Thanks for all the congratulations and well wishes. You guys sure make me feel good. I’m sure I’ll write here about wedding plans as they progress, but if you’re really interested in following along, check out the joint blog the Giraffe and I created: Shan & Mike.

We’ve talked about doing a blog together for awhile, and keeping friends and family informed of our evolving plans seemed like a good way to start. But I also hope it’s interesting to others because we are inevitably doing things a little different than I think many couples do, and we’re doing it on a pretty limited budget. So basically how to do a “nontraditional” wedding on the cheap. Or how we’re doing it at least.

We’ll probably cover other things too, couple-y and otherwise, and it will most likely evolve into something else entirely post-wedding. So if you want, head on over and check it out.

I’m getting married!

I can’t believe how my life has changed in the last year. I never expected to meet anyone so soon after feeling so heartbroken, and when I signed up for match.com in November, I didn’t really believe I’d find anyone. People to go out with? Yes. But someone I would love? Hardly. But here we are, only eight months later and not only am I in love, but I’m engaged.

The Giraffe and I never really avoided the topic of marriage. I think we’ve been talking about the possibility from the beginning – maybe that happens when you get to a certain age. Over the summer we started to talk more and more seriously about it, even discussing the details of a wedding. Pretty soon we were talking about potential wedding dates, and then we had to stop and ask ourselves how serious we were about this. Turns out, pretty damn serious.

A while ago our friend Erica (E – get a website so I can link to you!), an aspiring photographer, said she was always looking for ‘models’ to practice on. I never planned on doing an actual engagement session like many couples do, but I thought it’d be fun to pose for a fake one anyway. So on July 19 we did a (free) faux engagement photo session. At that point we knew we wanted to get married, but we hadn’t used the term “engaged” yet. One passerby saw us posing for photos and asked, “engagement session?” Well sort of, we answered. And it was that night that we decided to officially consider ourselves engaged.

Soon after, we both bought engagement rings. I got permission to pick his out with no help from him, and we picked out mine together (I had something VERY specific in mind!), and we split the cost. His is titanium with a black walnut inlay. Mine is white gold with a cushion cut green amethyst. His came in last week, and I got mine yesterday. I pretty much love it.

We’ve started planning a wedding, but nothing is for sure yet. We are both determined to keep it low-stress and low-budget because the actual wedding is just not worth a lot of anxiety or cash to us. After seeing how much work my sister’s and friends’ wedding were/are and how much drama surrounds them, we’re more determined than ever to keep it simple. We’ve even discussed the possibility of elopement or a trip to the court house.

No matter what we do, we’re both very, very happy.

(Also, my baby sister proposed to her boyfriend in July, and another sister was proposed to last night. So now one of us is married and three of us are engaged. There’s a seven year age difference between the four of us, but somehow we all met our match at the same time. So weird.)

GRRRR!

I’m growling at some of the unbelievable comments on this Elle article.

It’s by a writer who did not change her name at marriage, and who references a study that suggests 70% of Americans think women should (I mentioned this study earlier). She points out some of the study’s flaws, but I think the point is clear: when challenged, people have really strong feelings about this issue.

And I’d the say the majority of them think women should blindly follow this tradition, no questions asked, no thoughts given, no options explored. Just shut up and do it.

Some comments from the article:

Not taking his name is an insult to him.
-John

So is not taking her name an insult to her?

My wife and I talked about it for a little while, and here’s how the conversation went: “I don’t think I’m going to change my name.” “Why not sweetie?” “It’s just a stupid tradition that isn’t really a big deal anymore. We’ve already lived together for 2 years, why should I have to change my name?” “Well, that’s a good point. In fact, why have a wedding? It’s just a tradition. Why get married, when we can just live together, since marriage is just a tradition nobody really needs.” She got the point immediately.

As a man, why should I cave to cultural demands that my fiance finds appealing while she gets to take out the traditions she doesn’t like? Think about how much grief a guy gets from society if he doesn’t marry his live in girlfriend. “He is just stringing her along, what a jerk!” I don’t have to get married at all, and my wife doesn’t have to change her name. But I marry her because I love her and she cares about the tradition that I think is outdated. She takes my name because its part of that tradition. Picking and choosing the parts you like and don’t like from an age old tradition screams pick and choose feminism. Hyphenated names get ridiculous. What happens when a daughter with the last name Smith-Johnson marries a boy who is a Jensen-O’Reilly?
-JP

JP, marriage is more than a tradition. It’s a legal union between people. There are traditions within marriage and especially weddings, but traditions aren’t rules or laws or legal requirements. People have options. You don’t get married because it’s tradition (or you probably shouldn’t), you get married because you want to legally unite your life with someone else’s. You can have different last names and still be married.

