The Night Before (Christmas: Part One)

Wednesday December 24/2014

Eggnog is not commonly found in the UK. Christmas is all around us, but eggnog is not. And it's stupid. You might say, "Well, Chelsea. Why wouldn't you just make some yourself from scratch?" To that I would have to reply, "Hello, my name is Chelsea. We quite clearly have never met, otherwise you would know that I much prefer complaining about a situation than actually resolving it. That, and I cannot be trusted over a stove-- if that is in fact how you make eggnog (refer to the egg soup fiasco in previous post). So therefore, in order to sustain my yearly tradition, and feel the warmth of christmas in my belly-- and inevitably on my hips and ass (it's literally liquid fat laced with nutmeg), I have been forced to break my oath, and succumb to the treachery that is Starbucks. Apart from feeling like a shameful, shell of a man, I actually became rather infuriated when having to place my reluctant Eggnog Latte order. I'm sorry, but aren't world dominating chains such as this supposed to keep some form of consistency throughout their over abundance of global locations? For instance, when I use the word non-fat with regards to which kind of milk I prefer, should I not get an understanding nod as apposed to the blank look of complete lack of understanding I was given? And when I ask for a Dirty Chai, should I really have to explain myself? Really? (Ok, maybe I've broken my oath once before this.) But believe you me, my pledge to never return to Starshits was solidified once again after discovering that a Toffee Nut Latte is considered a Christmas beverage. No. 

Ok, fine. I still continued to have 'nogs at Shitbucks once a week for the entire month of December. Ok, twice a week. Ok! A lot a week. Jesus! I love eggnog. And I struggle with the concept of loyalty.

I'm getting ahead of myself, and have vastly digressed from my attempt to introduce the subject of Christmas. But first, I should really go back a month and a half, before the take over of mince pies, flickering lights, and the endless replay of Fairytale Of New York ringing in my ears. 

I would like to begin with the ever anticipated visit from my ultimate Irish love (Sorry Chris) and member of my suto Irish family, Angela Mulroony. Unfortunately, I remember very little of it. Which I do believe I can therefore say, with confidence, that it must have been brilliant. I remember starting at the Alex, and I remember going to sleep far after the sun had risen. Somewhere in between there was tequila. And many mojitos. It was nice to see that nothing had changed, despite our distances. 

The following weekend was reserved for my second round of "meet the parents": Chris's Mammy. It was the last day in November, and it was as if the month had decided to be nice enough to produce one final flawlessly gorgeous autumn (hey, look I'm getting the hang of it) day before giving way to winter. The perfect day for a Sunday drive through the English countryside! Irish, and myself, with Brother Irish at the wheel, made our way through hill after rolling hill, towards a destination that for the life of me I could not name. It didn't matter. I was happy just to be lounging in the back seat of a car, munching on Jelly Babies, surrounded by passing fields of sheep. So many adorable, grazing, fluffy sheep, glowing in the autumn sunlight. 

The first town we drove through was adorable. It was all adorable. The churches, the town centres, the tiny streets, lined with old, crowded buildings. Adorable. When we arrived at what I now know is a town called Devizes, in South West England (I'm fairly sure this is accurate) I was eager to meet the mother. How could I not be with a woman who raised the infamous Christopher Whelan and lived to tell the tale? We were greeted by Chris's sister, Ali, and her boyfriend, Justin, and wee little baby Amelia rocking contently in the corner of the living room. Introductions were made, Bonny hugged me, then held me at arms length, to "get a good look at me". I followed her into the kitchen and offered to help with dinner, praying to God she wouldn't accept; burning your boyfriend's mother's house down doesn't exactly make for the best first impression. Instead she handed me a glass of champagne (I like her already) and asked all about me. Chris came into the room just long enough for her to take the piss out of him, quickly advancing my like to love. So that's how she did it. We spent the early evening eating and drinking and chatting and drinking some more. I don't think I've ever felt so naturally comfortable-- the bottomless wine glass probably didn't hurt. By the time we said our goodbyes, I was already planning my return, with our without Irish. 

With a full belly, and a mild red wine sedation, it didn't take long for me to fall asleep as we made our way back to the city. At one point, I woke up-- mainly because Gavin purposely turned the backseat light on to get a rise out of me-- and felt incredibly happy (well, I did after I had a minor fit for being so rudely awoken). I not only had myself an Irishman with amazing parents, but two Irishmen who let me tag along on family road trips, and bug the shit out of me, which is clearly a sign of affection and great admiration. 

