Category Archives: Personal

More About Me, Part 2

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My family is huge.  Thanks to divorce and re-marriage I have: –

1 biological brother, who is married and has two daughters.

3 step brothers, all of whom are married and between them have 5 children.

2 step sisters, both of whom are married and between them have 4 children.

A step, step niece who has a baby of her own, which makes me a step step Great Aunt.  (a step step is when one of your step siblings has a step child, in case you were wondering).

A dad and step mom.

A mom and step dad.

A mother in law and father in law

A sister in law who is engaged and getting married in September in Tuscany.  Can’t wait!

A husband.

Many many cousins, cousins in law, second cousins, third cousins and who the heck knows cousins.

We live all over the US, including Alaska (but not Hawaii) and in Northern Ireland, England and East Timor.

As my brother says, we are a nuclear family that exploded.  All over the world.

So, What Do I Think is Better in the UK?

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So yesterday I wrote about what I find or found it hard to deal with when I moved here. So what do I think is better?

The beer. Hands down. I go to the States and drink what is considered beer there and I practically gag on it, its so watery and nasty. This is why I am still in shock that you can actually buy, and people drink, Budweiser and Miller here. Just, why???

The people. They are warm and welcoming. Shop assistants call you ‘love’. Seem to really mean it when they tell you to have a nice day.

Some of the food. As mentioned before, the national dish is an Ulster Fry, or just a Fry. Eggs, bacon, sausage, bread, tomatoes, mushrooms, black/white pudding. Heart attack on a plate. And delish. I also really like the savory pie concept, that you don’t really get in the States. Shepherd’s Pie (which is made with lamb. To quote James Martin “What Shepherd herds cows???”), Cottage Pie, Steak Pie, etc. All served up with mashed potatoes (yes, even the ones with mash on top of them. What can I say? Its Ireland!) and a veg. Little HP on top…YUM!

Which brings me to potatoes. And a conversation my mother had with my friend Andrea at my wedding, which I think pretty much sums up Ireland food philsophy.

Mum: I knew I was in Ireland when there were two kinds of potatoes on the plate.

Andrea: Yup. And, actually, some nice potatoes and a really good gravy and we all would have been happy!

For the record, we served roast beef, champ, roast potatoes and veg at our wedding. What’s that? What’s champ? This is champ. LOVE IT!

Memory

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Memory is a weird thing.  Ask Simon and he’ll tell you I have a horrible memory.  I joke that I need to ask him his name all the time, because half of what he remembers, I don’t.

But on the other side, I have some very clear memories.  And I find that a lot of things I remember clearly, make me smile.

One is the memory of a time my brother, my niece and myself went out to dinner.  I don’t remember where my sister-in-law was, but she wasn’t with us.  We were walking down the sidewalk, after dinner, and my brother asked my niece, who must have been about 2 or 3, so not really good with the talking yet, who was being carried by him, if she wanted anything for dessert.  She grabbed his cheeks with her hands and turned his head so he was looking at her and stuck out her tongue like she was licking an ice cream.  Yeah, she wanted something for dessert!

The memory of the sight of her little hands on her daddy’s big face is so precious to me.  Makes me smile every time I think of it.

Going back further was the day she was born.  I was there, at first in the room and then they took my sister-in-law in for an emergency c-section so I was kicked out.  The first time I saw my girl (and she’s been my girl her whole life) she was yelling her head off being held up to the window of the nursery by her head and heels by a nurse while my brother beamed beside her.  Also makes me smile.

Or the first time I saw her sister, who is also my girl, although I moved to Belfast not long after she was born.  That time I wasn’t at the hospital.  I was in a bad place mentally at that point and didn’t really feel like I could handle it, so I didn’t go.  I met my brother and sister-in-law at their house the day they brought her home.  I had a key so I was already there when they pulled up.  And I went back to the garage entrance to say hi and there was a tiny little human in the back hall in her car seat, fast asleep.  I took her out of her car seat and introduced myself.

There are so many more that are bright and sharp in my mind, like the first time I saw Simon in person, at San Francisco International Airport.  Our first kiss, also at the airport.  And other, more, shall we say, intimate moments.  No, those weren’t at the airport, you hussy!

So I might not always remember your name.  But I remember the important stuff.  And I think that’s all that really matters.

Do You Speak English?

