THE MAG-KNEE-FICENT STORY OF MY SURGERY!

Hello, lads! Welcome back to this semi-dead creative space!

As promised by my Instagram post earlier today, I am writing today to mark the one-year anniversary of my knee surgery. Now, many of you seemed startled to find out that I had surgery a year ago to begin with. That just comes to show that we really aren't close... and I honestly have no idea what you're doing on here... but thanks for coming, I guess.

Well, if you want to find out more about the circumstances that lead to this surgery, go here. I have already written the back story for you months ago (and again, if you didn't read it back then, what are you even doing here? It's like you missed this blog during its Golden Age... you really are looking at the remains of the Roman Empire right now, yo).

Anyway, so now that you have caught up in the drama that lead to the surgery, let's talk about what this last year has been like...

Ya'll, at the risk of sounding super-duper vulgar... this year has been feckin' hard. ALL THE BLOODY THINGS HAPPENED!

Ok, first of all, the things that happened DURING surgery and my stay at the hospital:

1. The anesthesiologist  couldn't find my spine to do the epidural because "it is harder to find the spine with bigger patients."

How even dare you, lady? Just because you're bad at your job doesn't mean it's my food's fault. She had to prod me FOUR times until she found the spot. Those of you who have had an epidural know what that feels like and are probably going, "F that!" right now.

2. But then the same dumb anesthesiologist did not calculate the anesthesia correctly? How do I know that? Well, she goes "ok, so we are all set" and I respond by moving my toes voluntarily. LIKE, THEY ARE ABOUT TO CUT ME OPEN, LADY! I SHOULD NOT BE ABLE TO DO THAT! So her eyes open wide and she adjusts the meds going into me, but guess what? I WAS STILL AWAKE THROUGH MOST OF THE SURGERY! Including the part where I got to hear the drill going in and making a hole in my bone.

And you know what the main problem was? That I was LAUGHING MANIACALLY while that drill went to work because I was super high. I mean, the drugs were working for sure. They just weren't strong enough to put this old stallion to sleep! It was like when Dwight tries to put Stanley to sleep:

So I was laughing and chatting non-stop with the doctors and nurses, which is very distracting as they are trying to do their jobs. The first thing the doctor told my mom when surgery was over was, "everything went well. Wow, your daughter talks so much." 'Tis true, reader. I do. I have my own actual blog. Should have warned the doctor, I suppose.

And I did fall asleep for what must have been like 30 minutes of the surgery, but I was awakened by a strange itch on my face, just in time to hear the doctor go: "fuck, she is bleeding a lot" because the brace they used as a tourniquet was not strapped on properly because my thigh is the size of a small dolphin. Imagine waking up to those words, reader. How would you feel? Well, my reaction was along the lines of "oh...my leg's too fat, LOL!" because remember I was flying high. But my face was totally itching and I tried to take off my oxygen to scratch it. In other words, I was an asshole patient the entire time.

2.  Then, after a 2+ hours surgery, the staff forgot me in the post-op room. A solid 40 minutes. While I scratched my face fiercely because, of course, I had an allergic reaction to one of the drugs! But get this: the hospital staff refused to give me Benadryl or anything similar for a whole 12 hours because they thought it was just me being weird (since there was no rash). So no, I did not sleep a wink that night after surgery.

3. Oh, and did I mention they also didn't want to give me any food or drink until the next day? THAT IS MORE THAN 24 HOURS WITHOUT FOOD OR DRINK! Pure torture. Naturally, my mom sneaked a liter of Tejuino into the hospital for me. Tejuino is a typical drink made in Guadalajara that most people think is absolutely revolting (made with fermented corn masa, so yeah), but I find absolutely exquisite.  I immediately chug down the whole thing, itchy face and all, and it was the most glorious moment of my existence.

4. But this disobedience would have consequences. The other stipulation that the doctor had made was that I could not get up from that bed until noon of the day after surgery. Now, imagine the state of my bladder: a liter of tejuino and God knows how many other mL's of junk from my IV.  By 9 pm that night, I was about to burst! So I asked my nurse to help me go to the bathroom (why did I not have a tube connected from my pee-pee to a bag, I know not) and she brought me what can only be described as a plastic chamber pot, which I, of course, immediately flattened with my giant body as Niagara falls made their way out of my body and I ended up swimming in the

My poor nurse had to change all my bedding, my robes, and wipe me down with towelettes (I know, it is gross, but they wouldn't let me shower). But, dear reader, should I feel bad after my poor nurse made the mistake of bringing the flattened chamber pot TWO more times the next day and had to change me and my bed TWO more times? What happened to learning from one's mistakes? Tsk tsk, nurse. Tsk, tsk, indeed.

It was the 2018 International Urine Fest, my friends. I am ever so mortified to remember it. But I know you are probably pissing yourself with laughter, so there's that.


5. Well, after all these predicaments, I was allowed to stand with crutches and get the heck out of the hospital for two weeks of bed rest. My plan for my bed rest was to watch a lot of Netflix and eat a lot of junk food (worry not reader, I was doing my exercises 10 minutes out of every hour). My plan worked out great for the first ten days or so, until the food part turned on me and I got the most horrifying case of food poisoning ever recorded in history.