December arrived and with it the Chelsea Beamish tradition to IMMEDIATELY adopt the perfect Christmas tree. Chris met me after work at a swanky little nursery around the corner from the Unnamed Bar that was home to the biggest variety of small to medium sized trees I had ever seen. You have your very short, your short, eye level, just above eye level, and then "tall" which was really just slightly above above eye level. In that moment I missed Kelowna. I missed giant, fatty trees that you wondered, as you unsafely strapped it to the hood of your car, if it would in fact fit through the front door. I missed home even more when I was told the price of my chosen "just above eye level" shrub. Funny thing that whole, never having to pay for a Christmas Tree. What a hoot when you finally get to. Except that I'm poor, and therefore refused to settle for such a cost. So we left "just above eye level" and carried on down the high street in search of my pine adorned (affordable) soul mate. Three stops later, we came to Clapham's friendly neighbourhood flowerman, who gave us a hefty deal on the most perfect "just above boob level" Christmas tree I had ever seen. The next night Gavin came home with Christmas lights and we all shared dinner and decorated the tree. Well Chris and I decorate the tree. Ok I decorated the tree, Chris strung the hooks through the balls, and Gavin came in to top the tree with a red, shiny star. God Bless us, everyone!

The next week, I decided to spend my mid-Christmas-countdown day off by visiting the Queen. Not a standard tradition, to my knowledge, but it occurred to me recently, that in the almost year that I have been residing in this fine city, I have barely done a single tacky tourist thing (which, I might add, perhaps isn't the worst thing). So off to Buckingham Palace I went! There's something about taking the bus that is just so satisfying-- when you're not in a rush to get anywhere and just happy to sit back and actually get to see where you're going. In london, you spend so much of your time underground, I swear, if the situation presented itself, I could probably burrow my own tunnels under this city, what with my newly acquired night vision and vermin like abilities. Also, for a girl who is as directionally challenged as myself (concernedly so), traveling the city via underground makes it impossible to ever know where you are actually going. Who knew I would pass through Chelsea in order to get to the Queen? So Chelsea is finally in Chelsea. And the world did not spontaneously combust. Although, it should have. For once again, I have been put in place so beautiful, so elegant, and so completely out of my price range. I don't deserve this. 

Sloane Street. Every fashionista's heaven. And my bus just had to drive through it. Louis Vuitton, Dolce and Gabbana, Dolce and Gabbanna Kids (come on! For fuck), Jimmy Choo, Prada, Fendi, Chanel, Dior, Armani, Hermes, Gucci, Versace, Yves St Laurent… Sorry, I stopped breathing. At this point, I had forgotten all about the Queen. Fuck the Queen. Hello Valentino. But my bus just kept going, leaving behind what I truly believe to be the lifestyle that belongs to me, and will one day be mine. Why not throw salt on the wound by visiting a fucking castle that I don't even live in? Marvellous. 

In fairness, it was nothing special. The statues gifted from New Zealand standing across from the Palace were more interesting, mainly because one of them was a particularly masculine female, standing next to lion, holding a machete. I'm pretty sure she was holding a machete. The Palace itself was just a massive span of building. Rather boring. I had missed the changing of the guard by an hour, which was lame, but I did get to watch a few of them mosey back and forth from their little huts for as long as my attention span could handle. What a mind numbingly terrible career. Stand and march. March and stand. Adjust rifle position. Wear ridiculous hats that probably weigh a great deal, and may even lead to eventual height deficiency. They weren't even in their traditional red guard outfit. I presume it's because of the season. A mild blue is much more fitting for the winter months. Regardless of the lacklustre scene, I took a selfie to boast about on Facebook and Instagram, and decided my time would be much better spent surrounded by proper royalty: Sir Jimmy Choo. Walking Sloane Street is just so much more depressing than watching it pass you by on a double decker. An entire street length of the most incredible designer wear, my face welling with tears as I smooshed it against window after window, drooling over every inch of hem, and pleat, and pattern, and… heel. When I saw Jimmy Choo from across the street, it couldn't be helped. It was pulling me in. I couldn't resist (so much so that I nearly got run down by a black cab). The door man welcomed me and I vomited a little. Jaysus, Mary, and a whole lot of Joseph. I imagine this is actually what euphoria feels like. I am euphoric. Or on the verge. Euphoric would be leaving this store with several bags. I will be leaving this store mourning my very working class existence. I stood in awe at each pair, ignoring the fact that I was the epitome of "What doesn't belong here". I saw the salespeople. I knew what they were thinking. I knew they knew I was wearing Primark. And they knew I knew they knew I was wearing Primark. It was time to leave. One day, my loves. One day. I slouched, heavy in my eighteen pound Timberland knock offs (that's embarrassing), and headed towards the big red bus that would take me back to where I belonged. For now anyway. 

