Faith

On Wednesday evening, a group from Saint Mary's came to Galway. They're making their way around Ireland exploring the literature from the country, and for a few days, they're studying here in Galway. I was so excited that they were coming because the two professors leading the trip are people who I hold close to my heart. One is Father Tom, a priest, who lived two doors down from me last year, as my Resident Director. And the second is a professor that I had my first semester freshman year, Rosemary. Rosemary means a lot to me because it was through her class and with her guidance that I was able to get through that terrible time in my life. English 25: Introduction to Creative Writing was my beacon of light. I was able to write about my dad and my sadness and my hopes. It gave me a direction, when I could barely tell you which way was up. It was through that early writing, and through Rosemary's unwavering support that I knew I needed to write my book.

Needless to say, I was excited to see these two wonderful figures in my life , not to mention getting to see some familiar SMC faces. (Although, I'll be honest, I didn't really know any of the students on the trip, there is something about our small school in Moraga that tends to create an immediate bond). They were kind enough to invite Chelsea and I out to dinner on Wednesday night, which sadly, Chelsea couldn't go to as she's fighting off a sinus infection, a respiratory tract infection, and possibly strep throat. But I went, and it was just a really nice evening. Nothing truly extraordinary happened, and I just stayed in on Wednesday night, but it really was a taste of home. It also made me realize just how lucky I am to be studying here. While I am truly envious of the traveling these students have done, I realized the benefits of having planted roots in one part of Ireland. We know the bouncers at the pubs. We know the best places to eat, and which places to avoid. We're, I finally realized, comfortable here.

Today we met up with the group again, as we bummed a ride to the Celtic Crystal factory. It was absolutely incredible. You walk into this big showroom, where every inch of every wall is lined with hand-made crystal ware. There were bowls and glasses and just about everything you could think of, each with a Celtic design inspired by Irish history, or something from the Book of Kells. There were wine glasses with the claddagh design and bowls with the shamrock and a whole set of tableware with a beautiful wheat pattern, commemorating the great famine. Several times the joke was made that all the girls were making their wedding registry as we looked around in awe of the artistry.

The impressiveness of the place didn't stop there. It turns out that none of the glass cutters use patterns. Each and every piece is made from memory. It is made from knowing the designs, feeling the patterns, and living the crystal. It takes a tremendous amount of work before you can be considered a glass cutter. First, you must prove your artistry by having an honors certificate in art and design. From there, you are taken on as an apprentice for five years. If you ever hope to work with the colored crystal - red from gold, green from nickle, and blue from cobalt - you are required to do two more years as an apprentice. Only then, after years of training and practice, are you considered ready to work with the pieces.

Perhaps even more impressive than that, though, is the owner's story. A little old lady named Mary owns Celtic Crystal; she has for 41 years, and she built it up from nothing. Her mother wanted her to be a teacher. That, she thought, would be a stable, respectable position. But Mary studied art and crystal cutting and fell in love with it. After graduating from college, she traveled to Germany to learn how to make colored crystal, and when she came back to Ireland, she knew she was ready to open her own factory. Her mother said she wouldn't bail her out if the factory didn't produce revenue, so she was in a sink or swim situation. She swam. Boy, how she swam! 41 years later she is the proud owned of a beautiful collection of crystal works, with a trusted staff of glass blowers and cutters. It is so inspiring to think that as a young woman, Mary bought an abandoned railway station and turned it into a crystal empire. I am so grateful that Chelsea and I were able to join the SMC group and see something that, on our own, I'm sure we never would have know about.

After the tour at Celtic Crystal, Rosemary and Father Tom offered to buy us lunch, and if that wasn't nice enough, they listened to us complain the whole time about what a pain it's been to get money here. Father Tom has already emailed someone at St. Mary's to see if she can help us with getting our scholarship money into our Irish bank accounts. He had to have gone straight back to the hotel and sent that email, since right after lunch, he took us grocery shopping.

Yes! Father Tom bought us groceries.

It started because he asked Chelsea if she had honey to help sooth her sore throat, and when we said no, he offered to buy it for us. Honey was one thing, but we got to Dunne's and he insisted that we get whatever we needed. Fruit, bread, turkey, crackers, hot chocolate. Everything on our shopping list. It was a simple gesture, but it was one of the sweetest things that anyone has done for me. Chelsea and I left the store feeling like we could cry from the kindness of it all. To be invited to join the group for dinner and at Celtic Crystal was already so kind, but then the spring for lunch today and buy us groceries, it was almost too much.