We have talked about pee in this post already, so it is inevitable to talk about poo. My friends, it all started with a stomachache followed by a fever followed by going to the bathroom 30 times in 24 hours. Yes, you read that right. I legit would have died of dehydration if it wasn´t for the PediaLyte and Gatorades. But the worst thing is having to GET UP as an invalid in the middle of the night to try to make it to the bathroom. Thank God the toilet was literally 12 steps from my bed and I have an insane amount of self-control when it comes to crapping my own pants.

Anyway, I was sick for about six days. It was rough, but I must confess that I looked smoking hot after (lost like six pounds, so--do not worry though, gained it all back pretty quickly). Between the bathroom runs, the fever, and the leg rehab, it was a tough week. Oh yeah, and my knee hurt like hell, of course.


6. About a week after that, I started physical therapy, which was grueling but also empowering. About a week into physio, I had a horrible fall in the shower after the old-ass stool my grandpa put in the shower for me slipped from under me, defying all the natural laws of physics. I hit my back head against the wall, cut my ankle open, and injured my upper back and neck severely enough to have to wear a neck brace for a few days. The neck pain was enough to keep me awake a couple nights after that. Thankfully, my physio treated me for those injuries as well as my knee because she is basically an angel on earth. But man, can we talk about this sitcom that is my life?

7. Now, physical therapy was a success, and I was doing so great! But, per usual, all the things happened and I quickly found myself in a difficult situation: Christmas time came and I was doing poorly. I had stopped exercising because I pulled my quad in October and could barely walk. Then, starting in October, I got sick every. single. month (this trend continued until MARCH. That is right: I had a cold in October, November, and December; possibly the flu in January, a cold in February, and Strep Throat in March). my quad injury led to other complications, including agonizing hip joint pain and a iliac (groin) strain. An absolute shit show, in other words. I was not doing physio, my health was deteriorating, and my spirits were low.

I felt that the whole surgery ordeal had been in vain. I felt so lost and tired and in pain. There was not a single day that my knee was not hurting. I started regretting the surgery and just became really hopeless. Then one day, my friend Lou recommended me this chiropractor that ¨worked wonders.¨ Skeptical, I made an appointment, not getting my hopes up.

That day, this whole journey took a 180. Doctor Raymer readjusted my pelvis (it was completely off due to me carrying my weight on one side) and began with me a short yet effective process of getting things back in order/place and beginning a new physical therapy regimen. This process was excruciatingly painful, but once I recovered most of my mobility, I was able to throw myself into an exercise routine that I had not had in months: weights, resistance training, biking, swimming.

Since then, I have watched myself getting stronger and more confident on my knee. I have jogged a couple times, I have gone dancing. I have played a little soccer. It has been so good for my body and for my soul.

I know the road to recovery is far from over. Kneeling at church still hurts quite a bit. So does running. I have so much muscle to build (and so many pounds to lose), but to just be able to see myself juggle the ball  again (50, 100, 200 reps), to dance to my favorite songs. To sit with my legs folded under me... these are all little things for most people, but huge landmarks for me. I am just so happy to have a shot at living life with a fully functional knee.

And I am just so proud of myself for having been so brave in this crazy hard process. For wiping off the tears. From getting up from that shower floor and just continue doing the thing. I am kind of in awe at my own resilience.

So now, there is a giant screw drilled into my bone, holding a piece of cadaver in place. But, more importantly, there is a firm, shimmering hope drilled in my heart that says that I will run again one day.

OLE!!!!!!!!!!!

Hi friends and haters alike!

On behalf of #TeamMexicanGeordie (me), I'd like to thank you for being here today, on this memorable occasion, in which your eyes shall feast on the beautiful words flowing out of my nonsensical brain AND also feast on my booty-licious body, because--hear, hear!--there's a VIDEO at the end of this post.

Now, don't be a jackass and skip to the video. I know you want to see my face, but listen to what I have to say!!

Honestly, it has been so long since my vacation that I don't remember much. And I didn't take any notes, so...

But let me see what I can conjure up.

Ah, yes, let's start at the beginning, which also happens to be the most interesting part.

Ugh, it's so tacky...

I arrived to Spain in a state of mind that I can only described as the most incongruent, contradicting, and heart-breakingly fragile. I had been wanting to go to Spain for such a long time, so it was a dream come true in that respect, but at the same time the fact that this was a change of plans in my original itinerary would never leave my mind. I was keenly aware of the "should haves" and the "would haves" and it was at times such a sharp pain that it left me breathless. Nevertheless, I had spent hundreds of dollars changing my trip, so I had to make the most of it, and Spain seemed like the perfect destination to distract myself from what was not to be.

Anyway, cryptic as shit, but I'm sure most of you have figured out things have happened in my life in the past few months... and I rather not talk about some of the crippling, debilitating effects of--let's move on.

I HATE to ask strangers for photos... worst part of traveling alone!

MADRID

1. Intensely gorgeous.
Small, clean, and with beautiful architecture. Everywhere you look you see a beautiful building. La Puerta de Alcala. The Royal Palace. The Prado. El Parque del Retiro. I MEAN CAN IT BE ANY MORE BEAUTIFUL? I got to take a night bus-tour of the city and enjoy its cultured buoyancy and powerful majesty. There were several points during the three days when I told myself this was my goal city to live.

