When the Giraffe and I were at dinner the other night, one of the servers said hi to him by name. He said hi back, sans name. He recognized her and easily figured out where he knew her from, but he had no idea what her name was. He explained to me that this happens to him a lot—people remember him and his name easily while he struggles to remember them or theirs. I suggested that it’s because he’s notably tall and has a really common name, so he’s easy to remember. Why does he struggle to remember other people though? Well that’s just because he’s a jerk I guess.*

I, however, have precisely the opposite problem. I tend to remember everyone, yet I’m completely forgettable. It can actually be really embarrassing. This scenario happens all too often:

Person I Know: Sam, have you met my friend Shannon?
Sam: No I haven’t. Nice to meet you Shannon.
Shannon: Actually, we met before at…

Or this:

Person I Know: Sam, have you met my friend Shannon?
Sam: No I haven’t. Nice to meet you Shannon.
Shannon (knowing full well we’ve met before): Nice to meet you too.

I never know which is better. Lie and pretend like I’ve never seen this person before in my life. Or be honest and put them on the spot. Like, dude, you have met me before you idiot. Thanks for remembering. I can see what an impact our meeting had on you. Asshole.

If I do go with the call-them-out option, I end up feeling stalkerish. Why do I remember all the details of our prior meeting when clearly they have no recollection of it? I find myself choosing to play dumb just to avoid sounding like our casual introduction two years ago had some profound affect on me. Yes we met. And not only do I remember your name, but I remember what you were wearing that day. And what you smelled like. And how you wore your hair. And I haven’t stopped thinking about you since. Creepy!

(I don’t really remember all those details in case you’re starting to think I’m a savant or something.)

I know this happens to a lot of people. It’s not just me I’m sure. So which approach do you choose?

*He’s not.

Recently I got an obnoxious haircut. I went to the same person and asked for the same cut I always get, but something went wrong, and I’ve been trying to salvage it ever since. Which is no good because I have no idea what I’m doing and the Giraffe keeps randomly finding me in the bathroom hacking away at my hair. Nothing drastic, but I may be making the situation worse instead of better. Actually I had him help me once, and despite his apprehension, he did a better job than me.*

But my bad haircut is not the point. That’s just a complainy sidenote. After sharing my discovery of Redken Body Full shampoo and conditioner, several of you asked to see the effect it has had on my hair. First, let’s remember what the problem was:

Flat. Staticky. Volumeless. Lifeless.

Now let’s look at my hair since Redken:

Much better right?

And while we’re talking about hair, I thought I’d also show you why my flat iron is my best friend.

Before and After the flat iron. Granted, the first is after blow drying with little effort to make it straight. But even when I try, it comes out as a big fro. Imagine trying to tame that beast for two weeks in Ireland with no functioning flat iron. Yeah.

*Before you lecture me, yes I know I should just go back and ask her to fix it. But have I mentioned that I’m lazy?

I was sitting at home alone. The Giraffe was at work. Sometimes at his job he has to work until 11pm or later, and this was one of those nights. So I’m sitting at the computer, home alone, working away on a paper. And there’s a knock at the door.

I completely froze. We had only been in the apartment for a few weeks, but nobody has ever knocked at the door before. Who would possibly be visiting at 9pm? My first thought was the downstairs neighbor, a single guy in his 50s who seems nice enough, but oh my god what if he knows I’m home alone and he’s going to assault me?

Or it could be anyone. Some stranger who watched me come home earlier that evening and plans to murder me. Who else would possibly be knocking at the door but a murderer?

I thought about not answering it. Just pretending I’m not home. But then I found myself walking over to the door to check the peephole. I could definitely see a figure out there, but the peep hole is cloudy and distorted so I can’t see who it is. Just a figure. So I leaned the weight of my body against the door, thinking I could slam it shut if I needed to, and I slowly opened it a crack, peeking one eye through the slit.

It was the Giraffe. With a rose.

“Oh my god don’t ever scare me like again! I thought you were a murderer!”

He had gotten out early, and instead of texting me like he usually does, he thought he’d surprise me. Which is so so so sweet. Him, with the rose, at the door. So sweet. And I totally ruined the moment because I thought he was going to kill me. My paranoia is sucking the life out of his romance.