It was only days before Irish was to take the dreaded fairy back to his mother land for Christmas, and we had still not been to Winter Wonderland. This was unacceptable. Every year, Hyde Park puts on this extravagant winter fair, filled with Christmas magic, and copious amounts of mulled wine. Actually, upon arrival, it really just seems to be some kind of giant Austrian, or Danish or whatever, fair that has managed to cover the odd clown in a Santa costume, and hang holly from various roller coasters and, yes, haunted houses, and call it a Winter Wonderland. Still pretty impressive though. Endless rows of wooden huts filled with crafts, and food, and mulled wine lined the entire grounds. An entire kingdom made of ice stood in the centre of the park, which we couldn't be arsed to pay twenty quid to see inside, but I imagine it's quite lovely. We strolled around, sipping on wine and steins, munching on marzipan and chimney cake, listening to an Irish band cover Cotton Eye Joe in the Bavaria Gardens (???) and just taking it all in. It was cute. We were cute. Chris experienced his first Bratwurst (this is a literal cherry popping, not a figurative one. Just to clarify). But the wanker refused sauerkraut and onions, so we can hardly call that a true experience. Amateur. Pfft. 

** It must be mentioned: the day prior to our Wonderland festivities, I discovered, in the worst possible way, that I am, unexpectedly, allergic to Aspirin. This came to my attention after a head ache at work had me popping Aspirin laced extra strength Paracetamol, causing my already generous sized head to swell double its size; most specifically my eyes and cheeks. Any photographs seen from this day, or the day following should be accompanied with a parental advisory. 

Two days before the Irishman abandoned me during the holidays (this is a farce-- I am taking the piss-- I was invited, repeatedly, to join the Whelan's for a very merry Kilmore Christmas, but instead opted to be sister of the year and stay in the city with my brother), we braved one more Christmas market in South Bank. This one was cute, as well, mostly because it was set up along the Thames, and had even more food than Wonderland. But the only thing about it worth mentioning was my Duck Confit Burger with blue cheese on a sweet, brioche bun. Street food just escalated to a whole other level. 

The next day I came home to the most delicious faux Christmas chicken dinner, a bouquet of festive flowers, and a Lindor chocolate ball the size of my head. There's a chance I might miss this spud head. The day he left, we exchanged the presents we weren't going to get each other: me, an impressively well picked out hat that makes me look like a hot Indiana Jones. And him, 'Irish Moss' scented beard oil. I know. Incredible. 

To be honest, there was a part of me that was looking forward to having some time in the flat to myself. I am known to be that of a lone wolf by nature, so a week completely alone (minus my beloved stuffed sheep, Baaa Jangles and C-lamb-ato to keep me snuggled at night) sounded just swell. With this thought in mind, it came as quite a surprise when the Irishman's departure played out like that of a man leaving for war; his woman crying out in despair, convinced he would never return. Even after their goodbyes, she can't help but run to him as he makes his way down the dirt road towards his looming expiry for one final embrace-- except I was running to the elevator of our 2nd floor, and he was making his way to Paddington station, set to return seven days later. It was emotional.

And now, here I sit. Christmas Eve in London. Perched in front of Mr. Bean's Christmas Special, with a doner kebab and portion of chips (I presume this to be a holiday tradition somewhere). And I feel ok. At least I do now. If Josh doesn't call me to come over and drink wine soon, I'll probably break out into my World War generated tears again. 

Cry Baby Cry

Tuesday December 2/2014

I'm fairly certain that I'm dying of a rapidly growing tumour that is lodged in my esophagus. It may not be the esophagus, but that's the only anatomical part of my throat that comes to mind. Either that or I regretfully agreed to a job teaching dance at a primary school in East London-- sixty snotty nosed, disease ridden, contagious little midget devils (ie: five year olds), infesting me with their germs on a weekly basis. Basically I've been sick for 2 months. 

