The Everywhereist

Sunday was a landmark of sorts, and it passed without me realizing it.

That, I suppose, was most significant at all. Sunday was the four-month anniversary of my surgery.

At some point, I’d stopped counting the days since my brain surgery, and then the weeks, and now, it seems, the months. Rand had left town the day before, so I mostly sat around, working on our Halloween costumes, and yelling at the football game that was playing on the T.V. in a vain attempt to pretend that he was still home.

It almost worked. Turns out, I’m nearly as adept at taunting Tony Romo as my husband is.

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I was going to write about The Troubles today, but just thinking about doing so after yesterday’s tome on Irish history made my brain hurt.

So instead I’m going to write about candy.

I know. I know. I’m awful. But tomorrow is Halloween, and I figured I’d better get a jump on a sugar high that should last, if I time it right, until well after New Year’s.

The thing I found about Ireland is that they understand their sweets. They really get them. And then came the inevitable follow-up realization: I could live here.

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Sculpture at Castle Leslie, near the border of Ireland and Northern Ireland.

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If my recent posts have seemed more pithy than usual, it is because I am skirting around an issue that I’m not sure I have the blogging chops to tackle, and talking about banal things like cryptic showers and trendy restaurants is far easier.

Hell, writing about how I turned my bathroom into a vomitorium (in one easy step!) is easier than tackling this.

But I really can’t keep avoiding it, since I can’t fully tell you about our visit to Ireland without addressing its history.

That’s right: today’s post will be an incredibly long, dull, and somewhat inaccurate history lesson. I’ll be discussing the Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland, and I might touch on the issue of The Troubles, if my brain isn’t too scrambled.

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I did not bring my A-game this week. I mean, unless my A-game involves feeling sick and throwing up (for those of you who will inevitably wonder, no, I am not pregnant. I am just constitutionally weak). Hence the light blogging, which I promise to rectify come Monday (I’m already working on a DOOZY of a post).

Until then, here are some time-wasters for your Friday. Enjoy.

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Really digging Tim De Chant’s infographics about how the world lives. Difficult to describe, but fun to try to wrap your head around them. (via my pal Avinash)

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The New York Times takes a look at why haunted houses are such great fodder for horror movies. (Note: this is why I rent. I mean, that and our lousy credit.)

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(My apologies for the gap in posting. I had intended to get up several blog posts yesterday, but instead I systematically poisoned myself.)

Carving out some quality time in Dublin.

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After the fussing and fueding that accompanied our Ireland trip, Rand and I decided to institute something we call “date night”. I know some of you are reading that and wondering why the hell a childless, petless, gardenless (I threw gardens in there because they sound like a lot of work) married couple would need a date night.

Or, in the words of my dear friend Sarah …

“Screw you. You don’t have kids. Every night is date night.”

(It was said with love, I swear.)

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We walked right by Made in Belfast, and didn’t even realize it.

“I know exactly where it is,” Rand said confidently, as we walked across a pavement slick with the rain that seemed to fall pretty much constantly across Northern Ireland.

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I am nearly over my cold, but still pouting at the fact that I missed out on meeting my new little nephew, and enjoying some nice California sunshine. So while I warm myself with a cup of tea and plan my next trip down the coast, you enjoy these links.

(I won’t need shorts in California in November, will I? I hate shorts.)

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I am ridiculously honored to be featured on Nylon Lifestyle this week. The format of the interview was incredibly fun, and I got to talk about Tina Fey, frosting, and Rand.

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Ick. My pal Philip actually found cupcakes that I won’t eat: they’re STD-inspired.

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Sometimes my mother will say or do something so strange or utterly clueless, that all I can do is pull her onto my lap (for my mother is very wee and weighs nothing, and the genes that cause that are apparently recessive, damn it), gently take her face into my hands and whisper,

“You would have been eaten by wolves if it weren’t for me. Do you understand that? BY WOLVES.”

And she will dismiss me in that charming Italian way of hers, saying something like, “Oh, Geraldine, do shut up,” while sounding exactly like Arianna Huffington.

Recently, though, I realize I’ve evaluated the situation improperly. I simply thought, for years, that there was something wrong with my mother.

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