Something similar happened once before with a former boyfriend. Remember? Apparently I need my boyfriends to come home with fanfare and fireworks and grand announcements about their impending arrivals. Otherwise? For sure it’s a murderer.

PS - The Giraffe just got a new job that will not require him to be gone in the evenings. And I now get him on the weekends too! In his line of work, I thought that would never happen so I’m feeling pretty darn blessed right now.

When I moved recently, I unearthed a bunch of necklaces I forgot I owned. They were all tangled together in a little box, which is probably why I never wore them. Detangling = too  much work.

But once I got them all sorted out, I decided I wanted a cool way to display them. For once, etsy failed me, so I had to look elsewhere. In my mind I had this vision of a metal necklace tree, but I couldn’t find what I wanted anywhere.

Until one day I stumbled onto Urban Outfitters‘ site and randomly did a search for “necklace tree” or “jewelry rack” or something, and bam! Found exactly what I was looking for:

I think it looks even cooler in real life. Only problem is my necklace collection keeps growing and I’m running out of branches. This tree also comes in silver. You know you want one.

(No, UO is not paying me to talk up their stuff. I wish. Hey, Urban Outfitters? You interested?)

Ever since the big fat digital switch earlier this month, I have been essentially TV-less. And it’s really getting old. I need help, and I’m hoping you can give me some. I beg of you dear reader, if you know anything about this whole digital TV thing, please read on and offer me advice. I can’t take this much longer.

Here’s a little background info:

- we didn’t buy cable when we moved into our new apartment
- we still got the local NBC affiliate clearly, the CBS affiliate fuzzily, and a few public-access channels by plugging into the “antenna” port in our wall
- we have a Dynex flat panel TV, bought new in 2007

From everything I’ve read, chances are good that any TV manufactured in the last five years has an internal digital tuner. And therefore, we should be all set with getting any free channels. You’re great! You’re fine! Nothing to worry about! Just wait for the switch and enjoy your television as usual. Only now in digital!

Except there isn’t on mother effing thing out there that tells me what to do if in fact our TV isn’t okay! It all assures me we’ll be all set, but fails to tell me what happens if we’re not all set. Which we’re not.

So here are the things we’ve tried so far:

- ran channel search
- ran channel search again and cross fingers
- ran channel search again and cross fingers and toes
- ran channel search again and cross fingers and toes while standing on head
- plugged cable cord into cable outlet
- plugged cable cord back into antenna outlet
- changed option in some menu (?) from “air” to “cable” and back again
- stared at fuzzy screen and pleaded

For about a day we got a very fuzzy screen on the local CBS channel with the station logo and nothing else. For hours. And then it disappeared. It gave us hope and then quickly fizzled.

I mentioned all this to my grandpa who happened to have an extra converter box that he gave us. Finally, we’re saved! TV at last! we thought. The events of that evening went approximately like this:

- hooked up converter box from wall (antenna port) to VCR to TV
- followed set-up instructions
- ran channel search, held breath
- screamed when no channels were found
- ran channel search again
- screamed again
- hooked up converter box from wall directly to TV
- channel search
- scream
- channel search
- scream
- etc.
- I took a shower and when I got out, the Giraffe had managed to get three public access channels for us. So now we can watch “The Joy of Painting” and amateur cooking shows.
- tested signal strength on NBC, ABC, CBS affiliates
- signal strength = zero for all three
- yelled at converter box, TV and both remotes
- gave up
- watched a movie because the DVD player is the only thing that works

We really only got one channel before, but it was enough to allow me to watch the news with my breakfast and for us to watch The Office and 30 Rock in the fall. Now I eat breakfast in silence. And we better have this figured out by fall or I’ll break someone.

We tried to look at the website the government created for old people who are easily confused by technical things like digital TV. But it was too confusing. I can’t find an answer anywhere, and we’re out of ideas.

Please. Please with all my heart. Won’t you help us?

I’m going to consider this post neither a rant nor a rave, but rather an act of public service. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you’re about to order something from a website called Light in the Box… STOP! Stop, and do yourself a favor by ordering a size (or two) larger than you’re thinking about ordering. Do NOT trust their sizing charts is all I’m saying.

