I feel incredibly lucky and grateful when I receive comments and emails from readers of this blog. When I started the blog 18 months ago I never thought the readership would extend beyond friends and family back home, so it’s always a thrill to get emails written by complete strangers from all over the world.

I get a lot of emails from Americans who have recently moved here and are looking for advice on how to adjust to their new lives in Ireland. They range from super excited to completely freaked out (“I just realized I don’t know ANYONE here!?” wrote one) and they always remind me of what I went through when I first landed in Ireland. Recently a DCU graduate student wrote to ask me where she could buy basic things like towels, bedding and a few kitchen items. Having only been here a few days, she realized she had no idea where to go for such items. It made me recall a time where I, too, was  utterly clueless about where to shop and how to get there and how to go about paying for it once all of the above was accomplished.

These are things that I now take for granted, but her email took me right back to my early days here in Ireland. The first shop I went to was Dunnes, and when I pulled out my ATM/Check card (<—what we call it back in America) I was told they would not accept it, which I found odd as I’d used it all over the world. The lady behind the counter told me I would need a “laser card or chip ‘n pin device” – had no idea what that was, of course. I remember ringing my new bank in Drogheda and asking them for one, and being told I’d have to go in person to request one…and that of course they would be closed until Monday (I’d rang on a Friday). Finding out that banks and post offices were closed on Saturdays was also a big shock.

I also remember the first time I dressed my bed – something that, on the surface, seems simple enough but is actually rife with issues! Even though the bed in my new apartment was a “double” my double-sized fitted sheet from back home was far too big. I went to the shop and realized the sizes here are completely different…a double here is a full back home, a king here is a queen back home and a king-plus here is a king back home. Needless to say I had to return and exchange bedding purchases more than once before I figured it all out.

And don’t even get me started on the differences in dress/clothing sizes! I can’t even tell you how horrified I was when I first tried on a size 10 pair of jeans here – I couldn’t even zip them up! Then an Irish friend told me that a US size 10 is actually a size 14 here. Though I know it’s technically still the same size, it was major psychological blow. Every time I’d reach for a size 14 item of clothing my brain would scream, “You’ve gone up TWO sizes since moving to Ireland you big heifer!!!” Amazing how cruel the inner  female voice can be sometimes.

There are still lessons to be learned and I’m not even close to having it all figured out…even after a year-and-a-half of residency. I’m still baffled by the timer-run water heating systems in most apartments here, still confused by the local slang (recently learned “scarle” was Dublin speak for “scarlet” which means embarrassed or mortified) and wonder if I’ll ever understand the incomprehensible and down-right inaccurate weather reporting here. Then again, all these little challenges sure keeps life interesting!

Comforting Breakfasts

Back in LA, brunch is a huge deal and nearly every weekend my sister, brother-in-law and I went out for the mid-morning meal. Here, there are very few brunch options so I find myself making it at home and it’s a real comfort meal for me. Two of my favourites are bagels and lox (smoked salmon) and Eggs Benedict, which are both easy to make yourself. If you don’t want to make your own Hollandaise sauce, pick some up at a good shop like Fallon & Byrne. I won’t include a recipe for bagels and lox; simply buy a pack of your favourite bagels (mine is Goody bagels by McCloskey’s), smoked salmon, cream cheese and fresh dill. Toast your bagel, spread on the cream cheese, layer on the salmon and top with the dill. You’re ready to go!

Clare’s Eggs Benedict (serves 2)

2 seeded rolls, sliced in half and toasted – I get mine from Lidl’s bakery

4 eggs

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

4 slices of Italian prosciutto

Hollandaise sauce (purchase or use this or this recipe!)

Cracked fresh pepper

First you’ll want to poach your eggs: Fill a medium saucepan with water about 3/4 of the way and bring to a simmer over medium heat. Add in the red wine vinegar (you can use malt vinegar if you prefer). Carefully crack the eggs into the saucepan one by one and side-by-side (not on top of each other!). Some people like to swirl the egg around but I find that the water in Ireland is hard enough and the eggs form together quickly without stirring, but it’s up to you. I sometimes take the handle of the pot and swish a bit so the eggs don’t stick to the bottom of the pan. Cook for 4 minutes for medium-soft eggs. Using a slotted spoon, remove the eggs from the water and place on a plate lined with kitchen roll. Sprinkle with a bit of sea salt.