2. Feeling of safety.
I was walking alone well after midnight, roaming around like thousands of other people, enjoying a pleasant summer night (the temperature really does drop a ton... but the days are horribly hot and dry). I didn't feel in danger at any moment, and I saw many families out with their children strolling around.

3. FOOD GALORE.
You really can't go wrong. There's food for everyone. I found me a fantastic taqueria one night, and the night after I had Subway. I mean, YOU CANNOT LOSE (weight).

4. No sleep for you.
Between jetlag and anxiety, my sleeping schedule was shattered. I was going to sleep at 4am and waking up at 9... and if I decided to stay in bed, it was a lost day because...

5. HOLY HEAT, BATMAN!
I'm talking well over 40 degrees Celsius (that's well over 100, America!). I was melting like delicious yet sticky chocolate Popsicle under the dry Madrid sun. I had to come to the hotel room every day from 4-6 to just shield myself from the radiations (and I totally did not wear sunblock the first couple days so I was a nice crispy toast color by day three... not to mention with the most bizarre tan lines in the world, including a perfect circle in the middle of my chest caused by a combination of camera straps and the shirt I was wearing that day. I don't know... don't ask me how.

BONUS: WROTE A POEM ABOUT MYSELF:

Caught the ocean in my hair,
Gumption for the ages,
Freckle constellations,
Lava in my veins.
Crystal joints, shifty knees,
Samson-with-hair strong,
Pearly whites, hips don't lie,
Honest to the core.
Story-telling eyes,
Voice made to speak aloud,
Piano hands, football feet,
Nuclear-hot heartbeat.
Unquenchable, unfathomable,
Unending 'spite the storm,
My heart's still afire,
And You. Will. Get. Burned.


AVILA

1. St Teresa everything!!
I mean, isn't that self-explanatory? Museum, church, another museum, convent. Guess what, though? St Teresa's relics... NOT THERE! #KILLME

2. Death by exposure to heat.
This was the hottest day. 45 degrees. Pretty sure I was delusional as I waited outside one of the museums for them to come back from lunch.

yikes... gory!

3. Beautiful Medieval town!
I climbed up to the tower and walked on the city walls, beholding the red roofs and stone houses.

ZARAGOZA

1. Our Lady of the Pillar
Need I say more? Walked through the Door of Mercy, got confession, communion, AND got to kiss the pillar where Our Lady first appeared to St James. First Marian apparition in Church history. Catholic Universe implosion! The priest I confessed with was holy and gentle, and he knew exactly what I felt and what to say in response. It was like having a personal face-to-face with the Man Upstairs Himself! God's mercy at work!!!

2. Food poisoning
Just when I had finally gotten over my jetlag. Three days of torture courtesy of a Tapas Buffet. THAT'S why I always look for Subway.

BARCELONA

1. Crappy hostel.
Broken AC, LOUD PIPES running water at all ours of the night, tiny-ass bed, shared bathroom.
SPEAKING OF SHARING A BATHROOM. So one day my jeans got soaked, and they were fairly new, so they dyed my legs and bum dark blue. Then my body dyed the toilet seat dark blue. Then I panicked and thought of ways to fake my own death but I figured, 'Hey, it's a shared bathroom... no one has to know it was my tainted butt that did this." I regret nothing.

2. MASSIVE PLACE
This city is huge. Unless Donald Trump's hands. ANYWAY, it's big like London so you have to use transportation to get around, or else you end up walking a marathon, like I did. Why do I always do this to myself? Sigh...

At least I got to see a lot of the city, even the uninteresting parts!

3. SANGRIA!
Met some whinny Americans (from California and Florida.. DUH) and they bought me some sangria, which honestly I had never tried before. The stuff is delicious and quite cheap. I drank it like Kool Aid. I stuck with the Americans for a few hours and then we parted ways amicably.

4. ALTITUDE
Having the privilege to see the city from above was just priceless. I went up to mount Tibidabo and made myself nauseated with the height. I also went to Montjuic, where I paid 8 euros for a Cable Car trip down (instead of having done it going UP, so I didn't half-die on the climb... well, you live, you learn).

This is Tibidabo

5. I LOVE BEACHES!
As a beach-lover, I had to make my way to La Barceloneta, the main beach of Barcelona. On the last night of my stay in Spain, I walked to the beach and decided to take a dip... fully clothed! Besides almost drowning and looking ridiculous, I'd say it went pretty well.

There's a moment I do want to share...

After getting into the Mediterranean fully clothed, I came out and sat on the sand to try to dry. As the night began to fall, I started shivering because the temperature after sunset was quite cool and I was drenched. I knew there was a way to stop shaking so violently: I could just take off my shirt. But I kept thinking "HOW? I CAN'T DO THAT... I'm not like... well.. I don't look like someone who should take off their shirt in public..." So I sat there, trembling, cursing because I had not just brought a bathing suit and a towel.

But then, I started to think. Well, first, I started remembering what the last few months had been. Then I started thinking about who I was, and the poem I had written a couple days before. And I asked myself... "who? Who says you can't take off your t-shirt? You're at the beach. That's what people do at the beach." Of course, one is prone to think that flabby bellies with stretch marks are not what beach-goers want to see. But then, for just a moment, I thought...