It's people like Rosemary and Father Tom, people with hearts wide open, that keep my faith strong. I know that I was in Rosemary's class freshman year because it was exactly where I needed to be. I know that Father Tom is in our lives to remind us of the good in the world. The good in mankind.

I'm Crampin' Up, Coach!

Trees were bending, seeking cover from the cold. Birds were huddled together, seeking shelter from the rain. I had my head down and my hands tucked away, as I wound my way through the streets of Galway, just trying to make it to school. Thursday morning was particularly cold - below zero by the local weather station's accounts - and I was facing something terrible. A leg cramp.

I'd been walking about 5 minutes when it happened, about half way there. I'd already passed Finnegan's on my left and La Salsa on my right. I was just about at the bridge, when I seized up. It was a Charlie horse of epic proportions. So, of course, being the English major I am, I saw it as a metaphor. I could either give in to the pain; sit down, go get a burrito, worry about class later. Or I could work through it. Stretch a little at the stop light, take some deep breaths, make it to class on time.

I like to think that in life, I tend to do the latter. I trudge through whatever hardships come my way. Sure, I may shed a tear or two, but at the end of the day, I fight through the pain. I get past the cramp, and enjoy the reward of finishing the walk. It feels good to finish. It feels good to commit to doing something, and sticking with it. I have a dear friend who moved to Kansas City, a far way from the quiet comfort of Thousand Oaks, to pursue an opportunity working for a Catholic newspaper. I remember being in awe of the fact that she would be able to actually move across the country. The farthest I've ever moved is across the state, and that was traumatic enough. Of course, once she got to KC there were some hardships, a serious adjustment period, but she's sticking it out. I haven't talked to her in a while, but I know she must be experiencing a tremendous sense of self worth. She worked trough her leg cramp, and has worked up to a jog.

You see, life is hard. I've, in my short time, experienced a lot of pain. A lot of leg cramps and broken arms and tremendous heartache, but I just keep going. I am lucky enough to have people surrounding me, my own track team (may as well really stick to the metaphor) helping me along the way; training with me, growing with me, holding me up when I need it and being equally supported when they need me. I have a life filled with joy and beauty because I choose to seek it out. Sometimes it's hard to see the finish line when you can barely walk, but I feel confident saying, I will always make it to the end.

Some Thoughts

I'm lying here in bed, debating about taking a nap before my next class, and doing what I do best - facebook prowling - when I stumble upon a shared link called "19 Things You Should Stop Doing in Your 20s." While I'm not yet 20, I figured I have a couple months to start thinking about these suggested things; get them out of my system, if you will. I found something very interesting, while reading this post. I agree with it. While, sure I fall into many of the categories, I also recognized that I do try to be attentive of many of these 19 things. For me, number 6 stood out as a front runner of things I'd like to work on to make me my best possible self.

"6. Stop identifying yourself as a cliche and start treating yourself as an individual. Constantly checking your life against a prewritten narrative or story of how things “should” be is a bought-into way of life. It’s sort of like renting your identity. It isn’t you. You are more nuanced than the narrative you try to fit yourself into, more complex than the story that “should” be happening."

So often, I find that I am trying to fit myself into a cliche, a certain type of person - the kind of person I think I am, the kind of person I think I should be. At the end of the day, I am just me. I am Alison Marie McCranie. There is only one of me, and I should really be able to embrace myself, as I am, for who I am. This doesn't mean that I can make excuses for poor behavior. "Sorry I'm not sorry, I'm just doin' me." But if I go out to a pub, I don't need to drink as much as everyone else (because, seriously, they drink alcohol here like it's water). I don't need to go out every night, just because my friends do. I'm allowed to have me time. I'm allowed to go off on adventures, and explore new places, new aspects of my surroundings, and in turn, myself. As number 13 said, "It's unlikely that one of the things you'll regret when you're older is not having consumed enough beer in your 20s, or not having bought enough $5 lattes...Fear of missing out is a real, toxic thing." I don't need to construct a character for the book I aim to write, I already am a character. I am a character ready to love myself. I am a character seeking out happiness. 

Mo Money Mo Problems...