Now you’re ready to compile the eggs Benedict: Place one slice of prosciutto on each of the four half-slices of roll. Next add the egg then drizzle with Hollandaise and a sprinkle of black pepper. Serve immediately while the eggs and sauce are still warm!

Amazing what havoc this little piece of hardware can wreck!

I don’t embarrass easily. When I was 12 years old, I was the unsuspecting victim of a terribly random incident so deeply humiliating that it was just all uphill from there.

It was after recess (that’s the mid-morning break during the school day) and everyone was running back into the classroom, eager to get into their seats before the second bell rang. I, too, was in a hurry – I was lagging behind for whatever reason and realized I was only seconds away from that final bell. I first scampered into the coatroom, which was a walk-in closet inside the classroom, to hang up my jacket. I then turned quickly and sprinted toward my desk, but something suddenly and quite violently yanked me back. What happened was the bolt fixture (see photo above) had fishhooked the little gap between my blouse buttons and due to my rapid speed had literally ripped the shirt completely off my back. My arms actually flung back from the force – imagine Michael Phelps doing the backstroke – and within a split second I was standing there in my training bra in front of the ENTIRE class of students, some of whom were hit in the face by flying buttons. It was rock bottom as far as embarrassing childhood moments go.

Needless to say I have quite a thick skin, which has helped me tremendously in adjusting to life here in Ireland. The process of adapting to a new culture inevitably comes with awkward lessons, of which I have had many. The first time I went to the grocery store I just stood there, waiting for the check-out clerk to bag my groceries. When she asked me if I needed a bag, I thought it odd but still didn’t get that people here not only bag their own groceries but also bring their own bags (or purchase them from the store). I think I said something to the effect of “Uh, yes of course” and watched, confused, as she passed my groceries over the scanner and then just left them sitting there. She then handed me the bags and I’m thinking she’s the laziest grocery clerk in the history of customer service when she finally says, flatly, “Miss, you need to put the items in your bag.” I pretty much felt like the idiot American in that moment.

Dramatic reinactment of the aftermath of aforementioned shirt-ripping incident.

There are lots of little awkward situations every week, like when I pretend to understand what someone is saying through his insanely thick accent and the speaker realizes I haven’t a clue as to what he’s talking about. Once a cabbie asked me what I thought of the recent stabbings in town (I was well into my tune-out mode; sometimes it just takes too much strain on the ears to try and comprehend the accent). My reply was, “Oh yeah, really great.” We cleared things up but for a moment he thought I was nuts. Of course there is the on-going learning of Irish slang, which I’ve written about before. The first time I heard someone say they were “banjaxed” I thought they’d been hit over the head with a banjo. It just means someone is really tired. Recently someone asked where I would be going for my “holliers,” which I assumed was a reference to some religious event (holliers = slang for holy?). Turns out it’s short for “holidays.”

Even Ernie knows that the driver is on the right side here in Ireland (dramatic reinactment).

And since the Irish love taking the piss, my friends are delighted that I’ve given them so much material for slagging purposes. I still hear about something I did my first week here: We were all in my friend’s jeep, driving to dinner. I was in the back seat with two other people and my friend Sinead was the driver and her boyfriend Trevor the front-seat passenger. It was very dark outside and we were on one of those crazy winding country roads. I can’t remember what the topic was but there was a lively discussion going on between me and the others in the back seat. Trevor, who was sitting on the left-hand side in the front of the car, kept turning around to better hear the discussion. Finally I yelled, “Trevor, keep your eyes on the road!!!” because of course, in my American mind, the driver is always on the left-hand side of the car. “UH, I am not driving!?!” he said, pointing to Sinead, the actual driver. Because it was so dark and my brain was still adjusting to the whole right-side driver phenom I’d honestly thought he was driving. This story comes up at least once a month amidst a heap (or hape, as they say here) of hoots and hollers.

But no bother, as I learned from a very young age that sometimes really embarrassing shit happens and one can let them roll off the back (kind of like my shirt) or drive you mad. As I stood there in only my training bra and school-issued culottes in front of thirty 12-year-olds that mortifying day, I chose to just join in with the laughter. I grabbed my shirt, went to the nurse’s office and she safety-pinned my blouse back together. I got quite a bit of teasing for the next few weeks, took it with a smile and life went on. It always does.

