Heinz Macaroni and Cheese in a Can

Last night after the reception where I proudly had my first Guinness in Ireland and then my first Balmer's Cider in Ireland, my roommates and I went shopping. When I was like eight years old, my dog ran out in traffic... that's the only thing I can think of right now the compare the grocery store experience to. Before I left, someone told me the food in Ireland was bad... several people. I thought they were lying. They weren't. The digestives, biscuits, and chocolates is fabu. The rest is not.

Ten reasons grocery shopping is funny in Ireland:



1. They don't give you "sacks" unless you ask for them... and they cost fifty cents. And you have to put a euro in the cart to use it, like at Aldi. And when you ask for a bag, they judge you. Oh, and there's an Aldi HERE! I took a pic!

2. the mincemeat is across from the paper towels

3. There's no Great Wall of Campbell's soup like there is in the states... only packets of Knorr

4. The cofectionary aisle. It's the length of the whole story

5. How on the receipt they tell you how many products you bought were made in Ireland

6. the line is called the "Queue" and cutting is called "jumping the queue" I was in a band once called Jumping the Queue. We were a Slayer tribute band.

7. Macaroni and Cheese in a can. I bought some. Just to see.

8. You can get winked at by five guys in just as many minutes

9. There's no such thing as grape jelly. Just strawberry and something called black currant.
(that would make PB and BC)

10. You get to carry your groceries across a European turnabout, which means not just crossing two intersections, but about 1,304.

Classes started today, which means my posts will be less lame, and less frequent. Try to carry on without me.

One of my roommates, whose name seems to be Deanna McHugh... if that's her REAL NAME and I have decided we're going out in the city centre tonight (where we live is like the close suburbs... maybe kind of like Oak Park... or Englewood).

We have fridays off for "Composition and Research"

Grand. It's 70 and sunny here. Loverly.

tah tah.

Ireland is cute: Official Day One

Well, I know this is going to come as a complete shock to everyone, but it's rainy and cold here.
About fifty four to be exact and spit-raining as I have labeled it. So, I've deduced that Ireland is green due to the fact that it rains all the time. I mean... all the time. Those stereotypes are correct.

We had our induction this morning. That's irish for introduction. I didn't get any medal or award of even a lapel pin. RATS! We have a presentation tonight and a "reception" which I believe means free booze. Sadly, the college bar is closed for renovation so there goes my extra credit! And instead of your welcome, the people behind the counter say "cheers" My kind of town. Speaking of, no word yet on the progress of finding a drinking buddy in one of my roommates. I think the best bet is the one who just turned 21. She looks ready to fold!


The most interesting discoveries of the day are that on a computer keyboard in Ireland, the @ is not above the number three on the keyboard. THE WHOLE WORLD HAS GONE TOPSY-TURVY! It's where the punctuation mark should be. And the punctuation mark is over the number 2! In turn, the "enya" is above the #. Probably because they're aren't many mexicans in Ireland. There are a bunch of sheep, though.

This is very exciting, I know. I slept for twelve hours last night so I am just happy to be alive. I went to bed at nine, woke up at 2 for no reason, then fell back to sleep until 10:30 am. and I'm starting to feel tired again. CAFFEINE TIME!

Everyone here is very nice and very scrappy. My project for the evening is to go grocery shopping and not make a fool out of myself. I figure by preparing my own lunches everyday I will not only be saving money, but will save "gag reflex" time. The food here is bad. A lot of mayo and not a lot of turkey. I mean none. Just chicken. I have yet to see a turkey breast... Or a turkey for that matter. Hmm.

My classes daily are going to be 10:30-noon, then 2-3 or 4. Seeing as though it's a 20 minute trek over bridges and over hills (I'm not kidding. I woke near a ruin on the way to campus... a RUIN of a cobblestone castle) I think I'll just stay and hang out everyday and write this great, rambling blogs between classes. Oh yeah, and maybe study?

Oh yes, and I have a phone number. Let me know if you want it, lovies.

Even though it's rainy and cold, Ireland is still cuter than Newark.

Signing off. Lovings!

Trains, Planes, and Automobiles Part Two

Actually, substitute buses for trains and there you have it.

After much ado, and only a half hour of sleeping, I make it to Shannon Airport. And low and behold my bags are there... on the carasoul with halos over them as they rotate. So I run to them in slow motion, accompanied by bag pipes and tin whistles.

While waiting for the bus, I make a friend! Her name is Mary.... hmmm, more than a coincidence? the BVM? But we take the train, take crazy talk together from our jetlag and even share a cab to the university. Hot dog. Ireland is cute, cute cute... every wonderful stereotype you could imagine: green, nice people, and more pubs than nice people.