My sister found some decently priced dresses on Light in the Box that she wanted us to wear in her wedding. The shipping costs were cringe-worthy because the dresses were coming straight from the manufacturer overseas, but it was still significantly less than most brides ask their bridesmaids to spend.

We all spent a good deal of time toiling over what size to order. Of course we were all sort of in between sizes, so it was a question of order big and get them taken in or order the size closest to your measurements and hope it’s accurate. We hoped it was accurate. But we didn’t want to pay for major alterations either, so it felt like a good decision. Besides, what can you do but trust that the manufacturer will make the dresses according to their own damn size chart? The one they PUBLICIZE on their site!

Here are my measurements:
Bust: 36
Waist: 28
Hips: 38

Based on this chart, what would you order?

That chart is pulled directly from the Light in the Box website. I went with a US size 10. I swear what I got was a size 6. Everything about it is too small, and I’m not the only one. Everyone’s dress is about three inches smaller in the waist than advertised. The hips and bust are slightly better, but still small. I considered that perhaps we actually received UK sizes, in which case a 10 is actually a US 6. But I checked and when ordering, the website says “Size: US please.” So no.

With much tugging and grunting, we all managed to squeeze into the dresses when we tried them on, but I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t move, and it was it was definitely not a size 10.

The dresses were well-made, so I’m not criticizing that aspect. Other than the color being a little off from what the website showed, the dresses are of a quality well worth the amount we paid. Except, of course, for the fact that we can’t breathe with them on. My sister emailed our contact at Light in the Box and asked what we could do, explaining that the sizes we received do not correspond with the size chart. This was the reply:

“we are really sorry to know the dress does not fit you, but you know that we had your dress made from scratch with your request about color and size, so we are unable to accept the return. however, we would like to remake a new one for you with free shipping, you just need to pay us the price of the dress.”

Only, no you actually DIDN’T make the dress with our request about size! Maybe you think you made a size 10, but you didn’t make the size 10 that your chart promised me. In my book, that’s your fault, not mine. And no, we don’t want to buy new dresses even if the shipping is free. So we’re going to the tailor and praying for a miracle.

I’m certainly not endorsing this company, but I’m also not telling you not to shop there. I’m just saying, if you do decide to buy a dress from Light in the Box, don’t believe what you see in the size chart provided. Lies, it’s all lies.

This was a pretty good one for me though. Friday night we had a shower for my sister, the one getting married in August. Then we had a mini Father’s Day celebration with dad since we wouldn’t be seeing him Sunday. We gave him this print:

From Geninne’s Etsy shop. My dad has cut wood for as long as I can remember, and because his house has a wood stove, his backyard seconds as a lumberyard. He has a whole system for stacking the wood, and he spends the whole year chopping and stacking and stocking up for winter. I’ve swung an ax a time or two, but my dad is a true woodsman. The smell of fresh cut wood and the warmth of a wood stove in the dead of winter will always remind me of Dad. So you can see why this print was so appropriate. He loved it.

Saturday the Giraffe didn’t have to work - a miracle - so we went to the farmers market in the morning. It was supposed to be all fun and stuff, but this particular farmers market is one long, narrow row with booths on both sides. It’s very crowded and hot, and for someone who is claustrophobic, hates crowds and hates to sweat, it was not a good time. We bought a giant cantaloupe and a seasoned pizza crust and got the hell out of there. The pizza crust made a great base for our lunch though, and the melon was perfect for breakfast on Sunday (and a snack today).

After lunch we drove out to Lake Michigan to visit my sister Kelli and her boyfriend. It was a perfect summer day, so we went to the beach. Unfortunately the air was too hot and humid, but the lake was too cold for swimming, so we only stayed a short time. We grabbed dinner with them and headed home.

On Sunday, the Giraffe helped his dad move, so I tried to be productive. I did some stuff on the computer and worked on a craft project I’ve been meaning to get to. When the Giraffe got home we continued to be productive by grocery shopping and organizing our desk.

His Sharpies now reside in the same container as my Sharpies. You can see how serious this is getting.