Yolks were used to make this

As I’ve mentioned before, there are few nationalities in the world more creative in the verbal insults department than the Irish. This knack for clever verbiage also applies to slang words and phrases, so I wanted to share a few of my favorites along with my misunderstandings of them.

Phrase: Cop on
What I Thought It Meant: Something to do with the police or “garda” as they say here, as “cop” is what we call the police in America.
Meaning: Kind of the same as “get with it.” If someone is telling you to “cop on,” they want you to realize something already. Typically used as a verb (“Cop on, you stupid cow!”) it can also be used as a noun, which I find hilarious.
Best Use I’ve Heard so Far: “Daddy can’t buy you cop on!”

Word: Jeggings
What I Thought It Meant: When I first saw a sign that said “Jeggings” in a storefront, I hadn’t the slightest clue as to what this meant.
Meaning: These are a cross between jeans and leggings, known back in the states as “jean leggings.” In typical Irish tradition where everything is shortened into a nickname or catchphrase, they are jeggings. Imagine if J-Lo was instead Jopez or instead of “chillax” (a  way of combining ”chill” and “relax”) we said “relachill.” It just doesn’t sound right nor does it glide off the tongue the way good nicknames should. Jeggings? Can you think of a word that sounds more jarring (besides the word jarring, that is)?
Verdict: Though the name leaves much to be desired, I love jeggings. Finally I can tuck my jeans into my boots without them bunching up around the knees. So for this reason, and this reason only, I will forgive the God-awful name.

Sammy and Ashling model jeggings

Phrase: Two reds don’t make a right.
What I Thought It Meant: I thought someone was misusing the more common phrase, “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
Meaning: When I pointed to a red-head guy as a possible match for my equally red-haired friend Aoife recently, her response was, “Two reds don’t make a right.” Though this statement is quite funny, she was dead serious in her sentiment. For some reason, red hair seems to be a sensitive issue with those who have it, which is strange in a country full of “gingers” (a word very much disliked by my friend and her fellow redheads).
Verdict: I’m willing to bet that my friend will end up marrying a redhead. If so, I will get T-shirts made that say “Cop on! Two reds DO make a right!”

Word: Yolk
What I Thought It Meant: The yellow of an egg, like any normal person would!
Meaning: Pretty much anything and everything.  Confused? An example: Instead of saying, “Can you get me that chair over there?” you can say, “Can you get me the yolk over there?” If you point to the chair while saying it, the person you are speaking to should understand. “Yolk” can replace almost any word. “I can’t find that yolk” and “You know, that yolk up there is really bright.” There are creative uses with the word, such as “That yolkie thing that she brought over the other day” or “What was that yolk yolk?” (As if the redundant use of an already-vague term will somehow clarify things).
Verdict: Eggs everywhere are disgruntled at the flagrant use of the word.

Word: Locked
What I Thought It Meant: Not subject to adjustment, fixed. As in “The car door is locked so you can’t open it.”
Meaning: The state of being really drunk. Example: “He’s completely locked out of his head!” Needless to say, this word gets a lot of use in Ireland because people here are drunk a lot. I don’t really understand how the word fits with the meaning, and no one else seems to know either. Maybe it’s because people who are drunk feel trapped inside the inebriated versions of themselves, unable to control the loud singing, occasional crying and verbal vomiting that pours out with every drink? Or perhaps it’s based on how many people get arrested for public intoxication every year in Ireland (as in to be “locked up”)?
Verdict: Whatever the case, it’s fitting.

Mark of shame on my beloved blue car…

Just when you think things are going well, Life has a way of giving you a paper cut topped with a handful of salt and vinegar crisps. And if Life is feeling especially frisky, it will also toss your toast on the floor, jam-side down, before dropping a gigantic piano on your head.

Yesterday was one of those days. It started off well enough: it was only partly cloudy and relatively temperate, and I had a productive morning sending pitches out to a few magazines. I did the dishes, straightened up the apartment and readied myself for a workout. That’s when things took an ominous turn. As I pulled out of the parking garage to go to the gym, a man pulled his car nose-to-nose with mine, trying to get into the parking garage. Since I was already 90% out of the one-lane driveway, I stood my ground as it was HIS responsibility to back up and let me out. He stayed put, and started honking obnoxiously and waving at me to move back into the garage. Flustered, I threw the car into reverse and heard the most God-awful sound as my car scraped the concrete wall of my parking space.  Feck!