I seriously need to get my spending habits in check. I was doing so well this week at not eating out, not ordering drinks from the pubs, not going to places where you have to pay a big cover charge. I really felt good about my finances. So, of course, I let loose today. First, I went to a little souvenir shop and couldn't help but buy a present or two (not to mention the pint glass key chain, which is only necessary if I can ever find my key again). Then we went over to Thomas Dillon, the original Claddagh ring store, and invested in some Claddagh rings. I knew I wanted one before I left. I've always liked them, and I figured being in Galway, the home of the original shop, I could treat myself. Not to mention, the sterling silver ones are only 45Euro. So, I did it. I spent 45Euro on a new, shiny Claddagh ring. I don't regret it - especially after all of the research I put into it about which way to wear it, what the parts mean, etc, etc. - but I definitely feel the void of where the money once was.

After that little investment, we went over to the mall, to a store called New Look. I'd been in there before and thought their stuff was really cute, but last time, I was strong and didn't buy anything. This time, gulp, I dropped another 40Euro. I invested in a pair of wedges - which in all honesty are much needed because the girls here wear these six inch heels, and I just can't keep up - and a pair of red pants. The pants were on sale. So, of course, I had to get them.

The point is, I'm running out of money. Fast. But, at least I'll look good in two weeks, when I can't afford food ;)

Silent Disco

Every Tuesday night a local pub, the Roisin Dubh, hosts something absolutely incredible. They call it Silent Disco, and it's brilliant. Really sound. The Silent Disco works like this: You pay a 5Euro cover charge to get in, and to get a free pint. As you walk in, a man at the front door hands you a pair of head phones, and quickly mumbles, "Volume here, stations here," pointing out the two buttons you need to know how to use. Then the fun begins. There are two DJs, playing two completely different stations, and you can flip between the two, deciding on the one you like best. For our purposes, we will refer to the DJs by what was on their shirts...A and B. DJ A tended to play more of a rock feel. Everything from Mumford and Sons to Cindy Lauper. I would say that his station was the more popular of the two because more of his songs were of the sing-along variety. I mean, when "Livin on a Prayer" came on, you could here the masses more clearly than the headphones. I personally preferred DJ B. It may have been because he was the cuter of the two, but I would also attribute it to the amount of Justin Timberake he played. I would describe his station as more of the dirty rap variety. It started out with mostly old-school rap: Biggie, Ice Cube, Snoop Dogg (from when he was still called Snoop Dogg and promoted the "izzle"). But as the evening progressed, there was more and more late 90s, early 2000s, even including some newly released Jay/'ye stuff. It was perfect dance music! Come to think of it, that's probably why Chelsea and I loved it, and the Irish weren't as into it. haha They like to bob. We like to dance. And dance we did, all night.

Here's to you Silent Disco! See ya next Tuesday :)

The Onslaught

It's really incredible how quickly you can be transported back in time. The smell of your favorite food reminds you of cooking with mom. The feel of warm rain takes you back to a family vacation. The sight of an old friend jogs a memory of time spent at your favorite restaurant. Yesterday, I was writing a facebook message to a cousin, and the last message between us was from her, sending her love and condolences after my dad's death. Wow. In an instant, I was taken back to that time, that mind set. I struggled for air, and my heart rate picked up. The surge of emotion at a simple message on facebook was incredible. Nearly unfathomable. How is it that seeing those words, simple as they were, could bring about such an onslaught of pain?

Of course, though, after a few deep breaths, and some steadying thoughts I was back in Ireland, back to planning a weekend trip to London, back to reality. But for that moment, I was a small, scared child trying to wrap my head around a phone call that shattered my world.

Vulnerable

The other day I made myself very vulnerable by posting something that I would usually keep to myself. I've written things like that before, attempting to describe my pain, but I've never really shared it. Sure, there were probably only my three adoring fans who read it, but still, it was posted publicly. There was a thought of taking it down - I don't want to make them worry, what if I sound crazy...or worse, stupid - but I decided that I could share, I should share. I should not be afraid to share my true feelings, I should find strength in the fact that I have people in my life who might actually care to know what I am experiencing.

I am happy to report that the last four days have been great days! The morning after my last post, last Friday, 13 Jan (as they'd say here) I woke up nice and early, and went to school to sign up for my seminar class. Even though I was a good 50 people deep, I got the class that I needed, and I finalized my schedule for the semester. This of course, only happened after I went to a class called Nietzsche's Philosphy and realized, I cannot take Nietzsche's Philosophy. The class only had about seven people in it, and the course load seemed very intense. The professor asked us several times about why we had chosen the class, if we were philosophy majors, how much we knew about Nietzsche, and every time I was questioned, I just realized more and more that the class was not right for me. And I was certainly not right for the class. So, half way through the period, Chelsea and I gathered our belongings, explained to the professor that we were over our heads, and left. We then spent about an hour looking for other classes and trying to work out our schedules. Eventually, I landed on 18th Century Ireland. Why would I take a class as fascinating as the history of Ireland in the 18th Century? To be honest, it's a lecture, and it worked in my schedule. I have not had much luck...any luck in finding classes that I actually want to take. The system here didn't really allow for that. However, I finally have ironed out my schedule with some of the classes that I need, and all of the classes that fit into the timestable I want.