I picked up a pizza on the way home from work, and we ate it on the couch while watching an episode of Gilmore Girls. We took our flattened cardboard and empty milk jugs to the recycling center, then he dropped me off for my hair appointment and went to get his own cut. He picked me up, and we cuddled on the couch, discussing important things. The cat curled up on my lap. Then we cuddled in bed and finished talking until we couldn’t stay awake.

Roommates. Live-in boyfriend/girlfriend. Living in sin (to some). Taking the next step.

The Giraffe and I moved into a new apartment together soon after I returned from Ireland. We had discussed it several times before I left, then on a whim we looked at a place two days before my trip. And put down a deposit. We decided we’d think it over and if we changed our minds, we’d only be out that money.

We didn’t change our minds, and four weeks ago we rented a truck, packed up all our stuff, recruited some help and dove into the next phase of our relationship. Together we unpacked, assembled, arranged, hung and adjusted our belongings - his lamp on my end table, my books on his bookcase, my pots next to his pans, his pillow in my bed. And his cat, Oberon, in my lap (I think I’m accidentally falling for this feline).

If you remember, or check the archives, the Giraffe and I met on Match in November, and our first date was December 11. We were living together (quite happily I might add) before we had even known each other six months. But when things are right, they’re just right, right?

Here’s my next high school treasure. This is actually something my friend Erica found in her boxes of junk, and because she felt guilty throwing it away, I promised her I’d post it here so we’d always have it. And so you can see more of my mad rhyming skills.

In high school Erica and I would often make silly little gifts for each other. I remember one time I was sick and she brought me a care package full of fun and goofy things. But one of the best gifts I gave her was for her 16th birthday. We had gone through driver’s ed together, and even though she was turning 16 five months after me, she had a car and I didn’t. So this birthday was a big deal for both of us. In honor of that, I wrote a little poem/song type thing, made it colorful and put it in a frame. And proving that it’s the thought that counts (and not the big expensive gifts), she absolutely loved it.

This is a picture she took before letting it go, though you can’t see that it’s framed, and you can’t really read it anymore because it has faded over time.

And here is how it reads:

So I see that it’s your birthday!
A special one at that!

Hey wow! You’re finally sixteen,
And that’s extremely phat!

You’ll now get your own car
And you’ll finally have a license!

Come on girl! Get off your butt!
Um, nothing rhymes with license!

Drive to my house and pick me up!
We’ll cruise around all day!

We’re free! We’re free! And both 16!
So steer that care my way!

Won’t hafta worry ’bout
A freakish parent’s frown.

And never hear through megaphones
Hey red car slow down!

You’ve learned to watch for ‘hidden’ poles!
And mastered how to merge!

Parking lots are easy as pie!
More speed though I must urge!

Stop reading this! Let’s go! Let’s go!
I’m still at home, bored!

When 16, you have a privilege!
Which cannot be ignored.

Unless of course, you have no car.
In my case, this is true!

But you’re 16, and have your own!
I’ll hitch a ride with you!

Clearly there are lots of inside jokes going on, but I think my rhyming skills had improved since I was 14 and wrote about my weeded heart. But again with the excessive exclamation points everywhere. Ugh!!!!!

One time Erica made me a totally kick-ass calendar of Nick Stahl (see my high school “Screw List”) that I held on to forever. I had to throw it away recently, but I did get pictures, which I’ll have to share with you later since Ireland photos burned me out and I haven’t uploaded any since.

(This is my last embarrassing artifact from high school until I go back to my dad’s for more.)

Here’s another treasure I found in my boxes of high school ‘keepsakes.’ It’s a poem I wrote, dated 10-5-1995. I was two months shy of 15 then, a freshman. Let me preface this by saying that I never wrote poetry, so it’s not like I thought this was any good even then. But I did struggle with some minor depression issues (though I didn’t know that’s what it was), and I was clearly feeling lonely and empty and unloved when I wrote it.

I am no longer lonely, empty or feeling unloved, so we can all have a good laugh at my terrible, awful, horrible attempt at poetry. I mean rhyming? Really?

To Anyone Who Cares:

I hate being hated,
but I love being loved!
Yet my feelings always seem to
be pushed, tugged and shoved!