Why is this even an issue? Here is a message to all you liberal, ultra-feminist, man-hating women: SHUT THE F*** UP! Stop bitching and moaning over everything! Just shut the f*** up and get in the kitchen! It’s like, all of you women out there are obviously BORED out of your pathetic minds and sit there with your K.D Lang poster on the wall and are just thinking of things to bitch about! Shut up!

And to the pathetic writer of the article, your husband is not a real man and I would place money that you two will be divorced in less than five years. No man will put up with that and certainly not forfeit their name to take their wife’s. All you “men” out there that have or are doing it, GROW A PAIR AND USE THEM. All that bullsh** about “my identity” and marrying “later in my life and knowing who I am” are just excuses for: I’m a liberal bitch who hates men but am too afraid of coming out of the closet. You women are what is wrong with America today. You are the woman that cause men out there to laugh at us. Good job! You made an ass out of yourself again!
-Ashley

Note to the Giraffe: You’re not a real man if you let me keep my last name. We will be divorced in less than five years. You should grow some balls and use them (for what exactly, I’m not sure). You should probably know I hate men, I’m a liberal bitch and I’m a closet lesbian. Also, I am what is wrong with America, so if you want to reconsider things between us, I understand.

I agree with John, why the hell did you get married at all if the only thing that was going to change is that now if you leave him he has to give you half a house or vice versa, You could just continue writing under the same name. (Pseudonym, ever heard of it?) It seems as though you are just doing this to cause some sort of stir and prove youself to be a feminist among your female readers.
-Hunter

Oh thank you Hunter. You know, I was thinking about getting married to a man I love in part because of all the benefits it brings. Like how I can see him in the hospital and get information on his medical condition if he’s injured, we can join the Peace Corps together someday, we can more easily adopt children together which we both hope to do, we can use each others’ employer-provided health insurance coverage and on and on. But then I thought wait, Hunter’s right, I don’t want to change my last name to his! Therefore, we’re foregoing all those benefits and we’re just going to not get married. Thank you for showing me such obvious logic!

I’m taking his name. I think you should either take your husband’s name or hyphenate. You’re joining two lives and should act as such. By keeping your own name, its like denying you are married. Its a lie. I’ll be proud when I can be called, legally and forever, Mrs. Heskett.
-Jayme

I suppose then, future Mrs. Heskett, that your future husband will be living a lie and denying that he’s married if he doesn’t change or hyphenate his name? That’s what you’re implying right?

Fortunately there is some hope, as evidenced by several other commenters:

Guess I just don’t understand the fuss. I married my wife because I love her and it had nothing to do with names. I didn’t care if she took my last name or not and told her that either way, I’d be happy. She chose to use her maiden name as her middle name. No hyphens. There’s so many problems in the world without getting ridiculous about something as minor as this.
-tchudson

Wow… every time I read the comments from people on the internet, I lose a little more faith in humanity. I am so disheartened by the venom that people have toward others. Give people some anonymity, and the hatred just boils over. To all of the folks who are so frightened of people breaking with tradition… why are you afraid? No one is making you hyphen your name, or take your wife’s name….it doesn’t affect your marriage at all. You are free to make your own choices. Other people’s marriages have nothing to do with you…pay attention to your own marriage and maybe we can change the high divorce rate in this country.

The tradition we are considering here, the woman taking the man’s last name, is a designation of property transfer from the father to the husband. Somehow we have lost the associated dowry and kept the name change. If you are okay with that, by all means carry on. But know that a woman taking a man’s name was originally done to let everyone know who her new owner was…and children are also subject to patriarchal ownership. As for me, my husband took my name. I don’t usually advertise this (or deny it, for that matter)… but I think it is relevant to this discussion. I’m not a “man-hating feminazi.” We had our own unique situation where WE felt it was appropriate to do it that way…it was natural for us. He wasn’t very attached to his last name (a stepfather’s) and I was very attached to mine. He is secure enough to not be disrespected or demeaned by taking my name. I figure anyone who cares about what I do with my name, or what my husband does with his, has some serious insecurities.
-Emily

I’ll keep it short: I’m a guy. My last name is Merritt. My wife’s last name is Kamisasanuki. How could I possibly suggest covering up such a beautiful and historically rich heritage with my middle-of-the-road ancestry? Her grandfather has hand-crafted samurai swords in museums. People confuse me with shampoo and boy scout awards. Women should definitely keep their last names. We’re no more relevant/important/special/etc.
-T

I left my own comment that (as of right now) hasn’t shown up yet. It just reiterated what I’ve already written here several times, so I won’t repeat it. But really, what is so very wrong with people thinking about it, discussing it with their partner and making a decision that makes sense for them as individuals, as a couple and as a family?