Primary schools (elementary schools, for those Canadian readers) in London are… interesting. Or perhaps I've been away from them for so long that now they just seem like strange, heavily secured prisons smelling of hospital and used, damp socks, filled will teeny tiny furniture, and ridiculously small toilets for the vertically challenged. I received this glamourous job through a sports activities company that contracts 'coaches' such as myself to lead various grades of midget devils in physical education instead of their regular teachers, thus allowing them a break to enjoy a cuppa, prepare class plans, regain their sanity, throw back a shot or two of vodka, whatever suits their needs at the time. Although after only two months of enduring a mere one day a week with these little angels, I'd most certainly be carrying a flask if I were them. Technically speaking, I am a dance instructor, but if we're being honest, I am simply a glorified babysitter. What never seizes to amaze me, however, is the extent of my 'babysitting' requirements. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, or lived a very sheltered life, within the walls of a very conservative Elementary School, but in my day, in my country, even at the wee age of five, we had such things as change rooms. Boys and girls had separate changing facilities used to transition from school clothes to P.E. kit and back again, modestly. Imagine my surprise when on my first day at Mission Grove Primary School, I walked into a classroom filled with half naked children running around and attacking each other with the trousers they weren't wearing. And so reveals 'dance teacher' responsibility number one: assist children in and out of their P.E. kits. Yes. Part of my ever so glamourous, high status, overseas teaching career involves monitoring naked, English midget devils. What's worse is my inability to adapt to the British definition of pants. Every time I'd tell a child to take their pants off, I'd get this look of shock, followed by fear and slight disgust, followed further by hesitant obedience as they begin to pull on their underwear. No!!! Trousers! I mean trousers! I can hear the whispers now, There goes that perverted Canadian. Calls herself a 'Dance Teacher'.   

The second establishment that employs my teaching skills is far from naked babysitting. Far from everything, really. Enfield. A town outside of London. Outside London. If the town wasn't so utterly adorable and the work wasn't good old fashioned, disciplinary RAD, I'd sooner stand on the tracks and gladly let the National Rail run me down than have to ride it twice a week. But Enfield is cute. So cute in fact, that I choose to arrive at the farthest station from the studio so that I can wander down the high street each day. Down a road called Church Street, which is exactly how it sounds. Churches everywhere. Churches hosting antique fairs, and serving free morning coffee. Markets on every corner. Fruit markets, tupperwear markets, hideous old woman clothes, next to last season's more than likely stolen designer makeup and perfume markets. Like I said, adorable. 

The studio I work for is a performing arts school, nestled above a music cafe that plays live music and sells guitars and keyboards along with your flat white. Unbeknownst to me upon accepting the position, it is a Turkish school. Run by Turks for Turks, all speaking Turkish. Then there's me. You try pronouncing four classes worth of turkish names and see how you feel by the end. Or have a class full of three year olds who don't speak a word of English. You're almost wishing for the naked midget devils, let me tell you. But not. Because the little Turks are almost as cute as the streets I walk through to get to them, and their mothers are so perfectly beautiful that I often find myself hypnotized by their shiny black hair, wanting to be them. These women, my God. Flawlessly dressed in the most jealousy-inducing outfits. Drenched in designer everything and looking as though they've just stepped off set of a fashion editorial. Except they've just stepped out of their Range Rovers, and are eight months pregnant, but you wouldn't notice unless they turned sideways. Perfect Bitches. I love them. 

I always look forward to Saturdays. I get to teach what I love, the way I love to. Girls actually have their hair in a bun, and are wearing bodysuits that weren't purchased at H&M. They know to start class in first position with their hands behind their backs before I so much as look towards the stereo. And at the end of class they always, ALWAYS, curtsey and chant, "Thank you, Miss Chelsea." Heaven. 

But even Enfield's most sought after dance instructor needs a little R&R from time to time, and considering the fact that the Irishman and myself had been an item for almost half a year, we figured it was a good a time as any for the Canadian to meet the family… It was time to go to Ireland. Back to Ireland. But this time, the sunny southeast. Wexford.