As we walked home from school that day, heads held high, feeling very confident in our planning abilities, Chelsea and I made an extraordinary discovery. Eddie Rocket's. Yes! It's Johnny Rocket's, Galway-edition. The food wasn't exactly the same - the Chocolate Malt was a little disappointing and the fries didn't have enough salt - but it was really nice to have a little taste of home. The interior was just like a Johnny Rocket's, and it was awesome to find it. A little place to remind me that I can still carry the love of my home with me, it's just a little bit different here.

All Kinds of Sick

For the last couple of days I have been feeling the nagging pain in the back of my throat that means I'm getting sick. I knew it would happen eventually, that I would get sick in Ireland, but I really thought that it would be further down the road. As they would say here, fer godsake, I was just sick last week! I came to Ireland with a bad cold, not to mention a double ear infection, so I really thought I would be in the clear. Wrong! My immune system lost any chance of fighting off this bad boy, while also fighting the cold. I'm just not used to this weather. Everything is damp. All the time. Outside, the roads are slick with the constant moisture in the air. Inside, the rooms are muggy, equally full of moisture, as the fresh air is avoided because of the fear of the nip. We've finally gotten our apartment to a fairly balanced temperature, but for the most part, there is no comfortable. Inside is too hot, too stuffy, but outside is too cold. Where is Goldilocks when you need her?

The point is, I'm sick. So, of course, all I want to do is cuddle my mommy and have a bowl of soup and watch crappy TV (crappy, American TV) and just be. Because of this deepseeded need for home when I'm sick, it is not unordinary for my illnesses to be accompanied by a small dose of homesickness. Unfortunately, tonight it feels like the physical sickness and the home sickness have come in equal parts.

Before I left for Ireland, a dear friend of mine made sure to tell me that it wasn't worth it to get homesick. Of course, it would come, she said, but don't let it ruin the experience. So far, I think I've done a really good job at keeping these words in mind. I'll have little moments of missing my mom, or missing friends. I definitely have had times where I just miss America, and having the comfort of knowing what is considered publicly acceptable; knowing where things are, and how things work. But overall, I've tried to make the most of everything around me. Today, though, I just lost it. I miss home. I find that today, I am terribly sad. It is the kind of sadness, to be honest, that I run from. It is the kind of creeping sadness that comes about when I think of my dad, mostly. It is the sadness that feels much like fear - fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of loss. It is the sadness that makes it hard to breathe, hard to think. It is a terribly depressing thing, this sadness, which is why I try to avoid it. I try to not let it take over, but sometimes, it just does. Today, I was sad.

Tomorrow, I will be happy.

An Anecdote

"Come here!! Oh my God, you guys, come here!!"

As Chelsea and I scrambled to our roommate Erin's window, she said, "There is a car totally hitting another car!"

What?

Peering out the window, not very inconspicuously, the three of us watched a man in a Volvo back his car into a too tight for comfort parking spot, after pushing the little silver car behind him back. He just, balls to the walls, edged himself into a parking spot he shouldn't have fit in. The best part may have been when he waited for the pedestrians to walk by before finishing the job. It seriously was like a scene from a movie. A woman in a red trench coat was walking one direction, as a man in a black sweatshirt walked the other. "Which way to Dunnes?" I imagine her asking. Because for a good 45 seconds, they each took turns pointing, and talking. Finally, they went their separate ways, and the Volvo continued backing into the spot.

I don't know whether I should be impressed or mortified. On one hand, this man saw what he wanted, and made it happen. On the other hand, how dare you?! What if he had damaged the car he carelessly backed into? What if he had been caught by the car owner and had gotten into trouble? I guess, it doesn't really matter. I'll never see him again. As I don't drive in this country, I'll probably never be affected by his recklessness, but I don't think I'll ever forget that crazy man in the Volvo.

It's Been a Long Time...

It's been a couple of days now, that I haven't posted anything new, but a lot has happened. So, here's to hoping I remember to include everything!!

