A woman needs a man…

…like a fish needs a bicycle. —Gloria Steinem

When I moved to New York nine months ago, I was most excited about having my own apartment. My parents and I spent a day in Astoria looking for just the right one, and when I found this one, I knew. I knew the way you know about a good melon. It was perfect. One bedroom (with a closet!), one living room, one small kitchen, and one small bathroom. One. One. One. Perfect for the single girl who couldn’t wait to get to the one place in the whole world she had always wanted to live. I had lots of friends who already lived here, but this apartment was to be my own little place in this big city. I decorated it just the way I wanted it, and my books, the books that had spent two years in boxes in my parents’ basement because I didn’t want to unpack and repack them, were finally on shelves in my living room. And on my night stand. And on the television stand. And on the dining table.

Once I had my books in my apartment, I went about filling it with food. I still have the receipt from my first trip to the grocery store. Chicken parmesan is one of my favorite meals, and since all of the sauces were on sale, I grabbed a few jars. Later in the week I got home from work and started making the meal. Everything was going fine – I didn’t burn down the kitchen when I turned on the stove, and I wasn’t making that big of a mess. But then it came time to open up the jar of sauce. I tried and tried, but just couldn’t do it. Suddenly being single in the city didn’t seem so hot. I couldn’t just call my boyfriend and ask him if he could stop by and open the jar with the promise of good food for his efforts. I didn’t have a roommate, either, so there was no one to keep working at the jar when my hand got tired. I tried every trick I knew. I even tried this thing where you put the jar in a door hinge. I saw my parents do it when I was little, but forgot to ask them how it’s actually done, since my effort proved fruitless. I tried that thing where you hit the bottom of the jar. I hit it a little too hard and bruised the heel of my hand. Panic began to set in. All I wanted was chicken parm. Was that really too much to ask? Twenty five minutes later, I finally got the thing open. Twenty five minutes after that, I enjoyed chicken parm and a big glass of wine.

Then there was the time I thought I left my oven on. I was heating up some chicken to put in a salad, and the next day at work, I remembered turning down the oven, but not turning it off. I turned pale and felt sick when I realized I could have left my oven on all day. In all reality, I should have known I didn’t. My apartment isn’t huge, and I would have smelled the gas the next morning. The worry was there, though, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. My boss was cool about it and sent me home. I had no roommate to call to say, “Hey, do you think I left the oven on? No, you don’t? Okay thanks. I feel better.” Nor did I have a boyfriend to call to ask him to use his set of keys (because obviously I had given my hypothetical boyfriend a set of keys to my apartment), and ask him to check the oven for me.

I stayed for about another hour and grabbed some work I knew I could do at home, and then I booked it to Queens. I set a new record for going between the office and my apartment, and had visions on the subway of my building burning down. And of course I hadn’t gotten renters’ insurance yet. That was on this week’s to-do list and hadn’t been crossed off yet. By the time I got to 35^th Street, I had gone from speed walking to a full-out run. I almost wanted to close my eyes when I turned the corner onto 31^st Avenue in case that when I opened them, I would see a charred hole where my apartment used to be. Obviously, I didn’t, since I’m sitting in my apartment right now as I write this. I sprinted into my kitchen, only to find every knob turned to Off, just as I had left it the night before. And then I turned it back on to make myself a very much needed cup of tea.

My most recent single adventure came because my neighbors are redoing the inside of their apartment. It sounds like they’ve stripped it bare and are starting from scratch. Add to that the fact that their daughter cries at the loud noises from the machines and it’s just fabulous around here during the day. Anyway, I arrived back at my apartment yesterday after a night out in Long Beach to find that the water in my toilet bowl had drained all the way to the bottom. My mom had come to visit, and she and I soon realized that the toilet was clogged. We bought Drano, drained it with hot water, and tried to use the rinky-dink plunger I keep in my bathroom, but to no avail. There is something down there that is blocking the water from going down, and I’d be willing to bet it has something to do with the work they’re doing on the apartment next door.