Nothing like a hot meal after a bad day

The guy, in all his douchebaggery, failed to notice and just drove into his space with nary a comment or care in the world. I was too angry to get out of the car; though he pressured me and was all-around f*ckchop, technically it was my fault. I drove to the gym, got out of the car and inspected the damage. Two panels, scraped to sh*t and a nice, big dent near the tire. GREAT.

I worked off my anger on the cross trainer and vowed to let it go; my friend Nader made a point the other day that we all have a choice to change how we feel about something, and I took that advice to heart and decided not to focus on it (after I texted a very expletive-filled missive about the incident to friends, naturally). I went home, took a long shower - symbolically washing away the crap incident – and decided to treat myself to some comfort food for dinner.

There are few dishes more comforting than Stuffed Cabbage, and ever since I laid eyes on the gorgeous Irish cabbage at the Drogheda Farmers Market I’ve been dying to develop my own recipe for this down-home meal. After softening the cabbage leaves in boiling water, I mixed together sautéed onions, bell peppers, garlic, ½ of a baked potato – mashed (I just happened to have this leftover and threw it in), basil, chives and rosemary with some fresh Irish ground beef and rolled the filling inside the leaves. Topped with marinara sauce and baked for an hour, the result was exactly what I needed: a hearty, cozy, home-cooked dinner.

Ready to top with marinara and bake for an hour!

Though this delicious dinner should have turned my day around, Life had other plans. After dinner, I drove to my friend’s house with the sole purpose of picking up an important insurance document I needed for an appointment the next day. I went, chatted with my friend for a while and then drove home, only to realize I’d left the document at her house. As I pulled into my parking garage, cursing the fact that I’d have to make another roundtrip tomorrow, I found a car parked in MY parking space. This is the parking space, mind you, that I pay 50 Euro a month to rent, which bears two, very large signs that say in BOLD RED writing, “This Parking Space Reserved for [insert my license plate number here].” I sat there for a while, absolutely steaming. Finally the car’s owner came into the garage and I told her sternly NOT to park in my space again (I wanted to add “…or else I’ll box your head in, you stupid cabbage!” but I held back).

Exhausted but relieved, I walked into my apartment, plunked down on the sofa and fixed myself a cup of tea. All I wanted to do was put my feet up, check my email and catch up on some web surfing. I turned on my computer, clicked into my broadband service and – surprise! – got an error message from O2 broadband saying their service was temporarily down and to “please be patient.”

What happened next? I surrendered and went to bed, effectively ending this craptastic day. Tomorrow, as they say, is a new day and I wanted to get to it as soon as possible!    

Comforting Stuffed Cabbage
(Serves 4)

8 large cabbage leaves
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 yellow bell pepper, diced
1 small onion, diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
2 tablespoons chopped chives
3 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary
½ of a cooked potato, mashed
½ lb (230 grams) of lean ground beef
1 egg
1 cup of finely grated Parmesan cheese (use a microplane; if using store-grated use only ½ cup)
Salt and pepper to taste
1 jar of your favorite marinara sauce

Preheat oven to 180 C. Fill a large soup pot with water and put over high heat until boiling. Place the cabbage leaves in the boiling water, and cook until soft – about 10 minutes. Remove from the water and place on a baking sheet to cool. Once cool enough to touch, run a sharp paring knife along the surface of the stems if they are too thick (some cabbage stems are so thick they won’t soften enough even after cooking). The point here is to make the stem part of the leaf about the same thickness as the rest of the leaf, so you can roll it easier. Set aside.

In a sauté pan, heat olive oil over medium-high heat. Cook the bell pepper and onion for about 4-5 minutes, and then add the garlic and cook for another 3-4 minutes or until the vegetables are tender. Place the vegetables in a large bowl and let cool for a few minutes. Add in the chives, basil, rosemary and mashed potato and mix. Then add the ground beef, egg and Parmesan and mix together using your hands until all the ingredients are incorporated. Add salt and pepper to taste.