I am now sharing a townhouse with three girls. I can't wait to get drunk with them! We each have our own bedroom, which is nice. And they all seem really great. It reminds me of SMC... tear... except I hope no nuns will be creeping around. And hey, no community showers! Hot doggie! Pics to come, folks. Don't worry.

I am in looooove with Ireland. Tomorrow we have registration.... we're all in the same program here in the house so that is nice. Then we have some speeches and some receptions... then a three day weekend in which to "get acclimated to the area" aka get bombed.

GO IRISH!


P.S. Irish is cute.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles...

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles: Part One

For those of you optimists out there who think I overreact with my bad luck when it comes to mass transportation, mainly airplanes. This one is for you…

Forget about my previous worst travel story: On my return trip from the Home of Their Own Golf Tournament eons ago, coming from Scranton, Pennsylvania. (that’s not the worst part). During a layover in Louisville KENTUCKY, my flight to Chicago was delayed…. Two hours…. Four hours…. Eight hours… OVERNIGHT. I had to stay in a hotel room by my lonesome only to be awoken the first morning by a faulty fire alarm going off just in my room. And the worst part about it was how NICE the people were at the reception desk. Damn f’ing southerners…with their smiles and their “I’m sorry about the smoke alarm waking you up at 4 am after you had to clean your underwear out in the sink and dry it with a hair dryer and wear it again.” I wanted to go back to Chicago… where people are mean, and you know they’re being mean. No smiles, no southern drawl, just unabashed meanness. I missed it so. I get the airport the next day at 5 am for my return flight and it too, is delayed…. Two hours…. Four hours… six hours…. Eight hours…. What’s that you say? All the flights are booked? Back to the same hotel room I go, where the smoke alarm goes off AGAIN. And I cry by myself in the bathtub in my dirty underwear.

But this time, I’ve learned my lesson. I packed a pair of clean underwear in my carry-on (I did forget a raincoat and an umbrella… haha) Where do I think I am going? Anyways,
So I am dropped off at the airport with hours to spare because I am responsible and I have a nice boyfriend. The man at the skycap is also helpful, even gets me better seats on the Ireland flight… in the emergency exit row, so I can stretch out my gammies. But at the gate there is an interesting acronym: ATC delay, which my kind friend AMA later explained as being Air Traffic Control delay. AKA as WTF delay, in my book.

Anyhoo, my flight is delayed two hours… then two and a half… then we get on the plane and sit on the tarmac for another hour…. No where near Newark… at all. And I know I am going to miss my connection flight, but my blind faith keeps me going. Because even though I claim to be very pessimistic, I still believe in fairies. Which works out because one is now our flight attendant. Anyways, we land in Newark neatly and interestingly at the same exact minute my plane is taking off to Shannon without me. (Cue to my sister and mom following the plane tracker on the internet like it’s TV: “The Shannon flight is delayed until 7:55... SHE COULD MAKE IT” But I didn’t, because as it turns out, it actually left early. That was nice of continental since every connecting flight was late!

So I am instructed to take a shuttle to the international terminal and it will only take five minutes, but of course there is a wait in a waiting room for the shuttle to go to the terminal to wait some more. So I miss my flight, there’s no one at the desk. I get some advice from my brother Jason and go find some man at another desk. He tells me indeed the flight left because he worked it, but there is a flight at 10:10! Hot dog. But it is sold out! RATS! He can put me on standby, which we all know is code for: GO F YOURSELF. (I am not proud of what I did next, folks) I cried. I cried more than I did when USC cheated and beat Notre Dame. A sad whimper that fogged up my glasses. He told me I could go out on Thursday at noon, which is precisely two days away from now…. Two days in Newark… a girl’s dream come true. Then I start laughing and crying hysterically and just mutter, “I can’t.” I just can’t. Mind you, I am not fake crying. I am crying. He does some magic on his keys of the computer for about a century and gives me a ….. BOARDING PASS. HOOORAY! I want to hug him but instead I say “Thank you…” and walk away, shamed. I might even have said, “God Bless You.”

Here I am on a plane to Dublin… which they tell me is continuing on to Shannon. I am in the very back row, which means not only am I by the bathroom, but I also cannot recline my seat. At all. Not even the fun five centimeters promised regularly. My back already hurts. Now all I have to worry about is falling asleep on the plane, which won’t happen. And where the hell my luggage will end up (with my umbrella and my raincoat). But things are looking up. There is a man in front of me speaking with a brogue and I am creepily leaning over him. With a few glasses of wine in me, I may just ask to see his lucky charms.

I think they gave me paper instead of Jesus at mass tonight.

Ok...

I swore to myself I'd never be one of those people who had and maintained a blog, but then again, I also swore to not have sex until I was married... and not drink before the age of twenty-one. So, there you go. Some might call me a hypocrite, but I call myself an adult. Because that's what being an adult is all about. Doing the things you swore you'd never do and enjoying it. That being said, I'm never getting a minivan. NEVER.