"Who the hell cares?"

Who cares if I sit at this beach in my jeans and sports bra? Who cares if I have three levels of rolls of fat? Who is going to come tell me to cover up? Or laugh at me? Or scoff at my grossness? No one.

Not a single person. Because they won't dare. Because I am going to sit here, and breathe the salty breeze, and look straight ahead at the Mediterranean, and smile, and push my shoulders out, and keep my chin up, and none of these people will dare to break me because they can't. Because the only one telling me to cover up and to hide my embarrassment of a body is me. It's that high-pitched voice of the insecurities passed on to you generation from generation, the immature comments of your high school friends, the rude remarks of annoying older women who don't know any better. But I have the power to drown that voice. I have the power to punch that voice in the face, so to speak. And hear my own, my very own voice tell me, "Who the hell cares? You are who you are and you're cold and you need to take this shirt off and don't give a fudge about the teens over there. No, they are not laughing at you. They're smoking pot, they're laughing at everything. No, that lady didn't look at you, don't mind her. Sit here. Feel the breeze. Breathe. Enjoy not shivering to death."

I sat there, God knows for how long, and watched the waves come and go. And I felt like I was almost gazing at myself from outside my body. And I told myself that, even if he'd gone, even if he'd taken my poetry, my secrets, my dreams, and my favorite songs, he hadn't managed to take me completely. I told myself that I still had me, broken and raw, but alive and breathing. I told myself that if everyone else failed, I'd still love me. Always and forever. I'll love me even after everyone else is gone.


Thank you, España. You were exactly what I needed.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnfOT34X5bc&feature=youtu.be

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnfOT34X5bc&feature=youtu.be

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnfOT34X5bc&feature=youtu.be

GUESS WHO IS BACK?

Howdy.

I can't really say that it has been ages because that would be saying the same thing I say in every other blog post. So I won't say it...

This post was going to be about something else. I'm sure you are all dying to know about the summer (or are you? I'm not entirely sure anyone is still reading these...), but that's just going to have to wait until another time because... the thing is...

I almost (sorta) died today.

I was driving home this afternoon when I had to stop at a traffic light. I was the first car in the row of cars waiting for green. It was hot and I was a little distracted with picking a song to listen to (the car was, after all, not in motion). Before choosing a song I instinctively looked up as the light was switching to green, so I let go of the brake and stepped gently on the accelerator.

It all happened so fast.

As I was going under the metal structure of the traffic lights, I noticed a blue object from the corner of my left eye. It was a car going at full speed, coming out of nowhere. It didn't really register though. I didn't react quickly enough. I just kept my hands on the steering and continued stepping on the gas pedal.

My lack of reaction saved me.

From my rear-view mirror I saw the blue car crumple like paper into a white SUV that was right behind me, a mere 10 yards away. There was a loud boom that rippled through the air as pieces of debris floated around. The small car, going at full speed, managed to push the SUV a good 10 yards off the side of the road, then proceeded to give a full 360-degree-spin-around.

I watched the whole thing as my car moved away from the collision slowly, my mind unable to react. It was like watching a movie in slow motion. People immediately got out of their cars to go help. I kept driving until I lost sight of them.

Then my soul came back into my body. I started shaking, blinking, breathing heavily, cursing, crying. I thought about pulling over on the side of the road. I started slowing down. There was nowhere to stop. Just go home, I told myself. Get home. I picked up the phone. I called my best friend. Crying, cursing, shaking, breathlessness.

Nothing had actually happened to me. Yet...

Yet it was going to. It would have. It was going to be me. A second, maybe two, made the difference.

Why them and not me?

It was a strange reality-check, considering the things I was (and have been) thinking: If I were to go tomorrow, what would I leave behind? What would have been the purpose of my life? And constantly feeling like the answers to those questions were disappointing and frustratingly unsatisfying.

But those questions, they've always been around. When I was a little girl, I mean LITTLE, I would go every day up to my mother's room to check if she was breathing during her nap. I would stand there and watch her chest rise and fall and breathe with relief because I didn't have to think about "what will I do now?" Mortality has always had a terrifying grip of me. Probably in part due to my vivid imagination and also because of my natural disposition to pessimism.

So I think about these things. What would happen if tomorrow I'm not here? It's silly and I'm sure people wonder that all the time then quickly dismiss the thought, as if it was bad to think about it or as if it was actually inviting Death in. But I dwell on things, so I dwell on this, and most of the time it brings me incredibly low.

But today, faced with the fact that this car would have hit right on my driver door and would have probably crushed me to death, my mind started racing with these questions:

If it was over right now, what would your legacy be?

The initial response is a dry "nothing". I wasted my talents in an unfulfilling career. My writing never amounted to much. I wasn't a particularly benevolent person, nor a good daughter, sister, teacher. I didn't do anything remarkable. I complained a lot. I cursed waaay too much. I felt sad the majority of the time.

But there was a flash of lightning, a light bulb turned on in the dense dark. I had no success according to the world. Heck, I had no success according to God (I am far, far, FAR away from being close to my saintly role models). The only thing I did sort of right was... to love.

