The Gormleys Are Vicious!

I know they look like a sweet pair of 86-year olds in Ireland. That's their cover.

When I was a helpless 2-year old in Ireland, I attempted to escape the insanity that is my family. In the cover of night, in my jammies, I surrepticiously walked 2 doors down to the Gormleys house.

I quietly knocked on the door just as they were headed to bed. They let me in. I was saved.

My grandmother discovered that I was missing and headed to the first place she thought I would go - the Gormleys. (Damn, I knew I should have hidden in the bushes!) She attempted to retrieve me from my safe haven, but I refused to go with her. Even at 2, I had a keen sense of self-preservation. Defeated, my grandmother went home alone.

Yippee! I had a new family :) !

For the next few days, my grandmother came back to abduct me. But, I wasn't born yesterday. I was born 724 days earlier. So, just like Anne Frank, I hid in the attic. (I hadn't read that book yet, but great minds think alike.)

Eventually, the Gormleys made me go back with my grandmother. I'm pretty sure there had to have been a threat of violence. My grandparents were well-known in Ireland for their involvement with the IRA.

Still, the Gormleys abandoned me. I never saw them again - until last month.

I had been waiting for 43 years to tell them how much they screwed up my life by making me go back. But I couldn't do it.

They had to be the sweetest old couple that I've ever met. They gave us tea and "Digestives" (which are fabulous cookies with chocolate on one side). So I forgave them.

I mean chocolate - who could ask for more!

Why I Hate Vegetables

Very few people know how to make a proper vegetable tray. Many have tried - but most fail.

Seriously!

I know what you're thinking. How hard is it to throw some veggies on a plate with some ranch dressing? Or for the less motivated, grab a plastic tray at the grocery store.

That's where you would be wrong.

After my father died, my mother tried to start a catering business. My sisters and I were required to help. We each found our particular niche. Charmaine is artistic, so she was able to carve apples and other food items into things like swans and people.

I'm not sure what Erin did. I think she just walked around with trays of hor's doevres looking pretty.

For some reason, I had a HUGE problem with serving people (It could be that "false pride" Charmaine keeps saying I am cursed with). But that's neither here nor there.

I discovered that my particular talent was repeatedly plunging my hands into ice cold water until my hands were blue in order to grab elegantly carved crudites that had spent the night in ice water and then placing them in an aesthetically-pleasing (some might say anal) fashion on a tray covered with leaf lettuce and then completed by clumps of parsley separating each type of vegetable. My veggie tray is a beautiful thing. Seriously. I sooo wish I had a picture!

You might think that the tray pictured above is a nice veggie tray. You would be wrong. Look at the carrots and celery - they're not even stacked straight with the same side down. There is no reason why one should be able to see the stalks of broccoli. Each flower should be placed in such a way as to hide the stalks of the previously placed flowers. I'm too distressed to even address the problems with the cucumbers!

The problem now is that I cannot look at a vegetable tray without mourning the beauty that it could be. And, God forbid, I am MAKING a veggie tray. The process of cutting the veggies in such a manner that they will flair in a particular manner following a period of time submerged in ice water, followed by the meticulous placement of each carrot and broccoli flowerand others, followed by parsley separating each type of veggie, around the outside of the tray, and between the veggies and the dip, takes AT LEAST three hours which consist entirely of me screaming profanities at the fricking radishes that didn't turn into roses.

I know that sounds insane to most of you. (It actually sounds insane to me, too.) My husband picks up on my stress (God knows how), and asks why I can't just put veggies on a fricking tray like a normal person. (You would think he would know by now that I am not normal).

I keep doing this, even when mere mortals have no idea the time and effort required to produce such a thing of beauty, and, therefore, do not lavish me with appropriate compliments. I understand. They haven't done it. But at the end of the night, if the veggie tray remains mostly intact, I have been known to slip into clinical depression.

I'm not a perfectionist. In fact, I put very little effort into cooking (as my husband would attest). But a veggie tray? That's when the gloves come off.

Grocery produce guy - be afraid! I have a party coming up.

A New Generation of the IRA

You may have thought that the fighting between the IRA and the Brits was over. I'm here to tell you, Ireland is growing a whole new set of terrorists.

Look at these rebels. I was just walking down the street in Tralee, (during the Rose of Tralee Festival), when I was accosted by these heavily-armed rebels demanding euros in exchange for a picture.

But I knew how to handle these terrorists. Afterall, my grandfather was in the IRA. So I outsmarted them. I enticed them with quarters, which they accepted under the naive belief that American money is worth more than euros.

It was about then that their leader (ok, their mother) came out of a store and summoned them to their tank (umm, her car).

As they say, "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter."

Are You Feckin' Gorgeous?

I ask this, because, according to the men in Ireland, I am.

Ok, so it's just Irish men over age 70.

Well, I guess it was just ONE man over 70.

Ok, so he was drunk, in a dark pub, and he had one eye, but still, he said I was "feckin' gorgeous" and that's good enough for me!

No, it wasn't this guy! Jeez!

I have heard it suggested that the Irish spend a little too much time in the pubs.

I don't know what they are talking about!

