My Kind of Craic

Monday February 17/2014

Jesus Mary and Joseph, I did it. I slept through the night. Well almost. Basically. My theory that I am immune to jet lag proved completely inaccurate at about 4:00pm on Saturday when I decided to have a short nap before we stepped out for another booze soaked evening in Dublin. This "short nap" had me in a deep coma until 10:30pm. Based on this, I chose to be a responsible adult and stay home to rest. Alone with an untouched pan of tirimasu, I had brilliant plans of mind numbing television, followed by an undisturbed evening of comatose. By 6:30am, I'm still wide awake. Shit. And unfortunately it wasn't until 6:30am when I realized I had packed some old Tylenol 3's I had stashed from when I had my wisdom teeth removed. Knocked me out instantly, but also kept me in that state until 2pm the following day. Whoops. So much for my final day in Dublin. Meh, I came, I saw, I drank, I was imprisoned. I'm good. 

After some pick me up bacon, and eggs covered in spaghetti hoops, we were ready for our road trip to Mayo. Well almost ready. There was the mandatory Malteaser stock up, THEN we were road trip ready. A three hour ride through the irish countryside, bound for the Mulrooney residence, also known as Angela's parents house, and our recovery centre. Let me just say, I would take the country over the city in a heart beat here. So incredibly beautiful. The giant houses, built on giant lots of land. The emerald hills, the flooded lakes, the stone walls. Tiny roads that lead to tiny towns with tiny stores. I loved it. This was the Ireland I imagined. Sorry Dublin. We arrived at what had to be just the sweetest little home in all of Mayo. We drank two bottles of wine, discussed Canada, Ireland, and England with the parents then off to bed, where I would finally experience a full night's sleep. Mostly. I woke exactly 1.5 hours after I had fallen asleep, already celebrating thinking I had slept the entire night through. What disappointment to read it was merely 3am. Shit. But to my delight I fell back to sleep and stayed so until noon. Let us hope tonight will be an even greater unconscious success. Especially since tonight I didn't spend my last half hour awake eating left over candy from the Calgary airport/the rest of the heart shaped chocolates my mom tucked away in my going away card. Then again, I did just devour a bag of popcorn not long after sharing a fruit cake with Angela. Oh ya, I'm fat now. 

The next morning I awoke at the respectable hour of 12:30pm, changed from one pair of sweat pants to another, one which didn't smell (as bad) or was anywhere close to decaying on my body. Angela and myself had decided it was time we rejoined the human race and do something other than sit in a bar. So we went for a run. Ha. Sorry I can't even follow through with that one without cracking up. We walked. We walked along the seaside, and I did a cartwheel which was enough to qualify as the upper body portion of my workout. The smell of the ocean made me think of home. The constant roaring of the waves had to be the most calming sound I'd ever heard, and suddenly I found myself dreaming about yet another fantasy life. Grey skies, grey waves, calm green sand hills, and me, cozy in my quaint, stone house, nestled by the sea, after a day of leisurely surfing the coast. I could taste the salt on my lips and didn't want to ever leave. But it began to rain and we were hungry. Of course, following an intense workout, the body needs to be refuelled… with scones and cinnamon lattes. The remainder of the day was a blur of tea, food, more tea, even more food, and another failed attempt at sleeping before 5am. Not even Gossip Girl could put me to sleep. None the less, somehow I found myself in the land of slumber and awoke to the realization that I couldn't remember the last time I had showered. Which could very well mean I awoke to the pungent odour of… myself. I totally understand the tendency for world travellers to neglect all forms of hygiene. I willingly accept the title of a vagabond, with open and unshaved underarms. Well, I did, until I saw a mirror. Whoa.  Ok, Chelsea. It's time to reacquaint yourself with what is commonly known as soap. No bearded irishman will ever shag you if you look like the third man on the evolution timeline. 

Day two in the Irish countryside found us gals roaming a small town called Westport, my most favourite part of Ireland I've seen thus far. We stopped for coffee in, get this, a coffee/chocolate shop. I kid you not. You want a latte? How about a dozen house made chocolates. Oh and a delicious scone if you prefer as well. The highlight, however, was the infant child who took my order. He couldn't have been any more than 10 years old. I asked what an irish latte was and he looked at me like I was a total idiot. "It's a latte with Baileys in it." A blank, and almost pitiful look on his face. I'm sorry, but I'm at the equivalent to a Starbucks, ordering a coffee to go, before noon, and this child is judging me for not thinking to add alcohol to my caffeine. I was born in the wrong country. 

Angela's first destination for me was Mount Patrick (yes, it has something to do with St. Patrick. No, I don't have a clue what that something is. I think he died, or was burried up there or some shit). What I can only imagine was some kind of cruel joke, she said something along the lines of us climbing it. I gave her the dirtiest glare possible, and without a word marched right back into the car. Evil, little leprechaun she is. I took a photo of it from inside the volkswagon. That's plenty. Next was a castle which I was repeatedly told I could not enter or inhabit. What bullocks. Then finally we stopped at a quaint, bright pink I might add, seaside tavern for some muscles and wine. Muscles were delicious but in no way comparable to Vancouver's steroid sized ones. 

Later that night we found ourselves at the local bar where everybody knows your name, but in the most sober state would be too old to remember it moments later… key word being "sober state", which obviously not one of the 4 men in there was. We drank wine and chatted with the bar maid (us ladies have to stick together) while each man, between gulps of guinness, asked for Angela's father. In standard Angela Mulrooney fashion, she handed me the newspaper as she exited for a cigarette break, knowing fine well that I need to look importantly preoccupied at all times when alone at a bar, coffee shop, restaurant, street corner, subway station, park bench, my front lawn. And here is where the rest of our evening unfolded. I present to you, DATINGPOINT. Ireland's hottest personal ad section. And let me tell you, quite a night it became, all thanks to this wondrous single red page. Allow me to paint a picture:

Male: 56, shy, sincere, inexperienced, varied interests, seeks local, single, busty older female, 70 plus for discreet relationship and intimate times. 

Translation: I am a 56 year old virgin, horny as all hell, looking for an old ass woman who is too shrivelled up to care that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing since she is just as horny and alone as I am. But let's be hush, hush because my cats might get jealous. 

John: 50, likes sports, meals out, movies, seeking nice attractive female 25-50 to hang out with. 

Translation: I like watching sports because my hips don't allow me much more than a jont over to my mother's house where we will have our 'meals out' and watch the nature channel. I really only want a 25 year old, but to look like less of a perv I added the '-50'. If you're 50 don't bother. Also maybe don't tell my 25 year old daughter about us. 

(Note to John: If you're looking for a 25 year old, perhaps consider stating your income… just saying)

Single male: 47, likes most things, seeks local lady for texting fun

Translation: I'm ugly

Classy lady: 34, blonde hair, slim, seeks fun and texting

Translation: You've put yourself on a newspaper dating page and are requesting a text only relationship. Re-evaluate your definition of classy. 

And so was the evening. We completed said evening with a bottle of wine and Love, Actually. We both agreed we needed a little London inspiration as tomorrow we would officially be Londoners. Ha! What a strange and surreal thought.