S: Hey Giraffe. How are you?

G: I’m good. A little nervous about revealing myself to the world wide web, since I’m basically a computer moron. But overall, pretty good.

S: You are pretty funny with the computer, but it’s endearing. So tell us a little about yourself.

G: I’m a Virgo who likes long walks on the beach, romantic candle lit dinners, and coffee and conversation.  What do you want to know?

S: What do you do for fun?

G: In my spare time I enjoy reading, watching old television shows from the 80s and 90s, and cooking dinner for my friends, family, and my beautiful girlfriend. I also collect 17th century Russian nesting dolls and practice several forms of lethal martial arts. Ok, those last two are made up, but didn’t sound very interesting without them.

S: What do you do for work (remember the first rule of blogging about work: don’t do it! Or in this case, be vague)?

G: I am a chef in training, learning my craft both in the classroom and in the workplace.

S: What are your future plans?

G: To get married, have 2.3 kids, buy a 4-bedroom home with a quarter acre of lush green grass that I’ll mow every Saturday morning, and eventually grow fat and bald. Seriously? I’m really not sure yet. I want to make food and be happy, but I’m still not completely sure how that’s done. I’m getting the hang of the be happy part though.

S: What’s your favorite thing about Shannon?

G: Her booty. Also the way she makes me feel appreciated and compliments me.

S: Why do you love Shannon so much?

G: Her booty. Also the fact that she is herself, for better or worse (mostly better), and isn’t afraid to be funny or weird.

S: On a scale of 1 to 10, how beautiful is Shannon?

G: Shannon’s booty? Ok…sorry. I got on a roll. Shannon is either a 1 or a 10, depending on which is the best number.

S: Oops, that got a little Shannon-focused. Sorry. Let’s try again. Why did you name your cat Oberon?

G: He was a stray, and my college roommates and I heard him meowing outside our apartment whilst drinking a bottle of Bells Oberon beer. Thank you beer for helping me name my cat. Just one of your many wonders.

S: Isn’t Oberon the cutest cat in the world?

G: He’s pretty darned cute, but cat people are pretty loyal, and I wouldn’t want to offend any of your readers by implying that their cats aren’t as cute as mine.

S: Oh please. They’re not as cute, accept it people. So how happy are you that Shannon loves your cat so much?

I’m very happy. I was really hoping not to have to choose between her and Oberon, so that’s nice. As stated, he’s pretty cute, and he reminds me of my favorite beer, so it might have been a tough call. But then there’s the booty. So, who knows?

S: Crap, why is this becoming all about Shannon (and her booty) and Oberon? Back to you. What’s your favorite book?

G: Books. The Dark Tower series by Stephen King. It was a 5,000 page, 3 month part of my life, and I can still remember parts of it vividly.

S: Movie?

G: Confessions of a Shopaholic. Seriously? Who can choose. My favorite director is probably Cameron Crowe, if that says anything.

S: TV Show?

G: Either “The Office” or “30 Rock.” Or maybe “Family Guy.”

S: Who is your hero?

G: Spiderman. This one’s not a joke…he’s freakin’ rad.

S: I didn’t know about that last one. Um… What other oddities or quirks should we know about?

G: I have an adventurous appetite (remember the Chicago sushi incident?). [Ed. note: he won't eat a frozen tater tot though. Hello, yum.]

S: And finally, do you play basketball?

G: Yes. All tall people do. Anyone that meets me should ask me about it. But seriously, I get this question all the time, often from total strangers, seconds after they meet me by awkwardly asking me how tall I am. I get it. I’m unusually tall. But that doesn’t automatically mean that I play basketball. It also doesn’t mean that I play volleyball, that I’m a good pitcher, that I’m an Olympic high jumper, or that I like anything else that tall people might be better at. It just means that I’m tall. And it’s not something I enjoy making small talk with strangers about. I don’t saunter up to you in the frozen foods aisle at the grocery store, gawk at you, and point out your most obvious physical feature. “Hey…you’re fat.” Would that be considered good manners? Come on people. There, it’s out of my system, I feel better.