Thank God my mom was here, because the last time this happened when I first moved into the apartment, I borrowed a plunger, but soon realized I wasn’t strong enough to actually push the stupid thing down. Again, no boyfriend and no roommate to help. Mom and I worked on it until we went to bed last night and made some progress. Today I called my landlord to find out who the Super is and how I could contact him. It’s just my luck that my landlord is on vacation. His daughter called me back to tell me that she’d find out and that she’d get back to me tomorrow.

So for now, it’s just me and the plunger and my patience as I wait for the water to slowly drain. Tomorrow I’m going shopping for a bicycle. Maybe.

Um, actually, I went on a date.

It’s been a while since I’ve written, and I promise to blog about the highlights of the trip to Ireland eventually, but that’s going to have to wait for now.

I went on a date last week. I know – shocker. I mean, I was shocked when he called, so there you go. But I’m skipping ahead. We met at a bar in Queens the Friday before. Two of my friends and I were having a girls’ night out, and we were in the middle of catching up when this guy, call him Sam, comes over and says to us, “Hi. My friend and I have a question for you guys. What do you guys think of Fanny Packs?” Not knowing what to say, my friends and I burst into laughter at this awful, but successful, line.

“I think they’re the 2^nd worst thing to come out of the Eighties after shoulder pads,” I finally said, and the conversation went from there. He was friendly, good-looking, and able to keep up with the one-liners my friends and I were throwing at him. He and his friend stayed for a little while, but since it was his friend’s first time at the bar, they decided to take a lap and check out the place with the promise of coming back eventually. Ha. Like I actually believed that.

My friends and I must have had an invisible sign on our foreheads that said, “Creepers Please Join Us,” because the next thing I knew, a very large, much older, fairly hairy man was sitting next to me with his arm around me. It wasn’t just resting on my shoulder in a casual way (if you can call anything about this situation casual); he was holding onto my arm in a way that suddenly made me uncomfortable. I told him to take his arm off me and to back off, but apparently he didn’t speak English. So I tried a new tactic. I flipped my Claddagh Ring from my middle finger to my ring finger and turned it so the band was on the outside of my finger. I held it up to the guy and said, “Hey, take your arm off. I’m married.” This seemed to work for about a second, as he showed some semblance of understanding me, but then he put his arm around me again. And I told him to back off. Again. Thankfully one of my friends spoke some Spanish and managed to tell the guy to go away and never return for he was a creepy old man who should stop hitting on young women. Actually, I’m pretty sure she was a lot nicer about it, but that’s what I would have said had I paid more attention in my high school Spanish classes.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, we were no sooner rid of Creepy-Old-Man when two other guys tried their luck. I forget their entry line. I’m pretty sure it could have been as lame as, “Is this seat taken?” – a question to which the answer was so painfully obvious we had no choice but to indulge in conversation. Their names were Peter and Abe, and my first comment was, “How biblical.” Peter, the comedian of the pair (no really, he claimed he did amateur stand-up) said, “Well when we’re out together, my friends call me Moses.” I had nothing for that.

I think Peter claimed to be an actor, but I was instantly turned off when I went to say something and Peter, with his finger wagging, goes, “Oh no. Don’t interrupt me.” Out of pure spite, I continued talking. Luckily, I saw Sam walk by and gave a subtle wave. He just smiled and waved back as if he knew exactly what kind of situation my friends and I were in. When he walked back to the bar, I caught his eye and mouthed, “Help. Please.” Neither Peter nor Abe seemed to notice, but Sam said, “Only if you admit you like fanny packs.” Still trying to be subtle, I said, “Fine. I love them. Please help.” Sam came over and said, “Who would like to help me carry beer out to my friends?” and just like that we were free of the prophets.

My two friends went to the bathroom, and while they were there, Sam and I continued chatting. He asked me if I’d like to hang out again some time, and I said yes and gave him my number, fairly certain I’d never hear from my new friend again. The next day one of my other friends told me not to be so jaded when I admitted that I didn’t actually expect to hear from Sam, but the truth is, in New York it’s rare for a guy to actually call back. And let’s be honest: If I give a guy my number and my real name with the correct spelling, what are the odds they remember who I am or how to say it the next day?

