicken sandwiches and finally taking my shoes off. (My shoes were great too. Pretty, and not at all uncomfortable.)
See, it was all lovely.

Anyway, after a bit of a honeymoon at home we went back to Pennsylvania, and two weeks later moved to Texas. We never managed to have the big moving-out party we'd been promising to have, but we did get rid of all the furniture and pack everything and manage to leave an empty and somewhat clean house behind us (not counting the basement, which wasn't part of the deal; and hey, we took away the ping-pong table). We forgot the bike, though, so it's still sitting down there.

So now we're Texans. We have the licence plate and the drivers' licences to prove it. We (nearly) have health insurance. We have a bank account and jobs and a beautiful new sofa and lots of lovely (and not so lovely) wedding presents on both sides of the Atlantic. We have our tickets to go home for Christmas too, when we can bring some of the several Waterford Crystal vases back to the shop and get something we actually like.

And that pretty much brings you up to date.

High efficiency

I just wanted to mention that if I'm only going to have half a day's worth of work to do in this here new job, I wish they'd let me make it be the second half. Getting up at 6.30am is not happy-making to me. Anything with a 6 in it will always just feel far too much like special-occasion, going-to-the-airport early, not weekday normal early. And anyway, since I regard the first hour as time when they can make me sit here but I'm damned if I'm going to do anything more useful than read the news and putter around some web sites - because it's just wrong to start work at 8 - it would all be so much more efficient if I could come in at, say, 10am, and leave around 4. I'd do the same amount of work and not spend all this ridiculous time faffing around feeling guilty. Of course, they'd have to pay me the same. Or more, because think of the resources I'm saving them, like lighting for my desk and electricity for my computer.

I thought this new job was supposed to keep me busy. I thought they had 65 manuals just sitting around waiting to me written. But they feed them to me in dribbles instead, and I can't even claim any more (pathetic as it was) that I may be surfing for muffin recipies, but I'm also doing valuable phone-manning duty.

I'm too efficient, clearly. I need to take over the world, or something.