[Ed. Note: I asked him that knowing he'd rant. He gets that all the time! I think it's hilarious, but he's pretty much over it. Which is part of what makes it so damn funny of course.]

I had a chat today with a friend and fellow blogger who also keeps her boyfriend’s identity rather covert on her blog. That prompted me to give some thought to whether or not I want to reveal the Giraffe’s identity more than I already have. You may have noticed that I’ve never revealed his real name or picture on this space, but those who know me on the social media sites have gotten a little taste of who he is.

I started out keeping it quiet because it was new and I didn’t know where things would go for us. Then things got really serious, yet I still didn’t reveal much. I really can’t explain why – it’s not that I was worried about jinxing it or that I felt like I needed to protect him. I think after laying so much of my life out in the open (hello public breakup last year), maybe I liked leaving something a bit mysterious.

But now that the Giraffe is involved in so much of my life, it’s hard to keep him a big secret. It’s easy enough to call him by his nickname rather his real one, but lately whenever I post photos of my goings on, I have to carefully pick out ones that don’t include him. So enough of that. You guys ready to see what my boyfriend looks like?

Ta da!

Cute huh? Ok kidding. Sorta. That really is him, but only when he put on a pair of faux glasses and struck a ridiculous pose. (Don’t worry I got permission to post that for all the Internet to see.) Here are a few where he looks more like himself:

Top left: At the grocery store. He was so cute I had to capture it.
Top right: Our very first picture together. He came over to bake me a belated birthday cake.
Bottom left: On one of our early dates.
Bottom right: Modeling a hat we found at my dad’s house. This one is also displayed in my office at work.

So that’s the Giraffe. And in case you didn’t guess, his nickname derives from that fact that he’s sort of a slender giant – 6’8″ to my meager 5’5″.

And that’s with me wearing three inch heels. Look how dorky he is with his pant leg tucked into his shoe. So cute.

Stay tuned for a little FAQ with the man himself coming soon.

Recently I found a Google Doc I had created on 6/11/2008. It was titled “I Want” and looked like this:

I want…
To be happier in my job
To travel to Europe
To wear size 10 pants
To find someone I deeply love and who deeply loves me

You know that whole The Secret business? I never read or paid attention to it, but I know it has something to do with visualizing what you want, believing you’ll get it, and putting it out into the universe. Or some such. I don’t think that’s exactly what I was doing with this list, at least not intentionally, but for some reason I wrote these four items down. They were things that seemed somewhat impossible at the time. Thing I had been struggling to achieve or obtain for a long time with little success. So I wrote them down, and basically forgot about them.

And now, over a year later, I came upon this list, and holy crap I’ve accomplished every single one! I was truly shocked and amazed and extremely pleased when I realized that. Because seriously, those things seemed impossible when I wrote them. And here I am.

Let’s break it down.

I want…to be happier in my job
Notice I didn’t say find a new job. I left it general. Either I needed to find a job that made me happier or I needed to find a way to be happier in the one I had. I think the state of economy helped me accomplish this one. With so many people out of work, getting laid off, taking pay cuts, I decided to change my attitude and be happy I even had a job. A job with acceptable pay and good benefits. I know it’s dangerous to blog about work, but the truth is, I’m not exactly where I want to be in my career. But I’m so blasted happy to be working at all, and that attitude adjustment has made me so much happier.

I want…to travel to Europe
I made this one happen myself. I sought out an opportunity and didn’t let any excuses stand in my way. It was a stretch financially, but it was so worth it. I had been trying to get to Europe for about 10 years, and there were always a millions reasons I couldn’t. I decided enough with the excuses, I’m going! Two weeks in Ireland was incredible and I’m more eager than ever to see more of Europe.

I want…to wear a size 10 pant
I had no delusions about being super skinny, I just wanted to get back down to a size I was happy with. By the time I wrote that sentence, I had gotten up to a 14, which isn’t absurd or anything, it just wasn’t natural. I naturally have big hips and boobs and thighs and butt, and that’s fine. But I was just unhealthy and it was unnecessary. I had tried to lose some weight, but I’m not a very motivated person when it comes to fitness, and it felt hopeless. And frankly I just didn’t care enough to kick my own ass. Sadly, it was the Depression Diet that helped me lose significant weight, but it’s been a year and I’m still proudly in a size 10! Some pounds have creeped back on, but every time I start to feel chunky, I slip into some size 10 jeans and remember that I’m still the size I want to be. (I just told that internet what size pants I wear, that’s kind of a big deal.)