With Sam, the odds were high. He called the following Monday (one day earlier than predicted), and we agreed to meet for drinks and snacks. We went to a cute place downtown that had outdoor seating, and sat and talked over three glasses of wine (for me) and three pints (for him). After we were done our drinks, I was craving ice cream, so we went to Cold Stone where we split (okay, I had most of it) a chocolate-ice-cream-with-Heath-Bar mix.

One would think that a mix of [three glasses of] good wine and chocolate ice cream would be enough to make this girl swoon, but here’s the thing. There was no spark. No butterflies. No vah-vah-voom (a description I heard on the latest edition of The Bachelorette. Don’t judge.). He was great – sweet, funny, really smart, talented, well-read, and not divorced, so he was already two steps ahead. But it just felt like I was hanging out with a friend, which is fine. It’s not the initial desired outcome when heading into a date, but at least he was a nice guy, something that’s almost as rare in this city as finding a guy who’ll call back. We’ve spoken once since the date (again, no VVV) and made no definite plans to see each other again. Looking back on the date and the phone call, though, I’m fairly certain that if I ever needed saving from a creeper again and Sam was at the bar, he’d gladly oblige.

Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog

With his freeze ray he will stop. The world.

For minutes of wild entertainment, check out Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog. Neil Patrick Harris stars as Dr. Horrible, and the show has a fun story, excellent vocals, and addicting lyrics. Enjoy!

The Craic was Mighty…And Other Things You Should Know

I just spent ten days on holiday in Ireland, and we had great craic visiting my hometown (Sligo) and my Mom’s hometown (Moate). I’m home now and though I’m a bit knackered, there’s not a bother on me.

Not sure what that means? That’s okay. Below is my glossary for all terms Irish that should help you understand my next few posts. I’ll be telling stories from my vacation in Ireland, but the humor will be lost if I have to keep translating.

Craic (pronounced ‘crack,’ but not to be confused with the drug): Fun / good times
What’s the craic? / How’s the craic? / Well, any craic?: What’s new? / What’s going on? You are not being asked if you have any drugs, or if said drugs are good quality.
It was great craic: We had a great time.
The craic was mighty: We had a great time.

Sláinte: Cheers! [Literally: To your health!]

Lift: A car ride. When saying someone picked you up, say, “I got a lift with Joe,” not “I got a ride with Joe.” If you say you got a ride with Joe, you’re talking about something completely different, and you’d make your mother blush.

Howiya?: How are you?
Howiya fixed?: How are you?
Howiya keeping?: How are you?

I’m grand / Not a bother on me / Not a loss on me / I’m not too bad, thanks: I’m doing well.

Are you going on the beer tonight?: Are you going drinking tonight?

Pissed / jarred: very drunk

How’s the heads this morning?: How are you feeling after a night on the beer?
He had such a head on him this morning: He was severely hung over this morning.

A Fry: A traditional Irish breakfast made of rasher, sausage, egg, black and white pudding, fried tomato, toast, and beans. It is the best breakfast you will ever eat, but in my opinion, can be eaten at any time of the day. It’s too good to confine to breakfast time.

Biscuits: Cookies. Sometimes know as bickies.

The Bog: Where the turf is found. Turf is dried pieces of soil that is used for heating houses. Don’t ever say you want to go to the bog unless you intend to work when you get there.

21 Kisses: A tradition in Ireland where the person turning 21 gets 21 kisses from party goers of the opposite sex. I think we should bring this tradition to America, but make it 25 kisses, as my 25th birthday is in May.

Tea: I prefer Lyon’s tea, but Barry’s isn’t bad either. You drink it with milk and sugar (if you like…I like), and if you’re not eating a meal, you have a cup of tea in your hand. It’s practically a rule. If a visitor comes to your house, the first thing you do is offer them a cup of tea. Tea is also served with Irish Breakfasts.
Tea is also the name of the small meal eaten in the evening since dinner is usually eaten around 1 or two.

You’re very bold: You’re misbehaving.

Have manners!: Behave yourself.

You didn’t catch that [a personality trait] from the wind: You inherited that trait from someone.