Funny thing about traveling to Wexford; if you decide against the efficiency of a plane ride, it actually takes longer to get there than to fly from London to Canada. Of course, I wanted to have the whole tube, train, train, boat experience, and the ability to say I'd been in three countries in one day so the twelve hours it would take didn't exactly register. Nor did the fact that we'd be travelling in the dark and therefore sight seeing would be impossible. Yes, we may have passed through Wales, but the only thing I saw was the reflection of my giant head in the train window. Three countries my ass. If it wasn't for a few cheeky cans and a bag or two of Jelly Babies, I'm not confident I would have made it. By the time we got to Fishguard where the Ferry docks, there was no question we'd be forking out the extra dough for a cabin on board. The Ferry wasn't much different than BC Ferries, to my disappointment. For some reason, I had this image of a great ship, with sails, and water splashing on the decks. The inside would be made up of old creaking wood, and the lower class would be forced to share the bottom of the boat with sheep. I may actually be a tad racist. Maybe if I drank enough at the boat's bar, it would look more liked I'd hoped. Another poor assumption. The one difference between this ferry and the only other one I'd frequented, is the feeling of actually being on a boat. Something I hadn't realized I had never experienced. On BC ferries, there will be the odd time where you feel yourself tilting slightly to the right, but perhaps not. There was no misinterpreting the boat's motions on this mother ship. Up and down, up and down, side to side. Constantly. Sea sickness. It's a real thing, and I was on the verge. Needless to say, this makes for a less than appealing drinking environment. Being that it was nearing three in the morning, retreating to our cabin was the best decision to be made thus far. Fortunately for us, skipper boy tells us there are only single bunk beds available. Aces. SHOT GUN TOP BUNK. (Apparently no one in Ireland ever wants the top bunk. Total madness. But an easy win for me.) As we made our way down the narrow corridors, it was a challenge for me not to reinact Titanic, when all the poor Irish are running down the halls of the sinking bottom floor, as the water races aggressively behind them. I could have Chris shout for help to make it authentic. Our room was hilarious. The smallest thing I'd ever seen, yet still equipped with a shower and toilet across from the tiniest set of bunk beds, and another window reminding me of my giant head. In proper Whelan fashion, Chris was out cold within seconds of hitting the pillow we were resentfully sharing, while I laid squished between a large, snoring Irishman, and the wall, cursing each wave that had me praying my jelly babies remained in my digestive tract. If it wasn't for the dire need for another's body heat, and the potential need for speedy convenience to the toilet, that top bunk would be mine. 

We arrived on Irish soil at half six, looking half dead. 

"Watch this," Chris started in, as we left the shit ship and came towards our official cross into Ireland. "We could be carrying nothing but cocaine in these bags and not a single person will stop us." Sure enough, much like when we boarded, such was the case. Customs consisted of two empty podiums. Not a single sign of security. My passport sat, burried in the bottom of my purse, and didn't move until it returned to it's home in my underwear drawer three days later. The Irish. What a trustworthy people. Or, more accurately, they just couldn't be arsed. 

Chris's sister was waiting for us. She had just had a baby, not that you could bloody tell. The girl looked incredible. I hate everyone. I will be more wide than tall if I ever get knocked up and it makes me bitter. Very bitter. Alison's baby was actually the main reason we had decided to come over. Amelia. The first grandchild to grace the family, and give my Irishman the official title of Uncle Christy. After passing out in the back seat of Ali's car, I magically awoke at the Whelan residence. The cosiest yellow house I had ever seen. Although at this point, with being awake for almost twenty-four hours, I could have easily been hallucinating it's colour. But once inside, cosy it really was. This time I was out cold the minute my head hit Chris's pillow, rejecting the thoughts of how many other random women's heads had done the same in this quaint little bachelor room. Mid day finally managed to wake me from my slumber. I sat up and in front of me, staring at my atrocious morning face, was a native man. Well, a drawing of a native man. A chief to be exact. And beside it a hyde skin drum. Being native myself (obsessively so), if I had any doubt of this man being meant for me, this display honouring my people vanished all of them. Random, yes. Weird, a tad. But the universe works in mysterious ways. After taking a moment to give thanks to my ancestors, I met Chris in the kitchen for coffee with Whelan Sr. I vaguely recalled having met him that morning but, again, that too could have been a hallucination. John Whelan. Or more appropriately, Gavin Sr. The man couldn't remind me more of Chris's brother. Down to the way he smirks when you know he wants to make fun of you but instead just laughs at you internally. Gavin does that to me a lot. John speaks the way I think Chris may have when I first met him. These days, I hardly hear Chris's accent anymore. He's just Chris. A dude that says 'lad' a lot and doesn't pronounce his TH's. But I imagine, had I not gotten used to the way he talks, he'd sound like John. Duh, Chelsea. He's his son and they're both from Wexford. Retard. I've had a lot of wine. 

