I Would Rather Be Eaten By Bears Than Be Bieber’s Assistant

Last night I had a dream that I was being chased by bears.  I vaguely recall that the bears turned into another scary creature, and then another one, and another one, but I only specifically remember the bears.  I escaped by running into a hotel through a revolving door, which I then locked behind me with some sort of bear-repelling revolving door lock.  In that moment, I thought, “Hey self, you know how you always thought being eaten by bears would be an interesting way to go, because it would make a good story for your friends to tell?  Well, I’ve changed my mind now.  I really would not like to be eaten by bears at this particular point in time.”  

I happend to wake up sometime after this dream, look at the clock and find that I had enough time to go back to sleep, remember that it didn’t matter what time it was because I never work on Fridays anyway, and dozed off again.

Back in dreamland, I imagined that I was Justin Bieber’s assistant.  Before you judge me for dreaming about Bieber (ugh), I would explain that a girl at work is moving to Canada in a couple weeks and we were talking about all things Canadian yesterday when we were supposed to be writing emails.  ANYway, he was a pain in the ass (suprise, surprise), and there must have been some dream carry-over, because I remember thinking, “If I open up the stage doors, do you think the bears will come in and eat him?  If the bears do come in and eat him, will that make teenage girls everywhere hate bears?  I don’t want to make him into a martyr for the Bears: The Number One Threat to America movement.  I’m pretty sure Stephen Colbert would agree that Bieber is a bigger threat to America than bears.”  Unfortunately, bears did not come and eat Bieber, and I had to continue carrying out his offensive and tyrannical whims.

Being Bieber’s assistant was a lot scarier than being chased by bears.


A Totally Thorough and Thoughtful Review of the New Star Trek Movie

*Warning* This may contain a spoiler.  I say “may” because the information I might spoil was not news to me, but apparently it is to some people who live under rocks.  Now…

Here is my review of Star Trek Into Darkness:

I want to have Benedict Cumberbatch’s odd-looking and strangely beautiful babies.

I think Kirk and Spock did some sort of bromance-y thing, and there were some Klingons, and stuff blew up, and there were space torpedoes fired or something like that.  I expected most of those things, but what I did not expect was to be (set phasers to) stunned by the villainous sex appeal oozing off screen by Benedict Cumberbatch as (here’s the potential spoiler alert) super-baddie Khan.

I have seen BBC’s Sherlock, and while I enjoy it, I had never before considered His Royal Cumberness in terms of any level of attraction.  A good actor, yes, fun to watch, sure, but not necessarily worthy of my lady parts’ attention.  But dear god, whatever they did to him for his role in Star Trek set my pheromones alight.  Let’s compare:



Not unattractive, but not head-turningly attractive either.  Normal level of “brains-make-you-more-appealing” sexiness.  Maybe it’s because I’m not really into curly hair.



HELLO, YOU SMOLDERING PACKAGE OF HANDSOME.  Do your genetically-enhanced super-human abilities extend to more than kicking ass and killing people willy-nilly?  Might I try to calm your wrath with a snog and a cuddle?

I’m not exactly sure what it is about this guy.  Maybe it’s because sometimes he seems so unassuming and normal, and sometimes borderline strange-looking (seriously, just do a Google image search on him), making the sexy times that much more full of impact.  Like, George Clooney looks good all the time, so it’s really nothing special anymore.  George Clooney bores me.  Whereas Benny Cumbers chooses his moments, and because you know the sexy is always there bubbling below the surface in a more subtle way, he’s that much more attractive.

Here’s where I’d like to think that I could call dibs on Cumby, because the movie came out in Ireland and a few other choice countries before the US and the rest of the world, and therefore – I saw him first.  But then I find out that I am a little late to this party, and there is a whole legion of already-swooning fans calling themselves Cumberbitches, who sound like a group I would not want to mess with.  Then again, he probably couldn’t be my next husband anyway, because according to a few articles I found on the Google, he’s broody (in the parental sense, not in the dark and moody sense) and wants a family, and despite the fact that I wouldn’t mind the Cumberbaby-making part, I probably would mind the carrying them to full term and rearing them parts.  Also, my current husband would probably have a problem with all of those parts, I’m guessing.