To assemble: Take a small amount of the meat mixture and form it into rectangular meatball. Place the meatball at the base of a cabbage leaf, tuck in the sides of the leaf and roll. Place the roll, seam side down, into a casserole dish. After all the rolls are in the dish, top with the marinara sauce. Make sure the cabbage is well covered by the marinara sauce or the tops will burn. Bake for one hour. Serve hot!

Mr. Lepruchaun says: “Open yer ears!” 

I’m finding that it’s not always good practice to pretend I understand what someone is saying even when I do not. It’s just that I feel like an idiot when I have to ask someone to repeat themselves again and again because I can’t make sense of their Irish accent. Sometimes it’s just easier to nod my head and act like I know what the person is talking about.

Case in point: Recently I was at the pub with a group of friends. One guy at the table told a sexual joke (half of which I couldn’t even hear). A few minutes later, my friend turned to me and asked me a question. To me, it sounded like this:

 “[blah blah blah blah blah blah] hung?”

The only word I understood from his whole sentence was “hung,” which was clearly a reference to the other guy’s tasteless joke, so I just made a face at him and ignored his question. He pressed on.

“[blah blah blah blah blah blah] hung?”

Now he was just being cheeky, I thought. “F*ck off!” I said, laughing. He looked at me, confused. This time he leaned over and spoke louder.

“DID YOU GET YOUR TOWEL RACKS HUNG?”

I realized then he was referring to some bathroom towel racks I had purchased the previous week. He’d driven me to the hardware store in search of them, hence his interest.

“Oh, uh…no,” I responded, red-faced.

Lesson learned: It’s better to ask than to assume, and it’s not always easy being an American in Ireland!

Dislike: Lack of variety on television…

It’s been a little over one month since my arrival to Drogheda and I’m starting to settle and adjust to my new environment. Things that I thought I’d never get used to, like driving on the left side of the road from the right side of the car, is now second nature. I use my laser card for nearly all my purchases, drink tea about 3-5 times a day and have become quite adept at hanging an entire load of laundry on one clothes horse.

…sigh.

There are some things, however, that I still have a hard time with. And while I realize the following may make me sound a bit like an entitled, spoiled American, I’m just being honest. So, without any further ado, here are some things that drive me pretty nuts:

*Lack of cable channels: I have about 30 channels through the only cable company that services my building, and that is the largest package you can get. About half of these channels are not even on the air 24 hours a day, so often I’ll get an “Off Air” message when tuning in. The other issue is that many of the channels play the same show, over and over, all day long. While I’m no TV-junkie, it would be nice to have a bit more selection for those evenings when I just want to veg in front of the tube.

*Lack of customer service: The manager of my apartment building, which currently has no mailboxes for its tenants, told me a month ago that mailboxes would be installed “in a few days.” As of today our mail gets dumped into a shoe box in the front lobby area. After a long day at work, I’m sure my fellow tenants love sorting through 80 envelopes just to find the one bill or letter addressed to them…I know I do! And remember how I was waiting for my landline to be installed? I’m still waiting…today is day 24. And to add insult to injury, I received my Eircom contract the other day which, according to a bolded statement at the bottom, had to be signed and returned “within 5 business days” else risk my order being cancelled. So I have five days but they can take a month to turn on a damn switch? Grrrrr.

Like: That this is as bad as traffic gets in town. Nothing compared to LA traffic!

*General stuff: I’ve been looking at gyms, and the other day I toured a very posh one. I noticed that on the weight machines, the weight blocks were numbered consecutively: 1, 2, 3…so I asked the trainer what each block weighed. “Oh there is a system,” he said, and brought me over a small sheet of paper. “1 = 20 lbs, 2 = 40lbs, and so on.” But what if I want to lift 25 lbs, or 30 lbs? “Oh…you just can’t.” Bizarre. Another thing I find strange is that there are no electrical outlets in bathrooms here. Nowhere to plug in a hairdryer, electric shaver, etc. No light switches either; they are outside of the bathroom. My friend says it’s to keep people from electrocuting themselves. Call me crazy but I think the practice of keeping your hairdryers and other electric appliances out of a bathtub or sink filled with water isn’t that hard a concept to grasp.