I've loved.
I've loved until my bones have ached and my joints have snapped.
I've loved until my heart has sank on the ground.
I've loved until it's broken my soul and has made me questioned if I'm wrong.
I've loved because I'm sick, insane, incorrigibly stubborn.
I've loved with the rage and the fire and the storm.
I've loved with all the tenderness and care and meticulousness of a poem.
I've loved ephemeral like the stars and mighty like a meteor shower.
I've loved in all seasons and in every hour.
I've loved intensely and fiercely and silently and pathetically.
I've loved against exhaustion, reason, indifference and practicality.
I've loved until the wound gushes no more blood.
I've loved until numbness has dried up the flood.
I've loved with stomping feet and held up fists and fits of laughs.
I've loved with sunshine in my eye but also well into the night.
I've loved so hard, so rash, so tough, so fast, so natural
That I've yet to stop and think twice before I'm quickly falling down.

That's all I've done in my life. I've loved sports with the intensity worthy of a stroke (if anything that's always been the way I imagined I'd go). I've loved football like one loves one's first love (forever). I've loved my mother until wishing to go first so I don't have to live without her. I've love food like couples love in rom-coms. I've loved this world: with its colors and its textures and its shades of wrong. I've loved seeing and hearing and touching and tasting in every place I go.

But most importantly, I've loved people. People who have been all sorts of vicious and cruel and selfish. People who are loyal and kind and lovely. Both sorts of people who are easy to love. I've loved them all imperfectly and tragically so. I wish I would have loved them like my God expected me to do.

My blood, they've gotten the worst from me.
My friends, the best there is.
And men... ah yes, men...
If I was going Home today it would be to meet the only one of them worth anything to me (but Purgatory might be a scale for an indefinite period of time).

And I'd go finally having fallen in love with myself. At long last. Despite the deterioration of age, of stress, of heartbreak and tiredness. I'd watch my body from above and behold its lovely form one last time, and be sorry to see it so torn apart in that crash. Because the scales in my eyes have fallen off, and I've beheld the beauty of creation. Who I am, who I've been, it's all a masterpiece. It took me long enough to figure that out.

So what if life's been rubbish (which it hasn't)? What if life has been a waste of time (which it hasn't)? I've loved, and I've been loved beyond anything I could ever deserve. By you, and you, and you. In an equally imperfect, beautiful way. So I thank you, and farewell.

Except... I'm not dead.

God decided today was not the day. Instead, today is the day I say:

   I
Love
 You

I'm not going anywhere.

-Cris

THE UNITED KINGDOM: RELOADED! A history of my travels told with Miranda GIFs

OI! WELCOME BACK! Apologies, it's been a solid two months without a blog entry. I would love to tell you that it was because I was extremely busy planning my wedding, but the truth is I was lazy and--let's face it, only five people still read this thing (thanks guys!).

Where did we leave off? Ah yes, it was my birthday and I was being a complete downer, eh? But just in case you were wondering, I was able to recharge my joy batteries during 25 fantastic days in my favorite side of the world! That's right, I WENT HOME, BABYYYYY!!!!

But let's start at the beginning, shall we? I think the trip was eventful enough to actually write more than one blog entry, but let's see how much I can milk this cow.


1. Canada, eh?

the afternoon of Sunday, June 7th, 2015, I got on an AirCanada flight to Toronto. You may call me cheap, but I choose to call it economical. It was a very tight flight with no TV screens, so I was left to my thoughts and delirious excitement about going back to the UK and seeing all my favorite-est people in the universe.

Toronto airport was lovely and I am now a Tim Horton's Coffee convert. Who can even think about Starbucks now? Tim Horton's is every Catholic man's fantasy: the hotter, humbler, more modest sister of Starbucks. Starbucks definitely has a superiority complex.

Turns out, however, not everything Canadians make is beautifully perfect. AirCanada is crap, ya'll. Their planes are crammed and they make you download an app on your device to be able to watch anything instead of having screens like other normal airplanes. Of course, I missed the part where they instructed us which app to download, so I literally was stuck on an intercontinental flight with no movies-- torture, basically, since I just cannot sleep in planes for more than 30 minutes at a time.

2. Dublin meh-ness

With red eyes and bags under my eyes, I arrived in Dublin and was received by Autumnal weather. After an encounter with a very nasty bus driver (who I dared to call a jerk to his face) and much idle walking with my two HUGE suitcases (don't judge me, you know I can't help it), I finally managed to find my hostel. They made me wait for an hour and a half to let me into the room, but I was so exhausted and sweaty (TMI) that I just decided to stay there waiting for my room instead of trying to get adventurous and finding food.

After a nice shower and some Subway, I dared to venture out into the streets of Dublin, only to quickly change my mind. Don't get me wrong, it's not that Dublin is not a charming little city. But I was SO. TIRED. And jet-lagged. So, I am ashamed to say, I did the awfully touristy thing and bought me a ticket to one of those hop-on-and-off tour buses that takes you around the city.

I am sorry, but those things are WONDERFUL. You cover a lot of ground, you can get off whenever you want to and go do your thing and then just get back on later, you have a vantage view point for the majority of the trip,  and you've got a person explaining to you all the ins and outs of the city. TOUR BUSES, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE??