Two Messed Up Moms

The other day, Skeletor, a.k.a., my mother, made one of her daily surprise visits to my house. From my living room, I can see her drive around the corner. Typically I jump up, grab my keys and run out the door muttering that I was just running out to go to (insert fictitious location here).


But I wasn't dressed yet, so I knew that I would have to suck it up and stay there. (From now on I am going to sleep in jeans and a t-shirt to make sure I am always ready)!


When my mother walks in the door, all conversation, activity, tv show, meals, etc. must immediately stop so that we can pay full attention to whatever she has to say.


Her favorite topics are as follows:


1. "My dog wouldn't poop this morning. Or my dog went right
out and pooped."

2. "Do you think it's going to be hot/cold/rain/snow?
Or alternatively, "Weathermen lie."

3. "Dan, check the oil in my car" (which he just checked a week ago).

4. "I am getting so fat. I weigh 110 lbs. How much do you weigh, Briana?

5. "Have you talked to Charmaine? She never calls me. Is she looking
for a job?"

The rest of her statements comprise of a plethora of veiled (or unveiled) insults and attempts to invoke guilt that I have ruined her life or that she is going to die soon.


On this particular occasion, Gunnar was sitting across the table from me. In the middle of one of her diatribes, he looked at me and very seriously said, "Mom, I am so sorry that you had to endure this as a child. I understand why you are so messed up."


I'm not kidding. He really said that.



I burst out laughing. Gunnar was laughing. Skeletor can't hear anything other than herself so she had no clue. It was funny. And sad. But mostly funny!


This is Gunnar playing his guitar at Red Rocks Ampitheater. He's going to be famous one day. Trust me!


http://mythreesons-briana.blogspot.com/2008/12/my-son-rock-star.html

My French Connection

Aidan came home from school one day with a brochure about a foreign exchange program, whereby teens from France come stay with a host family in America for 3 weeks. The object of the program is to help the kids practice English and also to show them the "real America" not seen on TV.

I already have 3 boys, 4 if you count the 7-year old from across the street who practically lives here. What's one more?

So I said, "where do we sign?"

Two months later, we were at the airport picking up Etienne - a 14-year old from outside of Lyon.

He was shy and my boys were a little shy. The first thing they did was play fooseball. Aidan was on one side and Etienne teamed up with Gunnar. He very quickly determined that his fooseball skills were greater than theirs, so I heard him ask in his heavily-accented voice, "I play against you two?" I had to chuckle.

My husband apparently felt that the louder he spoke to Etienne, the more likely he would understand him, while Brit, the 7-year old neighbor, spoke to Etienne like he should understand everything he was saying.

The next day, they all went to the park to play football (American football which French people don't do). Upon their return, Gunnar said, "He schooled us!" And so it went, Etienne played Aidan's bass guitar, piano, video games, etc.

My kids soon discovered that Etienne was just like them - just from another country.

We took him to a Rockies game where Brody got one of the players to throw him a baseball. Etienne was thrilled when Brody gave the ball to him. We went to a water park, an outdoor concert in the mountains, golfing (which was funny since no one knew how to golf), bowling, a drag racing track. My husband's co-worker has a dragster so he let Etienne sit in it.

His first specific request was to go to Abercrombie & Fitch. There Brody discovered a fondness for expensive clothes. He bought a shirt which was on sale for $28 with his own money, which he wore continuously for the next 3 days.

We introduced him to the American tradition of eating plates and plates of nachos for lunch and watching tv.

The two requests he made were to eat at Burger King, and to buy peanut butter to bring home to his mum.

Speaking of gifts, he brought us all gifts from France. Most importantly, a bottle of Chanel #5 for me and a small vial of Prada perfume. The Prada is FABULOUS! I have now forced at least 10 people to smell my arm.

Anyway, it turned out to be a great experience for my family and for Etienne. As we left the airport, Brody said that he already missed Etienne and could we go to France to see him.

Etienne invited us to visit him in France. (He has a grandmother that lives on the French Riviera, so I'm thinking that's a pretty good idea!)

My Sister's Knees

Ever since I was a child, I wanted to be just like my big sister. She was much better pianist than me. A much better ballerina. A much better artist. A much better gymnast. Much more sociable and funny.

Not much has changed about any of that; however, I have one more characteristic to add - flair for drama.

For example, her latest escapade entailed a dramatic "rescue" from a rock by a helicopter, boat and hunky lifeguard. The medical trauma which resulted was a few bruises on her knees. (For photos and a complete story, see her blog).

I hurt my knees, too!

I was taking a walk around my neighborhood to get a little exercise. As I attempted to cross the street, I stepped on the curb, which slopes to the street - not straight up and down like a normal curb.

My foot slipped resulting, not only in my diet pepsi becoming airborne and landing several feet in front of me, but me crashing to the pavement.

My first thought was that I was going to break my arm since I am getting old and my bones aren't as strong as they used to be. My second thought was that my afore-mentioned weak arms wouldn't be strong enough to prevent my face from crashing into the pavement (which, given my vanity, would have been worse).

Luckily, neither happened.

Instead, just like my big sister, I bruised my knees. And if you ask me, they're a lot worse than Charmaine's knees. But I don't have the fabulous story she has. I just went for a walk.

It's so unfair!