I want to be wanted,
and I need to be needed!
But my heart always seems to
be pulled at and weeded!

I wish to be wished for,
I hope to be hoped!
Yet I keep hearing things like,
‘no way’ and ‘nope!’

If had a choice,
of what I could be,
I know that I wouldn’t,
I wouldn’t choose me.

-Shannon [Last Name]-
10-5-95

My heart is being weeded? What exactly does that mean? Oh it rhymes with needed, I get it. And what’s with all the exclamation points? Am I yelling this poem?

That last stanza makes me a little sad for my 14-year old self because I so remember wishing I could be anybody but who I was. Since then, however, I’ve learned how lucky I am to be me, and I’ve learned to own who I am. Thank god, because nobody wants me writing such ridiculous poetry anymore. Can I get a wha wha?

I’ve been digging through some boxes in my dad’s basement and finding some stuff from my high school years. I’ve found journals, photo albums, notes from friends. The usual. And I plan on sharing excerpts from all of these things eventually because who doesn’t like to embarrass themselves that way?

For now though, I couldn’t take all of that stuff home because I have no room for it. But I did grab a few small things I thought I’d memorialize here before throwing them away. The first is my high school “Screw List.” It’s not dated, but based on some context clues, I’m guessing I created this around sophomore year, well before I was “screwing” anyone. Ah, high school.

Shannon’s Screw List*:

1. Drew (a classmate I crushed on for a few years, and who I was totally over by the time we were paired to walk and dance together for senior year homecoming court)
2. Jeremy M. (I think this was a friend of a friend of a friend that I met like twice)
3. J. Crew guy (some guy from a J. Crew ad I’m assuming)
4. Brad Pitt (still true)
5. Chad Ell1$ (who?)
6. Dan F1nkbe1ner (this was totally my friend’s lifelong crush, but apparently I found him screw-able too)
7. Joe V@nK@lker (kid I went to elementary school with - he moved away before middle school, so why in the world did I think I still wanted to get physical with him?)
8. Jason Scott Lee (for real?)
9. Matthew Lawrence (come on, he was hot!)
10. Johnny Whitworth (AJ from Empire Records… drool)
11. Zia Sh00k (this is a looooong story, but basically he was a friend and we had a mutual crush that never materialized)
12. Gay Waiter Scott (a gay guy from a restaurant we visited during our school trip to Toronto)
13. Puff Daddy (aw yeah, give me some Diddy)
14. Leo (nardo DiCaprio of course)
15. Nick Stahl (he never made it big as an actor, but I sure had his picture hanging in my locker)
16. Aladdin (Whu-hut? I was sick.)
17. Tiger (Woods. You may have heard of him. On this hand-written list, I had an arrow pointing from his name to just below 14. I guess he got upgraded.)
18. Prince William (I used to think I’d be a princess, then a queen, someday. Kate Middleton is one lucky gal.)

*Some names have been disguised so as to avoid these people googling themselves and ending up here reading about I used to want to get with them.

Out of nowhere…

Shannon: Have you ever seen a horse pen1s?
Giraffe: Um. No.
S: They’re so weird. We had horses when I was younger, and their pen1ses freaked me out. I mean you can see that little hair-covered bulge they have all the time, right? But then they’re just standing there and suddenly the actual pen1s comes snaking out, and it’s all pink and shiny and stuff. And so huge!
G: I can’t believe you just described a horse pen1s to me.
S: Yeah why did I feel the need to do that?

(I decided I better disguise that phrase so I don’t attract a bunch of weird horse fetish people. If you’re a visiting weird horse fetish person… Hi! And sorry to disappoint, I have no pictures.)

Also see Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, Day 7, Day 8, Day 9, Day 10, Day 11, Day 12, Day 13

Day 14: Shannon to home
We woke early in Shannon to head home. It was going to be a loooong day of travel, and we were not too thrilled. We figured out that on Michigan time, we’d be traveling from 2am to 10pm. Ugh. First, we ran into Ray the Driver in the airport, which is so weird. He’s based in Galway, what was he doing in Shannon? But he had played such an integral part in our trip, it seemed fitting.