Of course with the bad there is plenty of good, and I can’t write a post like this without mentioning the things I love about my new home. I love hearing the church bells ring every hour in town. I appreciate how easy going people are around here; they may be late all the time but at least they’ll never get mad at me if I’m late. I adore how friendly people are, especially when they find out I’m American. From the checkout lady at Dunnes to the bartender at McPhail’s, they are warm and welcoming. I love driving around the country and seeing little lambs grazing in the pasture and hearing the cows moo in the distance. I get a kick out of how everyone here says “bye” a half-dozen times in quick succession when they’re getting off the telephone (“bye, bu-bye, bye, bye, byeee!”). I think it’s charming how people in Collon pronounce Mathews, a local pub, as “Matt-i-tis” and Watters, another pub, as “Waters-is.”

Like: That everyone here knows how to make good scrambled eggs!

I appreciate how important recycling is here, and that everyone is responsible for taking any glass to the numerous  bottle banks around town (paper, plastic and tin goes into the regular recycle bin at your home, glass does not), and how people here bring their own bags to the grocery store AND bag their own groceries. In that respect, Ireland is way ahead of the U.S. I like that tax is already included in the list price of any item at any store – it costs what it says on the tag. I’m also very impressed by the national health care here, and as a resident I enjoy its privileges. I recently made an appointment with a doctor, was seen promptly by a very good physician and paid 50 Euro for the exam. My prescription was 19 Euro. No insurance, no hassles, no referrals/HMO/PPO red tape.

Like: Weekday entertainment in town like these kids doing a samba performance.

I think that eventually, I will learn to appreciate even the things that drive me a little crazy around here. There are just too many good things and lessons to be learned and life to live to focus on the little annoying stuff, even if they make me want to pull my face off at times. How does that song go? “You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have the facts of life…”

Your little bed!

Welcome to the world, Little Shamrock (I don’t know your name yet, sorry!). I was just thinking today that we are both new to this place that is now your home. I guess the only major difference is that you’ve been here for about an hour, and I’ve been here a month today. So, let me just say from experience that you are a very lucky little baby to be born Irish in Ireland, because – as I have witnessed myself – you lot are quite special.

I wonder what kind of little Irish boy you will grow into; right now you are just a newborn and it’s overwhelming to think of all the different ways you’ll grow and change over the years. Will your hair be blonde, like your mother’s? Or dark brown like your daddy’s? Maybe you’ll develop a love of cars, just like your daddy (though I’m not sure how much more car stuff your mom can handle!), or perhaps you’ll cultivate a taste for sweets like your mammy. You’ll probably earn a nickname or two over the next several years…your mom used to call everyone “Chicken” as a term of endearment, and I’m willing to bet she’ll be calling you all sorts of cute names. She’s really sweet and motherly like that.

Your mammy and daddy, looking very Ralph Lauren

There are a few things that will be certain in your life: Your granny Nancy’s spaghetti Bolognese on Wednesdays, which will no doubt become one of your favorite meals; your parents’ love for you – something that will only continue to grow as you do; the fun times you’ll have with your warm-hearted yet naughty aunties Aoife, Sorcha and Aideen – you will grow up to be a tough little boy with those girls around, trust me, but you’ll find balance with your gentle and kind aunties Aine and Roisin; the family bond you’ll develop with your cousins Ayanna and Aaron back in America; your (very funny) uncle Earnan and (very stubborn) grandad Niall’s quest to make you a Man United fan, though your daddy will make sure you stick with Liverpool; an appreciation for hip-hop, courtesy of your uncle Tony; fun times in Belgium with your uncle Mark and auntie Anne. Oh and I almost forgot about your other uncle, Butsey, who despite his nickname looks very much like Matt Damon. Quite a big family you’ve gotten yourself into and I haven’t even mentioned any of your daddy’s four siblings and mother and all your new cousins, great aunts, uncles, etc., etc. Are you scared yet? I know it seems like a lot of people but trust me, they are all really cool.

Your mammy, just a few weeks before you were born

Being Irish, as I have come to learn, makes you quite unique. If you go abroad when you’re a bit older, the girls will swoon for your accent. You’re going to grow up with Irish pride and be unflappably optimistic even in the face of adversity – it’s just an Irish thing, I believe. You’ll probably sing a lot for no reason, and you’ll probably never be on time but the good thing about being in Ireland is that no one will care if you’re late (because they, too, will be late). Potatoes will be a big part of your diet, as will beer (when you’re a bit older, of course). So far, so good, right?