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The other day I had to call Cannes, France, to confirm a hotel reservation for one of my bosses, as he has a conference there the middle of March (yeah, tough life, the company sending him to the South of France for a conference. I am still trying to convince him he needs me there to carry his bags).

I find there is nothing more awkward then dialling another country, hearing their opening spiel in their language and having to ask them if they speak English. But I do not speak French. I can read it a bit and say a few words, but at the speed a native goes? Not gonna happen. Luckily both of the people I spoke to at the hotel did speak English and I confirmed the reservation with no problems.

But it got me thinking. Do I speak English? Or do I speak American?

I actually speak a combination of both. My mother and sister-in-law have both pointed this out to me. I say lorry, not truck. I say lift, not elevator. But I still call it a sidewalk, not the pavement. Pavement is what you drive on.

I’ve also picked up a little bit of an accent, but not too much of one. One of the other English things I say is ‘sorry’ rather than ‘excuse me’ when I nearly bump into someone. And I say it with a bit of a lilt.

And there are difference in expression that get me in trouble or make me blush. ‘You blew me off’ has a totally different meaning here (figure it out, you’re all intelligent people!). And one day the following conversation happened at work:

Boss is patting all of the papers on his desk, obviously looking for something.

Robyn: What did you lose?

Boss: My rubber.

Robyn: ::blushing furiously:: I have more in the supply cupboard, do you need one?

Boss: FOUND IT!

Co-Worker: We do have more rubbers?

Robyn: ::still blushing:: Yes, do you need one?

CEO: You really shouldn’t ask Robyn for a rubber.

Co-worker: Yeah, because I am sure she keeps condoms in the supply cover.

Robyn: ::Flees to get Co-worker an ERASER!!!::

And I really don’t embarrass easily. But that got me.

The other thing that gets me on occasion is pronunciation. I was taking minutes in a meeting not too long ago and I could not figure out what a ‘clark of works’ was. So we finish the meeting and I say to my boss “A what of works?!”

“Clark.”

“Clark?”

“Yes, c-l-e-r-k, clark.”

“Ooooh, CLERK!” You would have thought I’d have figured that one out by the context, but the pronunciation was so different, I just couldn’t get my head around it!

And when my mother, or sister-in-law, point out what I’ve said is English, rather than American, I point out to them that I live here now. I need to speak the language.

You May Have Noticed

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that I tend to post in this blog very early in morning. Or maybe not because I don’t think I have a time stamp on here!

Anyway, I do. Right now it is 0504. Yes, 5am. I’ve actually been up since 0430.

I have insomnia. I don’t actually have to be up for work until 0700, but here I am, 0500, up and posting.

Except for being tired all the time, I don’t actually mind being up this early. Its quiet, I get to use the computer without my husband asking me when I’ll be done and I do actually like having the extra time to myself in the morning. Of course I prefer waking up this early on the weekend, when I can get a nap in the afternoon, but I don’t really mind it during the week.

The reason I have insomnia, I think, is my aforementioned Anxiety Disorder. Not because I am particularly anxious at the moment, I’m not anxious at all, actually, but because my brain chemistry is off. I fall asleep fine, sometimes as early as 2130 (that’s 9:30pm to those of you who don’t do well with a 24 hour clock), but I don’t stay asleep. If I sleep until 0530, I consider that a good sleep.

People ask me why I don’t just go to bed later. Well, I don’t really see the point. Even if I went to bed at 2200 or even 2300 I would still be up about 7 hours later. It would just be later in the morning!

I have been trying to convince myself to join the gym across the street from our flat so I could go when they open at 0600 and use my time wisely, but I just can’t seem to motivate myself to do that. I really do enjoy sitting here, catching up on writing my blog, reading other people’s blogs (see my blogroll for the blogs I follow religiously) and sometimes writing fan fiction (and I really want to know why the word blog isn’t in Firefox’s spellchecker, here in the 21st C).

So I will continue to get up at 0500, or 0530, or sometimes even 0400. And some part of me will continue to enjoy it.

So, What Don’t I Like About Belfast?

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Other than the aforementioned lack of customer service?

I don’t like the fact that, it seems, nothing is easy.  And I mean nothing.

We had trouble with our boiler this past weekend.  Called the landlord’s agent.  No answer, no emergency number listed.  Called a boiler repairman ourselves. Paid £60 that we had better get back.