Once we checked in, we stopped in the duty-free shop where we thought we’d have time to peruse for awhile. But after only a few minutes we heard our flight being called (an hour early!) and suddenly we were rushing like crazy people. We flew through duty-free, went through about 12 different check points and finally got on the plane. The flight was nice because we had screens on the back of the seats with a variety of movies, tv shows, games, etc. I watched a couple movies and some episodes of 30 Rock and boom, we were in Newark. We had a layover there, then flew to Cleveland where we had a several-hour long layover. It sucked because we were SO CLOSE to home and there we sat for hours. We discussed how it would be faster to rent a van and drive, but we didn’t follow through. Eventually we got home, about 10pm, and I was so happy to see my Giraffe. It was an incredible trip that I was thankful to have been able to go on, but one the best parts of traveling is coming home right?

People keep asking what my favorite part was, and I have no answer. There was no one thing that stuck out as my absolute favorite. I really did love it all. I also get asked a lot if I’d go back, and yes I would. But first there are about seven billion other places I want to visit, so Ireland might have to wait.

Now to the souvenirs. I bought a little something for all my siblings, all my parents (steps included), my grandparents and my niece and nephew. The Giraffe got several little gifts, and of course I spoiled myself.

The ring is turquoise, my birthstone. The necklace is Connemara Marble from the Connemara region. The chocolate is oh so delicious - you wish you could have some. You’ve already seen the other necklaces and salt & pepper shakers. And the print is something that really caught my eye. I matted and framed it, and I’m just deciding where to hang it.

I also bought myself a scarf and two headbands (these mostly to tame the fro) and a Balek vase. The postcards were meant for sending home, but I never got around to it, so I’m keeping them. That one of Jesus was handed to me by a random stranger at the Galway Cathedral. And the sweatshirt…I had to get a green Ireland hoodie, obviously.

I probably spent more than I should have, but we also were given a lot of spending money out the program fee we had paid, so a lot of it was money I had already spent and didn’t think I’d miss. And now every time I put on my hoodie (which I’m wearing as I write this) or look at my vase or my shakers or wear my new jewelry, I’m reminded of Ireland. And that is worth a few euros.

Also see Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, Day 7, Day 8, Day 9, Day 10, Day 11, Day 12

Day 13: Inisheer, Aran Islands
When we woke up, the professor told us that one of the Aran Islands tour companies had canceled boats again due to the water conditions. The other did not. Did we want to go? Heck yes we did. This was our last chance to see one of the islands, and how bad could the ferry ride really be?

Turns out, pretty effing bad.

The advertising touted a 20-minute boat ride to Inisheer, the closest island and the one we were planning to visit. I had been struggling with motion sickness the whole trip, but I figured twenty minutes, I can do that. So we got on the boat, the Happy Hooker, and 45 minutes later we made it to the island. FORTY FIVE MINUTES! That is not twenty. I, and everyone else, felt every single one of those minutes too.

The water doesn’t look so bad here, but don’t be fooled. It was an angry beast.

Before I got on board someone had suggested focusing on one spot, and that’s what I did. I burned a hole into the side of that boat with all my staring. I felt sick for sure, but I didn’t vomit. I felt shaky and weak and at one point I lost all feeling in my hands and couldn’t uncurl my fists, but I didn’t vomit. Several others did. It was a regular barf fest on board, and it was the longest forty five minutes in the world. By the time we got off, we were all truly scarred. We couldn’t even enjoy our time on the island because we were in so much dread of the return trip.

Inisheer was pretty bleak, there wasn’t a whole lot going on, and we couldn’t figure out where to go. We just wanted to sit and not be disturbed until our tummies recovered. Eventually we stumbled upon a stray dog, who we named Seamus. He became our guide and led us to a little tea shop.

We sat for a long time sipping on tea and discussing options for avoiding the impending return boat ride: swim back to the mainland, marry locals and live on the island, fake an injury and call for a rescue chopper, invent teleportation. When we exhausted our options, we walked out to the rocks and laid in the sun. Part of the coast of the island was nothing but a puzzle of giant boulders that made a lovely place for a rest:

Then we went to the beach and walked around there for awhile.