I just like to say his name.  Benedict Cumberbatch.  It’s fun.  It’s like someone one day said, “My goodness, I’ve got a ton of cucumbers.  I have so many cucumbers I practically have a whole batch.  What will I call this large number of cucumbers?  I know, I’ll call it a cumberbatch.  That will save me seconds of precious time whenever I need to articulate the idea of oodles of cucumbers.”

Pretty instantly, C-Batch has now made it to the top of my list.  Sorry, Ryan Gosling, Ewan McGregor, Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, Patrick Stewart (if I was 30 years older I would be all over that shit), and young Harrison Ford.  You’ve been knocked down a peg or two.

So yeah, Star Trek.  It was alright, I think.  I’m definitely going to see it again.  Maybe a couple more times.  You should go see it, too, but remember, I get dibs on the Cumberbatch.

Life in a Perpetual State of Dampness

Today marks my one-year anniversary in Cork City, Ireland, and it’s the kind of day that makes me cringe at the thought of being here forever.  The kind of day when your umbrella is so wet that water drips on your head from the underside of the saturated nylon.  The kind of day when using said umbrella requires a not-insignificant amount of exertion, as you must constantly fight the wind, and yet to go without would be even worse.  The kind of day when you finally take refuge in a coffee shop and take out the book you’ve wrapped in a plastic bag to shield it from the rain, only to discover that dampness has permeated the protective layer, warping the pages that you know will never return to their previous unsullied form.  The kind of day where sitting on your couch crocheting granny squares and listening to melancholy singer-songwriters seems like the only appropriate choice for how to spend the rest of your day.

It’s so windy that I’m pretty sure you could kite-surf over the sidewalk (sorry, they say “footpath” here) if you had a big enough umbrella, assuming that it would resist the urge to invert itself at every gust of wind.

*Note to self:  Buy whatever sort of personal parachute they use for kite-surfing and pioneer the soon-to-be-worldwide-phenomenon land-surfing.  Apply for patent.  Get rich.

In the sunshine, Ireland may have forty shades of green, but in the rain everything is shades of grey.  Sure, there are a few shades of greeny-grey, but grey nonetheless.

In some ways, these past twelve months have been the easiest of my life.  Back home in the US I worked the requisite forty hours a week as a minimum, and usually more, just like everybody else.  Here, I only have a part-time job, and I’ve never worked so little in my life.  My job sometimes seems like a hobby, if I were the sort of person who wanted to perfect the art of answering emails for a multinational hotel chain.  (Which I decidedly am not, seeing as I can hardly answer my own personal emails, much to my parents’ chagrin.)  Here, I have more free time than I know what do to with, and it’s a strange feeling.  I never had to worry about what to do with spare time in the States, as there wasn’t much of it, and what extra time there might have been was usually spent wandering aimlessly around the endlessly-interesting streets of DC or patronizing the myriad of eating and drinking establishments that our friends worked at.  So far, with my free time here, I’ve started taking spin classes and I learned how to crochet.  I’m on my third baby blanket since Christmas, which is good since everybody seems to be popping out children willy-nilly these days.

But new hobbies aside, the past twelve months have also been the hardest of my life.  I left an exciting city with lots of friends to come to a place that seems infinitely smaller and where I only know a handful of people.  While those people have been welcoming and supportive, it’s been indescribably difficult to leave my old life behind, and I have struggled a bit.  Never once before I moved here did I ever experience anything even approaching a depressive state, but over here there are certainly times these days when I wonder about the status of my own mental health.  Not that any of this has come as a shock, as I correctly predicted that I would probably lose it for a while over here.  For those of you who may read this and worry about me – don’t.  I’ve been one of the lucky people who has had an abnormally happy life – great family, great friends, great husband (probably should have listed him first or second), health, employment, and countless other things that I could list here.  To someone like me, who has never had anything to get her down until now, totally normal feelings of displacement must seem more drastic than they really are.

But now it’s been a year, and it’s time to get out of the funk and get on with it.  I’m not entirely sure how to go about it, but this morning we plunked down a deposit on a house, so I’m going to try to make myself figure it out soon, because it looks like I’ll be here for a while.  Living here does have a lot of upsides, so as Tim Gunn would tell me to do, I’ll make it work.  (Speaking of Tim Gunn, can somebody please bring Project Runway to Irish television???)

But, you know, it might be just a little bit easier if it didn’t rain all the damn time.