He was knee-high to a duck’s arse: He was short.

Oh the Lord save us!: Oh my God! / No way!

Talking never brought home the turf: You have to work hard if you want results.

They’re thick as thieves, those two: They’re really close, usually referring to a business deal or something a bid shady.

Knackers / Tinkers: Names for the travelers in Ireland that move about in caravans. If someone calls you a knacker or a tinker, he or she is insulting you.

Knackered: Exhausted (not an insult).

Eejit: Idiot.

Class: Awesome, as in “That new car is class!”

Jinnot: Technically the offspring of a mule and a donkey (I think…the explanation I got was a bit complicated), but in slang terms, it means a real jerk of a man.

Shift: to make out. If a Irishman asks you if you want a shift, do not give him the opportunity shove his tongue down your throat. Just say, “No thanks,” and walk away.

Sheepshaggers: Slang term for farmers. Never, ever shift a sheepshagger from Roscomman. Your family will never let you live it down. Ever.

I think I’ve covered everything. Tomorrow I’ll write about Frankie’s 21st birthday party: the party that lasted for nearly three days!

Sláinte!

Checking the Predictions…Half-Way There

We’re about half-way through the trip, and I’m taking advantage of my aunt’s computer and internet access to see how many of my predictions are correct. We’re having a great time, and I’ll have lots to report on when I get back.

• Bethany will train for her marathon and may actually drag me along with her on a run.
  • Bethany did indeed run twice so far, but I’ve managed to avoid going on the runs with her.
• We will climb both mountains in my hometown: Knocknarea and Ben Bulben. Yes, they’re mountains. Don’t try to tell me they’re just really big hills.
  • Due to the weather and other circumstances beyond our control, we weren’t able to climb the mountains. We did get some excellent views of them, though, and they’re still as wonderful as always.
• “The Killers” will be played at least once at every dance club we go to. Maybe twice.
  • I was dead on with this one. U2 is another constant.
• Frankie’s (my cousin) birthday party will last at least two days.
  • I was close on this one. For most of us it lasted two days, but Frankie managed to stretch it to three. It was one of the best parties I’ve ever been to.
• I will bust out at least one Jig, and maybe hop in a céilí if we have one at the birthday party.
  • No step-dancing yet, but they did play a song from Riverdance at the party. I don’t know the steps for that one, but I managed to make up some of my own.
• It will rain every day at least once.
  • Without fail.
• I will drink more Lyon’s tea than I have in the last six months. Let’s not even talk about Bacardi.
  • Correct on both accounts.
• Someone will get chatted up by an old man at the pub. My money is on Jenny. He may even propose marriage to her, and he will definitely sing to her. A totally hypothetical situation. It’s never happened to me before…
  • Again, I was a bit off. I managed to get hit on by the biggest creeper at the party. Well, I wouldn’t really call it being ‘hit on.’ He sat next to me and when my back was to him, he tickled me and thought this would work. He stretched his hand out to shake mine, so I reciprocated, but then he tried to kiss it. I grabbed it back and told him to behave himself. Luckily one of my cousin’s friends came over and saved me at that point. I owe him a drink for that.
• I will devour at least five 99’s: ice cream cones with half of a Cadbury’s Flake sticking out of it. Each one will be followed by a Lion Bar, and I will like it. Very much. All will probably be accompanied by a cup of tea.
  • Wrong again. I haven’t had a single 99, Flake, or Lion Bar. Plenty of tea, though.
• At least one guy at the bar will accuse Orlaith and me of not being sisters because “she [Orlaith] has an Irish accent and you don’t.” Orlaith always manages to pick her accent back up when we get there, but I don’t seem to have that skill.
  • While no one has accused us of not being sisters, Orlaith has managed to pick up her Sligo accent, and I still have my American accent. Without fail, every time I open my mouth someone goes, “Oh, so you’re a Yank are you?” I don’t think Orlaith’s been asked at all.

We’ll see what happens on the rest of the trip. We’ve just finished four days in my hometown of Sligo, and now we’re ready to cause trouble in my Mom’s hometown of Moate.