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April 03, 2006
sentimental case
Even though there is nothing really specifically going on, I feel the need to post a few updates in case anyone is wondering. First: are mine Irish eyes smiling or not? This is the 20,000-euro question. After a frenzy of phone interviews, there was a long period of not hearing anything. So much so that my husband and I decided that rather than making ourselves crazy over any move-related decisions, we’d just start doing home projects.
Spring has arrived to the EC with precious little fanfare. One minute you’re locked outside your house with wet hair freezing to the side of your head and the next there’s daffodils all over the place except in your yard because the previous owners were TOO DAMN LAZY to plant a single bulb. My husband is ripping apart our ghetto sun porch/playroom and tricking it out into a tropical wonderland complete with bamboo floors, taxidermic fishes frozen in eternal pursuit of non-existent bait, and built-in benches just the right size for toddler slumber parties.
You know what comes after spring? Summer. East coast summers, though humid, are what have driven this particular train across the country and pulled it into Suburban Station. We now live four blocks from the beach. There’s rumored to be a clamshack there in summer that sells whole-bellied clams in paper cones. Mean ladies in green and yellow trucks peddle delicious shaved lemon ice to kids on bikes. You can dig holes in the sand here, fill them up with lobsters and corn and coals and clams and a couple hours later, dig everything up and gorge yourself on butter-soaked sweetness. One emerges from the sea sun-browned and salt-stung to rinse off in freezing outdoor showers. And fireflies fill the night sky blinking out phrases like “Aw yeah” and “Bring me another beer, bitches.” It’s the flip side of six months of cold, wet, snow and scowls, loneliness, Republicans.
The thought of leaving now, when all of that is just beginning, to move to an actual foreign (rather than perceived) culture makes me a bit heartsick. I’m hopeful that, if and when I do go to Ireland for the next round of interviews (and it is looking pretty likely), somehow I’ll know one way or another what we should do.
In the meantime, there is a bird here now that sings a particular two-note song: the first note high and quick, the second one note lower and longer. Hearing it the first time, I told the Bean the bird was singing “Good morn-innnng!” On Saturday, he ran into our room yelling “Mommy, Mommy the good morning bird singing to me!” In contrast, this morning, he woke me up by standing next to the bed and projectile vomiting onto my chest. God I love that kid.
Posted by Max at April 3, 2006 01:48 PM