Once I fumbled around with the weirdness of Irish shower gadgets, and got "meet the friends" hot, William, Chris's BFF, had arrived to accompany us on the rounds. We began with Adrian, a friend of Chris's who lives at his parents and recently had a baby.  His parents, Mary and Larry (yes) were lovely. I could have sat and chatted with Mary all day. Within minutes we were discussing mixed families over tea and biscuits, and everything was grand until she dropped the baby in my arms like it supposed to be there. I looked at it, it looked at me. I held my breath. It squirmed and made a face that made it's whole head turn beet red. I don't know babies but I'm pretty confident that's a pre-cry face. I shook it a little, cautious of the dreaded shaken baby syndrome (which I actually have no idea why or how I've heard of such a thing) and it stopped. I think that came as a shock to both of us. We just looked at each other in amazement that I was capable of not only keeping a baby alive for longer than four minutes, but also keeping it from crying. What happened next was just bizarre. It fell asleep. As I gently rocked it, it's eyes grew heavy, and as much as it tried to fight it, those tiny eyes finally closed and I found myself with a baby, fast asleep in my arms. Ok it's a girl. Her name is Erin. She's adorable. For the next forty minutes, Erin and I cuddled on the sofa. It wasn't until William piped up that I snapped out of my weird, massively out of character, baby trance. 

"I dunno Beamish, this whole baby thing looks really good on you."

We need to leave. Now. 

Our next stop was to pick up Jack, William's five year old son. The boy has a face like an angel and the mouth of a trucker. Entertaining to say the least, anyway. We were picking him up from his mother's, who also happened to have a baby. A baby with a mohawk, which momentarily and pleasantly distracted me from the fact that every house I'd entered upon arriving to Wexford came inclusive with babies. Next stop was William's house. While driving along the uncomfortably narrow and windy roads, Will and Chris tried to point out significant places and buildings but my head was too busy trying to process the vast amount of procreation that had just been thrown at me. From the front of the car I could vaguely hear Chris's voice, "Later, we'll go see my friend Rob. He just had a baby."

I think I might be sick. 

William's house was beautiful. I tried to focus on the conversation regarding the price difference of rent in Wexford compared to London. I listened to Chris talk about how disgusting it is that we pay £880 per month for a bedroom in a flat. Then I almost cried when I heard William laugh and counter with the fact that they pay €600 for an entire three bedroom house, fully furnished. I was starting to come out of my baby cloud when William's girlfriend's sister called over. With her baby. Well, the baby was walking, so like maybe it was like a year or something. 

I suddenly felt a strong urge to run very far away. I can't really explain what happened, and if you were to ask me now I'd have to say I was acting completely erratic and utterly ridiculous, but I believe I had some kind of anxiety induced melt down. It was like I was witnessing my imminent future, resolved and eagerly awaiting my arrival. So naturally, I picked a huge fight with Chris that night and swore to never have sex again. I must admit, it wasn't my finest moment, nor did it win me girlfriend of the year. But by the next day I managed to calm my tits long enough to enjoy a pleasant visit with Chris's granddad, and the most delicious family lunch at the local bar, Mary Barry's. Yes. Things like to rhyme in Kilmore. I finished lunch feeling grand, relieved that I love Chris's family, and that my head was finally cleared of the dreaded baby haze. We stayed at Mary Barry's all night long, and well into morning as friends of Chris' filtered in and out. I remember some, I probably forget a lot more. The cider didn't aid in my memory. The next morning, I woke up to a sickening amount of selfies on my phone with girls I have absolutely no recollection of meeting. Chris giggled beside me. 

"How did I manage to take such friendly photos with girls I have absolutely no idea who they are?"

"…. Well that one's my old flame." 

….

"I hate you."

Despite my momentary desire to end my life out of pure fear of reproducing, and my alleged new found kindred friendship with my boyfriend's ex, my first trip to Wexford left me excited to return. So long as I stay sober enough to be conscious of prior flames, and double up on my birth control. 

The week we got home, I received an invite to a friend's baby shower. 

No.