It’s so wild to think that, just yesterday, I visited your mom in the hospital and she was as cool as a cucumber. You should know that about your mom: she’s always graceful under pressure. And last night, I watched your daddy put your crib together. He was quiet and thoughtful in his work, and though he didn’t show it, I’m sure he had about a million things on his mind – all about you. You’ve really lucked out on parental front, you know. With your mother’s kind heart and your father’s sense of style, you’ve got the whole package.  

Daddy trying to figure out your crib

Anyway, I can’t wait to see you grow up and hear your cute Irish accent develop and witness your little life flourish into a big one. And oh, what a BIG life you will have!

In Ireland, these cookies are “biscuits.”

The other day, my friend Sinead was telling me about a peculiar town in England that we need to go visit. She said it was a small community full of very strange people.

“They have no teets!” she said.

What???  No teets!? I imagined a town of nipple-less women, walking down the street in slow motion like zombies in a horror film. Was there something in the water that caused this deformity?  How did they feed their newborn babies?  I surmised that bra sales in this region must be low, perhaps even non-existent.

“Why don’t they have breasts?” I asked, still trying to wrap my brain around this bizarre phenomenon.

“What? No, they have no TEET!” she said again, pointing to her mouth. 

Ohhhhhh. Teeth. Right.

In America, this is a biscuit. In Ireland, it’s a scone.

This sort of misunderstanding happens almost daily between me and my Irish friends (and shopkeepers, taxi drivers, bartenders, etc.). While I’m certainly used to the Irish accent, some words just don’t register right away. Another issue is that about 50% of the words spoken here consist of slang terms that I’ve never heard before.

There’s also the predicament of pronunciation:  Last week, when I was still looking at apartments, I visited a place on South Quay. My friends kept asking me how the apartments on “South Key” are. Key? It’s quay (“koo-way”), which would rhyme with sway or away or okay. “No, it’s KEY, that’s how you say q-u-a-y.”  Well then, how do you pronounce the thing you use to unlock a door? “The same way,” they said. Somehow this makes sense to the Irish.

Don’t jump! But if you do, this boy will save you!

I live right on the Boyne River, and there are life rings featured along the river’s bridges in case someone jumps or falls into the water. The [dramatic] sign on the life rings say, “A Stolen Ring Buoy, A Stolen Life,” which is there to discourage people from stealing the floatation devices. I once said it out loud as we walked past, and was quickly corrected by my friends. “It’s a ring BOY, not booo-ee.” Uh, it’s buoy, pronounced booo-ee. “Nope, it’s boy, like in boy,” they insisted. Well then, how do you spell boy, as in a child of the male species? “Same way.” Sigh.

There are also plenty of words the Irish use that don’t – at least to me – live up to their meanings. Examples:

• Thump: Same as punch, as to punch someone. “He got a thump to the head, so he did.” A thump sounds so gentle, like if a big, furry stuffed animal gave you a playful thump in the head, causing you to giggle endlessly. It just doesn’t have the ferocity of PUNCH.
• Punter: Means the average paying customer. “The punter’s opinion on the new Italian restaurant in town is that it needs work.” I always envision an NFL kicker when I hear that word. I often think, Why are American football kickers quoted so often in the Irish papers?
• Shifted: Means kissed. “Oh she shifted him behind the bar the other night.” When I first heard this phrase, I imagined that the guy had been robbed, shot or beaten up because I thought of the word shifty, which in the U.S. also means shady or suspicious. Nope, the guy just got kissed. So, so odd.

And I cannot write a post about Irish verbiage without including something about nicknames. The Irish LOVE to give nicknames to each other, and some are based on almost nothing at all. Case in point: My friend Bushman (real name: Garon). In America, the word “bush” is often used to describe a woman’s nether region. So if one is called “Bushman” most people would assume it was based on something salacious (this reminds of the infamous “Ass Man” episode of Seinfeld). A bushman is also an indigenous person of southern Africa, but Garon is quite white and Irish so that wouldn’t make much sense. The real explanation? “He jumped over a bush once and fell.” Why this particular, seemingly mundane event inspired a life-long nickname, I will never fully understand. Yet it suits him.

Though sometimes I feel a bit lost in translation, working my way through the charming and head-scratching lingo is actually quite fun. Or, should I say, it’s good craic!