I saw the Guinness factory, the Old Jameson Distillery, and Trinity College, and a bunch of other nice buildings I honestly don't remember. Then, I went and had a huge three course dinner, eventually making my way back to the hostel for the night. Feeling tired really blurs your perspective. I really thought I did not like being in cold, rainy Ireland. Luckily, that changed the next day, when I arrived to.... *drumroll*

3. SUNNY GALWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!

You guys, the place is a dream. Big enough to be called a city but small enough to stroll around in a day. Quaint and clean yet packed with booze and yummy food! Did I mention live music in every other pub? Even the sun likes Galway better than Dublin.

Now, my hotel was quite out of the way, about four miles away from the city centre (which means it was in a totally different town). But I stayed in the world's best B&B, so Anne, my lovely hostess, actually gave me a lift into town. And made me tea. And gave me brochures. And booked a cab for me. JUST ALL THE THINGS!

Music, fish and chips, drinks, the works. Oh, you know what else? MEN.

I guess this is when I tell you about the Claddagh ring.

Months ago, the Claddagh ring was brought to my attention by my friend Iris. Little did I know that it was a symbol originated in Galway. So when I saw a jewelry shop with a big painting of the ring on the wall, I couldn't resist. I went in and entered the realm of the Claddagh magic.

According to what I understood, the Claddagh ring symbolizes loyalty, friendship, and love. It is customary for women who are married/taken to wear the ring with the heart pointing inwards, while ladies who are looking for luuuuuurve wear it pointing outwards, to draw in "the one".

I honestly bought the ring because I think it's really pretty; little did I know of its power. After buying the ring, I went into a restaurant to eat, and as I came out of it, sighing with satisfaction and smelly fish breath, a man approached me.

"So, good fish and chips?"
"Yeah, fantastic!"
"What's your name?"

Just like that. We chatted casually as we walked up the street, and after a few minutes he asked if he could buy me a drink. Yep. Just like that. I politely declined, since I'm pretty sure he was my dad's age (although I gotta admit he was not bad-looking... we just reached a whole new level of 'eww', huh?).

Oh my gosh, this ring works!
Don't be silly, that's just a funny coincidence. 

Except it wasn't. The next day, I met a couple guys at a tour of the Cliffs of Moher. I spent the whole day hanging out with them. One of them kept winking at me. From then, it was just a series of cat-callers, kiss-blowers, starers, smilers, plain ole' creeps. What. the actual. f****?

Look, I'm not saying the ring has magic. All I'm saying is that I am suddenly super irresistible and very confident. Especially to Irish men. Clearly, I've been wasting my time with a bunch of non-Irish men my entire life. Now it's only a matter of finding a somewhat sober Irishman with acceptable teeth.

But it didn't stop there. It went on. In Durham. At the Lake District. In Scotland. In FREAKING LAFAYETTE, LOUISIANA. Everywhere (except in Texas, apparently). I'm quickly collecting binders of men around here.

4. THE CLIFFS OF MOHER

Also known as The Most Beautiful Place on Earth. Seriously, there are no words to describe the Cliffs. Dumbfounded. Awe-struck. Fangirling. There really isn't much to say. Just look at this place:

5. Day of Madness: Galway -- Dublin -- Manchester

Took a train from Galway to Dublin.
Took a bus from Dublin's train station to Dublin Airport.
Took a flight from Dublin to Manchester. I almost lose my life because I looked at a wrong screen and I thought the flight was leaving so I ran and ran and suddenly discovered that running with luggage practically makes me asthmatic. Turns out I had plenty of time. Fool.
Took the metro from Manchester Airport to the city centre.
Took a million years to find my hotel. I hadn't had food all day. But they have burgers. Delicious burgers.

Then, I waited and waited for someone I was supposed to meet up with. Waited and waited. AND WAITED. After hours of waiting (I waited, ya'll), I decided to dust myself off and take my pretty dress out for a walk, for a night in town. By a night in town I mean I went to the nearest Tesco to buy comfort food to bring back to the hotel so that I could watch the Women's World Cup. I bleeping hate this stupid city forever. #notbitter

Oh, here's a "Things that Only Happen To Me" moment:
Turns out, my hotel had been going through some "renovations", and it seems that they might have forgotten to actually finish some of the walls...

This meant that the walls of my room did not go all the way up to my ceiling, the same ceiling I was sharing with several other tenants. It was a matter of hours before I realized there was a beast sleeping next to me... because I could hear every single thing that was happening in the room next to mine. And it was not pretty. Burping. Growling. Hardcore snoring. GROWLINGOMGWTFISGOINGON!!!! The guy was GRUMPY, slamming drawers, windows, the door. I was actually scared for my life. Then on the other side there was someone else, also snoring. Oh, did I mention there was a drunken homeless man shouting "OI MATE!" outside my window for what felt like hours? Yeah, I had almost no sleep that night.

But it's totally fine, ya'll, because the next day I was Durham-bound. And that, my friends, is enough for me.