We decided we were hungry, mostly because a few people had lost their breakfast on the boat, but we were all a little nervous to eat because that practically invites barfing when you’re about to board the boat of doom. But we walked to a pub anyway and gave it a shot. Then it was time to go wait for the ferry. But first, this lovely shot of an old Irish couple. They’ve probably lived on that island their whole lives:

We all sat on the dock and tried to prepare ourselves mentally. I know I sound dramatic, but we were all really not looking forward to another 45 minutes of the barf fest. When the boat got there, we armed ourselves with barf bags, settled in and begged for mercy.

I found my spot on the wall and commenced staring. And it worked! No barfing. And no numb hands either, though I did feel pretty weak and awful the whole time, plus about 30 minutes post boat ride. When we got off at the dock, there was a line of people waiting to go to the island. I just looked at them and shook my head. I think they got the message.

We went back to the hostel, grabbed something to eat, then took a van to the Shannon Airport hotel. It was so much fun to see my name everywhere, and I never tired of taking pictures of the Shannon Airport and the Shannon Room and the Shannon College of Hotel Management, etc.

We checked into our rooms and totally decompressed. It had been a long two weeks and we were exhausted. We had dessert in the hotel restaurant, packed up all our stuff, then chilled out in front of the TV.

To answer a question asked by many: yes, I loved the bag I ended up buying for this trip. You can see it in use here (sort of… it was usually slung behind me like that):

You can also see what some of the other girls used. Mine was a bit larger than theirs, but it met my needs. It was comfortable but spacious. I was able to carry everything I needed and never had to dig for any of it because there so many pockets and dividers. I also brought along a backpack that I used as a carry-on and during a couple day trips when we were traveling between hostels and might not see our luggage for awhile. I also brought a smaller cloth purse…

…that I used for going to the pub at night, and also for little outings when we were in a bus all day. I’d put the small purse inside the orange bag, and when we got out at a stop, like the Cliffs, I just grabbed the small purse. The whole bag situation worked out very well.

Tomorrow I’ll tell you about the long trip home, show you some souvenirs and answer any other burning questions you guys ask in comments.

Also see Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, Day 7, Day 8, Day 9, Day 10, Day 11

Day 11: The Burren
We were down to our last two days in Ireland, and we still hadn’t been to the Aran Islands, but sadly the ocean was so choppy that all the boats had been canceled for the day. So spontaneously we had the hostel find us a driver, and we all hopped into a little van, and he took us on an impromptour. Get it? An impromptu tour? Impromptour. That’s right.

It was a gorgeous day, despite the wind, and it ended up being one of our favorite days of the trip. First we stopped at some ocean cliffs and explored. And tried not to get blown in. No seriously, we almost did.

Then we drove to a beach where we all got out and walked around. It was fun. We all milled about, soaking it all in and enjoying Ireland quietly. Except for the CRAZY wind in our ears.

After the beach, we stopped in the little town of Doolin to check out the shops, then pulled off at St. Brigid’s Well. The area around St. Brigid’s also had a cemetery and a…hmm, what do you call those places where people come to make offerings? Google isn’t helping.

Then we went to the “stone store.” Our professor had been hyping this so-called stone store since before we left for Ireland, and I honestly didn’t understand what could be so great about place that sold stones. Turns out it’s like this rock emporium! All kinds of cool things made out of stones and gems and marble and who knows what else. I ended up buying a set of marble salt and pepper shakers, and a glow-in-the-dark necklace with an encased flower beetle. Both show here:

(The other necklace is a pressed flower from the Cliffs of Moher.)

Next we drove through some small towns and villages and stopped in Liscannor for lunch. That was the place that gave us the troughs of ketchup. Love you Liscannor. We made a few other stops after lunch too. Lahinch beach, a memorial to the Potato Famine, etc. When we got back to the hostel in the afternoon, we all crashed from our long day in the Irish sun. After a nice nap, it was off to the local pub. It was our last pub night, so we enjoyed the music and drinks as much as possible.

Unfortunately when we got back to our room, our jeans were still wet from the day before. Luckily the incredibly nice South African guy at the front desk let us use the dryers for free. After laundry it was off to bed.