I would like to start by saying, we met Harry Styles. That's a lie. But we did meet a kid who looked exactly like Harry Styles! In fact, we met two. There were these brothers, who looked very much alike, and who looked very much like the 1D crooner. (to be honest, I've always wanted to use the word crooner in a sentence, it makes me feel very US Weekly) The point is, Chelsea, our new friend Hillary, and I were wandering around this pub called The Front Door, and we bumped into a group of guys. We asked them, in our American innocence, what they were drinking. What's good? When we said we were not Irish enough to handle the Guinness they each had, they suggested Smithicks. I'm not much of a drinker, and after having tried Guinness - when in Rome - I am definitely not much of a beer drinker. So, I refrained from taking their advise, but I did have a nice long chat with Harry Styles Senior. He told us that, as Americans we all sound like JWoww. I mean, he didn't call out the Jersey Shore cast by name, but the American girl impression he did was pretty....JWoww. He also said that if guys danced at a club in Ireland the way they dance in America, they would just get hit. It was about that time that the Styles' cousin came around. Again, I don't know his name, it might have been Luke. I also just called him by his celebrity doppelganger - Macklemore. As the boys headed out of the pub, they said they were headed to carbon (the club Chelsea and I went to for New Year), and they hoped to see us there. Before they left, though, something strange happened. They kissed each of us on the forehead. What? We were really confused by the gesture. Is that an Irish thing, or were these boys just forward? Is a forehead kiss considered forward? I guess we'll never know for sure, seeing as though we didn't really see then again.

The next morning we started off the academics right, and slept through our second day of orientation. Let me tell you, this whole time adjustment thing is a pain. I have now been in Ireland for over a week, and I still don't feel fully adjusted. I'm usually lethargic and ready for bed by 6 (a side effect of the constant rain, I think). Some nights I give in and fall asleep, which then results in a couple hours if napping. Some nights I force myself to stay awake, which results in a serious second wind, and I don't end up falling asleep until the early hours of the morning. Either way, my nights are typically not spent sleeping. I've tried everything to find sleep. I've counted my blessings, read a few books, and even taken Tylenol pm. Nothing seems to work! I'm just hoping that once school starts, and my life falls into a routine, my sleep pattern will even out too.

I guess that leads me to the other thing I've been doing lately: school. As I said, I had two days of orientation (one if which I attended) and then a walking tour of campus. I did attempt to go in the walking tour, but our tour guide must have been raging the night before because he could barely keep his eyes open, and he mumbled so badly I could not hear a damn thing he said. Because of dear Andrew's lack if enthusiasm, a couple of us dipped out about half way through. We looked at the gym on our own, and then we found our way to the international affairs office, where we asked for an update on what we'd missed that morning. Overall, we felt like we had a pretty good grip on what we needed to know. Wrong! Haha I guess we were just being typical Americans, with an unearned sense of confidence (yes, we have been told by two sources that that is how we're seen) because when we showed up at school on Monday, not only did we not know where to go, we didn't even know if we had to be there. I hadn't even made my timetable yet!

What, you may ask, is a timetable? Well, I may answer, it is a piece of paper where you are meant to write down your classes to make sure they don't overlap. Sounds easy enough, sure, but when you have to walk to the department secretaries of every subject area in order to find their listing of the classes offered, and then sort it all out on your own, it is a surprisingly tricky task. This level of difficultly increases when you add in the fact that visiting students are only allowed to take certain classes. And, the times of classes are downright loony! At home, classes are generally something like Monday/Wednesday/Friday 10-11 or Tuesday/Thursday 9:40-11:10. Here, classes are like Tuesday 5-6 and Wednesday 9-10. Not to mention that fact that every English class I was interested in taking was offered at the same time. Well, I can't very well take 3 classes at once! So, I worked on my timetable, and after an hour of sitting in the - what should I call it, eatery? - the eatery, and cycling through the group of guys, the group of girls, and the mixture sit across from us, I figured out my schedule and got excited about the coming semester. I felt, for the first time since getting here, that I had a direction. I knew what I was supposed to do, and I knew how I was supposed to do it.