Had more trouble with the boiler on Monday.  Called the landlord’s agent.  Was told they would get in touch with the landlord and get back to us.  That happened about 3 hours later.  Why can’t we just call the landlord directly?

This building is run badly.  One agent rented us the flat.  One agent represents our landlord now that the flat is rented.  One agent runs the building.  Virgin Media guy was here Monday.  Needed into the cupboard down the hall to flip a switch, or something like that, it was locked.  I call Simon and ask him to call the landlord’s agent  (his is the only name on the lease, so he has to do it) and ask how we get into that cupboard.  They can’t tell us, call the building management.  Oh, says the building management, the concierge is in the building somewhere, he has the key.  Do you have a phone number? No, but his office is in the basement.  Robyn heads to basement, just happens to run into the Concierge.

Need the front door buzzer hooked into our phone number, so guests can be let in (interesting fact, there is no key for the front door of the building, it is a code instead.  Kinda cool).  Simon calls the building management, talks to some crazy person who makes no sense as to what we need to do.  So I call.  Speak to a woman who sounds about 12.  You’re leasing? Yes.  Then your landlord needs to call to confirm that it is okay to hook your phone into the security system.  And its £25.

Do you know what would help?  A small document, given to all new tenants, saying who to contact for what.  Like hotels do, ya know?

So it seems that Belfast’s raison d’etre is to make things as difficult as possible.  Makes me insane.

Ahem….

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Today is my birthday.

In celebration, I have awoken at 0328. Yip and may I add, eee. I took the day off work already, but I have a ton of stuff to do! Still unpacking, for one. Getting my hair cut, for another.

Need to ring the doctor and see about changing my address. Need to ring the building management and see about getting our phone hooked into the front door system.

Need to hang up my work clothes, and possibly iron some of them, as they have been packed since last Friday.

Oh, wait, we don’t have an ironing board. Darn, guess I’ll have to stay wrinkled.

Anyway, Happy Birthday To Me.

And in case you’re wondering, I’m 39.

Who Decided?

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I often wonder, who decided?  Who decided that the colour of the sky should be called blue?  That the colour of the grass should be called green?

Who decided that the planet is called Earth?  That the pieces of hard substance on the ground should be called rocks?  That the wet stuff that lives in large areas should be called water? And ocean?

Not only who decided, but how did they get everyone else in the world to agree to call it what they wanted to call it.

Who named it snow?  Rain? Sleet? Hail?

I am sure there is an archaeologist or anthropologist or some sort of ologist, somewhere, maybe can tell me the theories.  In fact I am friends with several who can probably tell me the theories.

But I don’t want theories.  I want definite answers.  I want to know.  Everything.

Who decided?

Live! From the New Flat! Its Tee!

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So here we are!

My new flat has:

A dishwasher.
A real live thermostat for the heat. No more area heating.
Really nice furniture, although the leatherish couches could use a scrub.
Pretty drapes and finials on the curtain rails.
THREE BEDROOMS!!!
Dark slate tile in the kitchen.
Laminate hardwood look floors in the lounge, dining area and bedrooms.
Light slate tile along the hallway.
Wide enough hallway to hold some bookcases.
A brand new gas hob and electric oven with separate grill.
6 person dining table and 6 chairs.
Very comfy bed. Simon thinks its too hard, but I like it.
Recessed halogen lighting through out.
Plenty of electric outlets.
Cable hook ups for 3 TVs (although we’ll only use the one in the lounge, its nice that we have the option in each of the bigger bedrooms).
A tub that is actually longer and deeper than our other one, which was long enough and deep enough for me to soak up to my chin!

What we still need are some more bookcases, a washer/dryer (there was a washer here, but the landlord wouldn’t put in a washer/dryer, so they took the washer out and we’re going to buy our own. Yeah, Mom, I forgot to tell you that. Sorry.), another towel rail in the en suite bathroom (what is with these flats and only one small towel rail? Are married couples not suppose to lease them? Or are they suppose to be so in love they only use one towel? YUCK!), a microwave oven and some other odds and ends.  We are also less than pleased with the fact that the kitchen sink is even shallower than the one in the old flat, which we didn’t think was possible.  Obviously people who live in City Centre aren’t suppose to actually cook in their kitchens.