***TO BE CONTINUED***

Part V

She turned around and looked at the house—the house she loved, the house that had nourished her when her heart had been torn and bleeding. She opened the gate, got in, and closed it without hesitation. Then she looked up at him, his mouth half-open as if he were about to say something else. She held his gaze for a few seconds then started locking the gate. When the lock clicked, she looked up again and there he was, in disbelief. But there was nothing else to say. She slowly turned around and started toward the house. Her first instinct was to look at the living room window to see if anyone had been watching, but there was no one there. This seemed to be the longest walk of her life. Who would have thought? She was walking away from all that she had ever wanted at one point in her life—from the boyish smile, the brown curls, the veiny hands. She opened the door, stepped inside, and looked back. He was still there, with defeated shoulders and glistening eyes. Life seemed to be going in slow-motion, with so many possibilities opening up like endless scrolls in front of her.

It felt like it was just yesterday. They were dancing under the dimmed lights of the elegantly decorated party room in the Marriott. She had on a beautiful shimmering dress and dangling crystal earrings. She felt like a million bucks. His hands were around her waist and he kept bringing her closer and closer to him. Her knees were rattling violently and her breath was quick and shallow. He brought his mouth close to her ear and started whispering the things she never thought she would hear. Her imagination was quick—she could see her future, their future. There would be baking sessions, visits to the Museum of Fine Arts, dense conversations about Kafka and Byron and Edward Said until they would fall asleep sometime after 2 AM.  She had let the wind of his whispers tickle her ear and her heart had thundered in her rib cage.

Suddenly, one word had changed it all. Suddenly, she had woken up from the beautiful, momentary dream. Suddenly, she had realized he would never be for her. So she had walked away, leaving him there on the dancefloor, with a puzzled look and defeated shoulders. She had been blind, but now she could see, even if tears were flooding her eyes. She kept walking, not knowing exactly where to go, but feeling the urge to get out of that stifling place. She had always thought that had been the longest walk of her life…until now.

She closed the door and walked through the small foyer in a few seconds. She was walking past the living room and caught something from the corner of her eye which made her stop. It was her husband. He was sitting with her back to her, watching the Christmas tree. She stared at his broad shoulders, his strong neck, and his perfectly groomed black hair.

That night, she had walked out into the hotel gardens and felt her burning cheeks being cooled by the surprisingly fresh May night. Her head was pounding, her blood boiling, her heart yelling. Her voice had choked inside of her, as the walls of her throat seemed to have closed up. There was agony blazing inside her, but not a sound would come out. She had walked across the garden, feeling her heart was about to burst. Suddenly, there was a cry, a sob, faint and deep. But it wasn’t hers. It wasn’t her voice that had finally escaped its trap of misery. She listened. Yes, a low cry—so, so low and desperate. She had followed the sound and, turning a corner, had found its source: a man, with his waiter uniform, huddled in a corner, trembling in sobs, covering his face with his hands. She stood there in front of him, watching him, feeling her own pain subsiding at the sight of such a man weeping with such anguish. After a few moments, he had felt a presence, which propelled him to quickly look up with reddened eyes.

“Cathy!” he had cried, jumping to his feet and wiping the tears off his face. It was a moonless night and she was still very shaken, so it had taken her a moment to recognize him.

“Cathy, are you okay?” he had asked, gently placing his hand on her shoulder.

“Santi—no… Alex, right?”

“Whatever is left of him, yes,” he had replied, forcing a smile.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… to intrude—”

“No… it’s fine. I should be working…” he sniffled and again wiped his dry face with the back of his hand. “Cathy, can I help you with anything?”

“I’m fine.” She had said it so resolutely that he had just stared at her and nodded. 

“Okay…” he blurted awkwardly and started walking away. She didn’t like him, but he had seemed so distressed that she had considered trying to help him. Before she knew it, she was speaking again.

“Alex…”

“Yeah?”

“I know we’re not exactly friends—”

“As far as I can see, we only have each other right now.”

Alex must have felt her presence behind him, for he looked back and saw her lingering on the living room threshold. She saw him place her angelic nephew, who was fast asleep, on the sofa and stare at her inquiringly. On the worst day of her life, she had found this man she once thought she hated crying inconsolably in a corner of a hotel garden, wearing a waiter uniform. On the worst day of her life, she had found another aching, bleeding heart howling with grief. On the worst day of her life, she had decided not walk away but to place her arm around the broad shoulders of a man weakened by the sorrow of his dying mother. That night, he had looked at her face with those lovely green eyes and told her that Santiago was an idiot and that she the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, even if eyeliner was running down her cheeks in little droplets. With the music blaring in the distance, he had asked her to dance one song with him and had even managed to crack a couple jokes to make her smile. All while his mother was lying in a hospital bed with a shaven head and a mutilated body.  He, who had been nothing to her and who had no duty toward her, had done this. He who was standing in front of her right now. He was looking at her with a mix of worry and fear. But what had he to fear? Didn't he know? It was true that she hadn't always loved him, and he certainly had done a lot of pleading before she had even considered giving him a chance, but after all they had gone through--then it dawned of her: he had seen her from the window. He had probably seen Santiago leaning in and raising her hand up to his chest. Yet there was no reproach, no accusation. He was waiting on her to speak.

