I understand that three weeks is a rather long time...

Between essays, exams, no internet, and just general life, updating was not an option, I'm afraid.

So, let's fix that.

Yes, it will be a long one.

No pictures, though.

When I arrived back in Dublin on the ninth, it was a veritable winter wonderland. Five inches of snow is not a lot, but it is enough to make everything look clean and lovely and soft. Enough, as well, for snow ball fights, snow angels, snowmen, and attempts to turn the front of the house into a snow fort. Snow.

It was even cold enough for the canal to freeze solidly (in most places). We felt dangerous and cool walking across it. Well, until two of my lovelies decided the most badass thing to do would be to make snow angels on the canal. I've had enough experience with Little Women to know that fucking around on ice is a bad idea unless Christian Bale is around to save you. Everyone was fine, though.

While we were enjoying our midnight frolic, we noticed a small crowd had gathered by on the banks of the canal by the bridge. We went to check it out and discovered that people were trying to rescue a juvenile swan who was had been separated from the others and was now trapped in the ice. They managed to get it out and the poor animal was hypothermic. One of my housemates grabbed a bunch of towels and blankets from the house and we bundled her (we decided she was a girl) up and spoke with the people who had were on the scene before us about what to do. We wound up taking her in for the night because...The crowd pretty much left.

Thus began the problem of how five college students will keep a swan alive.

Now, I'm going to stop right here. This is not an entry to alert the world to how totally awesome we are and bitch about how the world is selfish and awful and aren't we the most morally-sound-sexy-awesome people ever.

We called every organization from the DSPCA, to the emergency veterinary clinics, to the Bird Rescue, to the Gardai. Everything was closed or unwilling to help.

Things we learned:

-animal emergencies don't happen after eight at night, especially on Sundays

-only pets are worth saving

-the police will laugh at you

We wound up using a duffle bag as a cradle to bring Alex, as we named her, to the UCD emergency veterinary hospital. For reasons which are not UCD's fault (blame The Man) we were not allowed to bring Alex further than the building's atrium. There she was given antibiotics and we were given advice on how to care for her. That was all they could do.

Shining light in this: The taxi driver (whose name we all wish we had gotten) who drove us in the unplowed, icy roads to UCD and back home, did so for free. Actually, the kindest man ever. He was as upset as we were and went far above and beyond what anyone could have expected.

We set Alex up in the spare room with food, water, hot water bottles, towels--anything we could. The folks at the veterinary hospital told us that the stress of being taken out of her environment and just the events of the night might cause her too much stress and kill her either way, so it was best if we mostly left her alone once she could support her head on her own. So, we did.

We stayed up until about five, taking turns checking on her now and again. Alex seemed to be doing better. Sadly, in the end, she didn't make it. We think that it was too great for her and she simply gave up.

After we all realized what had happened, we had to figure out what to do.

Other things we learned:

-Nothing is open on Sunday. Especially if there is snow.

-Vets and emergency animal services will do nothing if the deceased animal is not a pet.

-The Dublin City Council would normally help in these instances. Unfortunately, swans are a protected species and, thus, cannot be handled by the city's workers.

-The Gardai are lovely. 'Not to be rude, but what the hell can we do with a dead swan?'

Shining light, Version 2.0: Clontarf Animal Hospital. They were the only ones to answer their phone. We brought Alex to them and, well, that was all we could do.

What was the point of all this, then?

While it is not clear that Alex would have survived the night no matter what, she would have stood a much better chance were there not such a failing on society's end. We were less than pleased with the organizations we attempted to contact, particularly the DSPCA, who had only one person on call for emergencies and he was not a vet. This, however, is a matter of funding. I have no grand ideas that giving a fiver will save all of the animals in the world and cure us from apathy and destruction. But it can't hurt. So, give if you can.

DSPCA, or your own branch of animal welfare.

Less heavy topics next time, I promise.

Another long one. Less Stallone, more toy jellyfish.

I started packing to go back to college today, which seems like the act of a responsible young adult. Do not be fooled. This is as much of an exercise in procrastination as deep-conditioning my hair and helping my mom with the dishes were. Given, this comes at the end of a day I spent studying in Barnes & Noble because the library is closed on Sundays (yes, I am that sad), but that was for equal parts scholarly and creepy reasons...The Customer Service guy is cute, with his bad hair and lanyard.

Packing my bags, I got to thinking about how my choice of school has impacted my life.

I dreamed about attending my university since I was eleven because I was the dorky tween who fantasized about musty books and composition notebooks. Still am. When I received what I assumed was my 'Dear John' letter and turned out to be my place offer, I cried. My response was in the post as soon as I could stop hyperventilating long enough to find a pen and a stamp.

Of course, putting an ocean between you and everyone you love has its drawbacks, and distance isn't just a matter of space.

Last November, my aunt and uncle had their first child.

This kid.

She's adorable to the point of insanity. She's also my goddaughter.

The only problem with this is that her birth and baptism occurred while I was away at school. I didn't meet her until I went home for my Christmas break. Way to fail, Liz, way to fail.