But I think a blog will be good for me, because: a) everything I say is fascinating b) I love to write 3) I love to commit acts of word vomit and f) this way, I'm not bothering anyone or wasting my cell phone minutes. Plus, I think it'll be an easy way of keeping everyone who is interested (and everyone who is not interested) in my upcoming trip to Ireland. Since there's about a million people I've promised to keep updated, this is a nice cop out.

I've wanted to go to Ireland and write my whole life and now I am doing it. I chickened out a couple times in the past for some serious reasons, but now I am finally going. And I've soon discovered that there's nothing scarier than your dream staring you in the face. Okay, nothing other than fractions and calculating tips at nail salons. Up until a couple weeks ago, my biggest fear was failure, but I've recently learned that success is much scarier than failure because once you succeed at one thing, you have to come up with something else to do. For example, two years I decided to write and publish a book. And I did it. (www.mandyschomas.com) plug plug. Then I decided to apply to grad school for writing. And I did that. Then I decided to apply to an international writing program in Ireland with only twenty spots. And I did that, too. (Or I am about to) And because of that, I am very introspective. Very think-ery today and worry-ier. When I am thinking and or worrying too much, I go to church. That's what I did tonight. And it helped as it always did. But shortly after arriving home, I coughed up something funny. It looked and felt like a little piece of white, wet paper. Which leads me to my rational hypothesis: "I think they gave me paper instead of Jesus at mass tonight."



Going to mass tonight reminded me of how much I love being Catholic. LOVE. I'm not going to get on a soap box or anything. I hate people who preach. Maybe it's because I grew up in Wheaton... city of churches. No joke, it's in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most churches per square mile, or capita or whatever. And my boyfriend in middle school broke it off with me because "I wouldn't accept Jesus Christ as my personal savior." (I've taken several religious studies classes and asked several bible bangers and I still don't get this statement.)

So, I've decided for my first posting I'd like to pay tribute to the Catholic faith. And why it's the best. ( I know, I know. They're are many problems)

1. Its stubbornness. I love how it refuses to change in its beliefs. The Catholic church is like the old, crabby guy at family parties who waxes eloquently about the "good ol days" when popcorn cost only five cents and women knew how to use a crock pot. (WTF is a crockpot? No crap.) Fortunately for the Catholic faith, there's old-young people ready to carry on traditions. The ones that play the guitar at the contemporary mass (poorly) to continue on the traditions of old crabby smelly man (the priest?)

2. Dogma. I love the ritual. I love how I am sitting through the same mass my father did, and his father did, and his father did... when they went to mass and weren't passed out at a bar or playing golf.

3. Whisper singing. You know what I am talking about. People singing quieter than they Irish whisper, embarrased by hearing themselves sing the songs they know by heart. Because you guessed it, its the same songs every week.

4. The passive aggressive greeting of late comers. If you know me, you know I love being on time. I don't like being late, and I don't think it's fair to treat chronic latecomers equally. You have kids. Big deal. Get your shit together. My mom had eight kids and she was EARLY to mass every week. To the point that it was annoying, but because of her, I get to mass ten minutes early and read the bulletin and think of what I will wear the next day... and pray, of course. And I sit on the aisle in case there's a big tragedy and I can leave early and plus, I am a control freak. I like being on the end. It gives me power.

My favorite way to greet latecomers goes like this:
token lame usher guy (sometimes still in scrubs from the hospital to show how committed he is to both of his jobs) "Can you scoot in please?"
Me: not responding as I am in deep prayer and listening real good to the SECOND reading (see? late) I just nod.
Then the people come, sometimes a girl and her boyfriend, which makes me bitter because I am alone. Or a family of cute people with kids... but I stay strong.

Here's the passive aggressive power struggle at work: instead of stepping up and out into the aisle, I either scoot on my butt sideways so they have to move around me, or I stand sideways. This is better when the kneeler is still down.

5. The judgement. I love to judge people, especially based upon their appearances. And not always poorly. I like to look at people and smile and calculate their lives in my mind. I love making up stories about people, finding it interesting what they find appropriate to wear to mass. I used to love scoping out guys, but now I am taken and no longer interested. So instead, I judge mostly high school girls who think it's okay to wear tube tops to God's potluck. In case you're wondering how this is better in a Catholic mass, it's because of two reasons : the priest and nuns are great fodder... for wondering what they're lives are like outside of church (do they watch American Idol? And the Real World/Road Rules challenge?) Plus, the Catholic Church itself is RIFE with judgement, it's not lassez-faire like Lutherans and Episcopalians where you can get away with murder and tube tops.

Well, I think I've word-vomited enough for one day. And the Sox are doing something extraordinary now. Which reminds me of how much I love the White Sox. Maybe I will write about that tomorrow.