Slip n Slide

"Oh my God, Ali! Are you ok?"
I knew I should respond, I knew I should get off the ground, and I knew I should not put my head down. Unfortunately, I did not do any of those things. I just gave in to the situation, put my head on the ground, and started laughing. It was one of those times where my body knew only one response - laugh. I had just publicly slid down the street, stopping under a planters box in the middle of Galway.
Safe!
"I'm fine," I finally said, "Embarrassed as all hell, but fine."
You have to understand that Chelsea and I had been walking for at least a mile, with our hands full of groceries. Here in Ireland, like the starting trend in America, they charge you for using bags at the grocery stores, so Chelsea and I decided that we could use the bags we'd gotten from Penney's (a retail store, much like JC Penney). Why would any store in a country that constantly rains give out paper bags? Needless to say, our paper Penney's bag broke, so we were left with 50 Euros worth of groceries in one plastic bag and two small handbags. It was painful. Actually, painful - I have bruises from where the heavy bags were hanging on my wrists.
About halfway through the trip home, we stopped at a pharmacy, soaking wet and pathetic looking, and asked if they had a bag. The woman, showing her true Irish hospitality, made some make-shift bags for us to continue our journey. She said, "Do you have much further to go?" and unfortunately, our response was, "Yeah, pretty far."
I don't know how the Irish do it. It's probably that they can drive....or they're prepared with the correct type of bag. Either way, in that moment on the ground, lost somewhere between tears and laughter, I couldn't help but think, "Why am I here? Why didn't I choose a warm country? I could have gone to Australia!"
But life is a learning experience, and if I had gone to Australia or Italy or some other country, I wouldn't have learned the hard way to always be prepared with reusable bags. I wouldn't have learned that sometimes it is better to let yourself laugh at the absurdity that you have just publicly fallen on your face, then cry that you are wet and kind of miserable. Sure, I would have learned different lessons, but I feel confident in saying that I am supposed to be here. I am supposed to be in Ireland, falling and fighting the rain and enjoying the company. I am supposed to be learning these lessons.

Can't Sleep

Six minutes ago, California celebrated the dawn of the new year. And I am, for some reason, awake to spread the greetings of love and adventure in 2013. Here in Galway, it is 8:07am. I'm not waking up early. No, I haven't been to sleep. For some reason, maybe the time change/jet lag, maybe the excitement of the evening, I have not been able to sleep. I fell asleep for about an hour around 5am, but then woke up and feel pretty wide awake. So, here I am, writing about it.

Today, Chelsea and I were walking around Galway, taking in the town and running some errands, and we walked past what looked like a night club, called Carbon. There was a big poster advertising about the wonders of ringing in the new year with carbon, so we figured, why not! 9 o'clock rolled around, and after much deliberation about what to wear, Chelsea and I headed out for our New Years' Eve celebration. Of course, like the brilliant folks we are, we forgot to bring IDs, so we had to walk back to the apartment. Finally, though, we made it through the line a second time, driver's licenses in hand, and got into the club. I'm glad we forgot our IDs, actually, because while standing in line for the second time, we were right in front of a very nice couple from Galway. The girl, we found out, is originally South African, but moved to Ireland 12 years ago. Her boyfriend was born and raised here in Galway. They seemed very impressed that we were from Cali, and kept asking about the beaches and the surf. They also told us that we had to go to further up the coast because that's, apparently, where the nicest people in Ireland are.

Unfortunately, we lost them once we got inside. I say unfortunately for two reasons. One, they were very nice people. And two, we were not prepared for the Irish dance scene. They don't really dance here. They just kind of shimmy. No, shimmy is not the right word. It's more of a bob. They bob. Step, together, step, step, together, step. Chelsea and I, used to the nightclubs in San Francisco, were definitely out of our element.

In the end, though, we had a really great time. Once we got into the soft groove of the place, we found a little corner and just let loose. We had so much fun, especially when the DJ played Macklemore. We love Macklemore!! Thriftshop came on, and we got so excited. We actually made a friend over it. A really neat girl came up to us and we started talking about macklemore, and she eventually added me on Facebook. Sweet, someone to know in town.

Macklemore was actually the subject of conversation that brought us to these guys named Brian and Lamar. Brian and Lamar, we found out, are also roommates, so we ended up spending most of the night with them talking "and we danced and had a really, really, really good time" (that's a line from a Macklemore song...see what I did there? Nice, huh?). They would poke fun at us for our botched attempts at Irish accents, and we would joke about the things they said differently here. For instance, if I were to correct the above sentence as an Irish youth, I would say "we were taking the piss outta them for the things they say differently." Apparently, "takin the piss" is to joke around. Also, they totally made fun of the fact that we called French fries, French fries. Lamar ordered curry chips and Brian had taco chips. Taco chips are chili cheese fries....even though he wouldn't admit that. And curry chips are literally fries in curry. Pretty good.

So, I can honestly say that 2013 has been off to a good start. (Aside from the insomnia thing). And I cannot wait for what the rest of the year brings!