She remembered the first time she had met his mother. Alex, his dad, and his two brothers were throwing her what would be her last birthday party. Only close friends of the family had been invited, so she had been very nervous--after all, Alex was just her friend back then. But Angela had received her as if she had always been part of the family: she had embraced her with her feeble arms and kissed her cheek. She had the same glistening green eyes as her son, though made larger by the thinness of her face and the shades of gray surrounding them. But her most vivid memory of Angela was her voice. It was soothing and powerful and kind all at once, like oak leaves rustling with a gentle wind in a warm April morning. Cathy had taken a liking to her immediately. 

"I'm glad to meet the famous Cathy at last!"

"Me? Famous?"

"Yes--at least around here. I hear my son was quite the stereotype of a spoiled teenage football player around you in high school," she nudged and winked at her." But God made sure to straighten him up and force him to become a man." She had said this with a mix of pride and nostalgia. "He's got a good heart, I promise."

"I know he does."

"Do you?" she asked with a playful smile. Cathy had just blushed profusely.

"I wish I'd be here to see it," she sighed. "I don't have much time left, I'm afraid. So I'll be watching from up there," she looked up. "But if there's anything I can say to help my son a bit is this: he's got a really good heart. You see those big beautiful eyes? They're nowhere as big or as beautiful as his heart. You keep that in  mind, okay?" She had.


She continued looking at him until she could no longer contain a dimpled smile. On the worst day of her life, she had found him. He was hers—her sleek black hair, her plump lips, her broad shoulders, her massive hands, her freckled back, her pretty eyes. Her husband—hers. She jumped into his arms.

“‘I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears of all my life!’”, she recited, marking each pause with a kiss.

“‘And, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death’”, he responded, smiling.

“That night I thought I was helping you, but in reality you rescued me—no, it’s true, stop shaking your head!” she stroked his face. “I felt invisible and then you came along and even though you were going through hell you looked at me like you’re doing right now and you saw me—you saw me when I thought no one did.”

“Well, that was not hard to do!”

“The thing is… I don’t need anyone else to see me as long as you do.” He held her tighter and looked at her with misty and smiley eyes. She kissed him.

“Anyway, I was going to wait until midnight to give you your gift—but I don’t think I can wait any longer!” She rushed to get the tiny box with the gold wrapping paper and oversized red bow that was under the Christmas three. She placed it in his hands and waited restlessly as he carefully opened it and unfolded the rest of their lives in front of her. There would be movie nights every Friday, sleepless nights, arguments about which was the best football league in Europe, runs to the pediatrician,canoeing trips, sand castles, vanilla ice cream, Disneyland, summer barbecues, late night talks about angels, demons, and the Virgin Mary. There would be laughter and whispers and two pairs of eyes glowing in the dark. She watched him as he stared down at the tiny pair of mint-colored, knitted socks.

“Merry Christmas and happy birthday, Daddy.”

                                                   ********************************

Random stuff, part 2.

1. Acronyms are idiotic. They are confusing and it takes longer to explain them than to just say the words. I just felt like I had to get that out there.

2. The comforting thought of being a national of the World's fattest country living in the World's second fattest country. Who can blame me? I got both Nature AND Nurture against me!!!!

3. Eaves-dropping at its worst:

    Man: have you seen her? She must have been walking around here. She's small and has dark hair.

    Me: Oh, you lost your dog?

    Man: No... my girlfriend. 

Man: she's small, has dark hair. A nice body. Fake boobs.

4. Drinking tea with milk and sugar makes you a douchy snob if you're not in the UK, or so I hear. I'm sorry that I'm better than you and I have traveled the world (sort of) and I appreciate that tea doesn't give me putrid breath like coffee seems to do to everyone else. What's that you say? I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over the sound of my sipping my delicious Early Grey from my delicate fine-china teacup while listening to Chopin on my 1920s gramophone. Besides, the Countess Dowager was telling me the funniest story about how her silly late-husband shot one of the servants accidentally once.

5. People working in the restaurant industry win heaven by martyrdom of the customer service type.

Man: hello, I'm calling because I found you online and I'm looking for a place to eat. What kind of burgers do you have?

Me: OH, I DON'T KNOW, THE KIND WITH THE DEAD COW AND THE BREAD AND THE FATTY CHEESE THAT WILL BLOCK YOUR ARTERIES?

Me (what I actually said): what do you mean what kind of burgers, sir? 

Man: yeah, what kind? I'm looking for something to eat. Are your burgers good?

Me: SURELY NOT SIR, THEY ARE A MOUTHFUL OF HORSE SHIT.

Me (what I actually said): Yes, they are good. We have cheeseburgers, and bacon burgers, and barbecue burgers...

Man: but how good are they? If I'm going to drive all the way to your restaurant I need to know if it's worth it. I need you to make me want to.

Me: MAKE YOU WANT TO WHAT? I DIDN'T REALIZE THIS WAS A SEX HOTLINE. 

Me (what I actually said): Well, they are good burgers, we've been here for 30+ years, I don't know what else you want me to say...

Man: well, I'm just looking for something good and exotic.

Me: THIS IS A CLASSIC AMERICAN FOOD RESTAURANT, NOT A THAI MASSAGE PARLOUR. 

Me (what I actually said): well, we sell burgers, sir, it doesn't get any less exotic than that....

Man: okay.Thanks. *HANGS UP*