Since I won't be around for most of her early years, I started a time-capsule of sorts. I made her a little bag and am constantly filling it with presents and letters to her so she knows that I'm always thinking of her, no matter where I am. Because I'm a mush.

The newest addition won't fit in the bag, but whatever. It's pictures of places where the other presents are from and a promise that we will go there together someday.

Doing this makes me genuinely happy.

I can't, however, do this for all of my lovelies. There are friends who, because of scheduling and life in general, I haven't seen in over a year. Even my best and closest friends, I've only seen three times during my time at home, and I have little to no idea what's happening in their lives. It sucks and I feel totally responsible for it, though I know that it's part of growing up and whatnot. I accept that, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.

All that said, I'm lucky to have so many amazing and supportive people counted among my friends and family.

In fact, I was recently reunited with an old friend.

This is Jorge.

This is Jorge with a moustache.

Jorge, being a good friend and a very studious jellyfish, helped me to study.

He even picked out his new favourite poem.

He would like to share it with you.

Sentimental Dangers

When out of work and fierce with self-pity

I'd walk until the fierceness left my feet

and I broke down. Then I'd start home,

where once I walked up to find my wife

pitching a stick across the parking lot

while an ugly dog sat and looked at her.

She'd found him near the office where she typed,

and fed him half her sandwich. He'd hung around

until she'd given in and brought him home.

But he loved me so much that when I went

to play with him, he'd roll onto his back

and piss until it splattered on his chest.

I'd sit outside all afternoon and talk

to him, to the hard knowledge in his face

that she'd leave me when I was well enough

to be left. I talked too much. She'd tell her friends,

He's out of work. He thinks he is that dog.

And she was right, I did. But we were poor,

living on frozen chicken pies and tea--

I knew I'd have to take him to the pound.

As I signed him away with my right hand

and wiped my left--which he would not stop licking--

against the unwashed leg of my blue jeans

I felt I was signing myself away.

An illusion, sure, but one that lasted months.

I thought of this today when I crossed the bridge

and the river smelled like a wet, unwanted dog.

-Andrew Hudgins

Good choice, Jorge.

Unrelated, but Flickr > Photobucket.

Why did I not know this until now?

Be forewarned--I went a little crazy with the screenshots

It is a fact that I have a penchant for bad movies. Not in the ironic way which allows people to get away with owning such classics as Newsies (an all-time favourite of mine) or She's All That (be honest!). I get enjoyment from taking my brain out and just allowing these take me away to a simpler state of mind and I won't apologize for it. There are few things in this world I enjoy more than rifling through the bargain bin at the supermarket for some trashy gem or another. After being given an iTunes giftcard for Christmas, I saw fit to rent a movie that I've been dying to experience. That movie was Sylvester Stallone's Paradise Alley, and I was in no way disappointed.

This movie combines some of my favourite things:

Men is suspenders,

hard liquor,

seedy nightclubs with shitty lighting,

fierce bitches,

this guy,

and bleak snapshots of humanity.

It's an underdog story about three brothers trying to escape Hell's Kitchen in 1946. Times is hard, they are different, people are cruel, some love stories, they succeed in the end. I know it's a tired story. I don't care. I also don't care about how 'stylized' it is. If I could shoot a movie, I'd want it all done in dark alleys, makeshift doctor's offices, and clubs named Sticky's, too. You keep doing your thang, Sly.

I spent most of the movie waiting for Cosmo to jump into the ring to save Victor and wondering why all of these men are so fucking sweaty.

If you say it's because they're in Hell's Kitchen--har har har-- I'm telling Frankie that you like like him.

Now, maybe it's just because the movie is surrounded by a fine haze of cigarette smoke and desperation, but I was quite in love with the ladies' clothes. The mid-Forties were a good time to be a destitute vixen.

These girls are only extras, but don't try and tell me you wouldn't pay a quarter for a dance with them.

Then there's Bunchie. Great shoes and a sick hat, but she only gets two shots because she's a whore. No, really. She'd do you for a Klondike bar.

That brings us to the leading lady and object of desire of the two eldest Carboni brothers, Annie. Why? Because she's a babe and does art or some shit.

Her dress here has convinced me that Rodarte's dress for Target may be just what every gal needs to stomp on the heart of her lover when he becomes an asshole who exploits his brother.

Hey, you never know.

It's not just the ladies. I, personally, think Stallone makes an adorable drunk Santa.

Just don't laugh at him. He's sensitive.

Oh fuck. You made fun of him, didn't you? Now he's gone and crashed his car into the bar.

Who's going to clean that up?

Maybe this guy.

Uhhhh...Now it's time for wa-hey-hey-heyyyyy too many shots of Mr. Waits.

For anyone who's not entirely sold on this masterpiece, we'll finish with Stallone yelling at a monkey.

Fair?

2010

Happy New Year, guys and dolls!

Here's hoping this decade isn't the one that does us all in. :]

Love,

Liz