I want…to find someone I deeply love and who deeply loves me
Note that this was written when I was still with Brad. I think at the time I hoped it would be him with whom I’d find this deep love. I hoped we’d find a way to work through our problems and really truly deeply love each other. But I think the message I was sending myself was clear even if I didn’t admit it then: I was unfulfilled in the love department. I wanted something more. It took a giant heartbreaking split from Brad, but it opened me up to other possibilities. And since then I’ve met the Giraffe. Who loves me more thoroughly and fully than I dared to imagine. He makes my heart swell. I feel like I’ve found a real partner in life, and I no longer have to question if I’m genuinely loved by my partner. True love? Deep love? Check. I am so so blessed.

I think I’ll do this again. Write an “I Want…” list and see where it stands a year from now.

One year ago today Brad and I broke up. One year and my how things have changed.

I still remember that weekend so vividly. He had moved out a couple weeks before. I had only stayed at his place once; he hadn’t stayed with me at all. Clearly things were not in a good state with us, but we had promised to give this new arrangement a fair shot. That Friday we went on a double date with my friend and her boyfriend (R&J)—dinner and the premiere of The Dark Knight. In the middle of dinner I turned to him and said “Wow I haven’t kissed you in forever” (because I hadn’t seen him all week) and I kissed him. That was our last kiss. When it came time to pay for the meal, we got in a fight. Details aren’t important anymore, but it was bad enough that we didn’t talk the whole time we waited in line for the movie. Poor R&J, we probably made them so uncomfortable!

During the movie I tried to make good by giving him his favorite Sour Patch Kids flavors and resting my hand on his leg a few times. But we still didn’t talk when the movie ended or the whole drive home. We got to my place, he came in, grabbed his overnight bag, said he thought it was a good idea if he left, I agreed, and he was gone.

The next day he was supposed to go to a family function with me, but I never heard from him. And I didn’t call. I went alone and made up an excuse for his absence. That night we finally talked—a painful gchat, mostly about whether or not to break up. We didn’t. We agreed to think about it, and he’d call me the next day with an answer.

Sunday, July 20, he called and he still wasn’t sure. But at that point I had enough self-respect to know I shouldn’t be with someone who “wasn’t sure” if he wanted to be with me. I told him so. And by the end of the conversation he had he ended it.

The next four months were painful (see July 2008 to October 2008 archives), and I couldn’t comprehend how I’d ever feel better. I think I knew I would eventually, but I didn’t see how. I stopped eating, stopped laughing. I felt empty and lost and alone. But eventually I took some good advice, started seeing a counselor and got on anti-depressants. I started to feel better. Not right away, but with time.

And now, a year later, I’m happier and healthier and more confident and comfortable than I ever remember being. Do me a favor and read that sentence again because it feels pretty incredible to be able to say.

Brad and I are still in touch, though we’re not the friends I hoped we could be. We email now and then, he helps me with technology issues when I’m at my wits end, he’s still behind the scenes of this blog, we see each other on the social networking sites. But I haven’t actually talked to him or seen him since, god I don’t even know. We met up once to talk, probably in November? But that was it.

For awhile I clung to the idea that he and I could reconcile. We both said that if, in at least a year, we were both in a place where we might be interested, we could maybe see. Just see.

It’s a year later, and neither of us is anywhere near being in that place. He’s happy with what he has going on, and I’ve found a happy life and an incredible guy. The Giraffe loves me so thoroughly, and I him, and we are both fully willing to do the work it takes to make this thing long-lasting. I never could have predicted a year after this, I’d be here, in this place.

But I sure am happy about it.

The Giraffe has been in between jobs most of this week (he starts the new one Monday), meaning he has been home while I’ve been working the last couple days. Normally I’d be insanely jealous of this, but I am seriously reaping the benefits of his time off too. He’s been spending his days doing all the errands that neither of us has time for normally, and he’s been spending his evenings making delicious dinners for me. Last night: steak and potatoes; tonight: ravioli and garlic bread; tomorrow night: eggplant fettuccini with homemade alfredo.

I kind of love it. I’m thinking about marrying him and making him my househusband.

Last night the Giraffe and I attended a dinner party with some of his family’s old family friends. Of course they were curious about how we had met, a story we happily shared (on match.com for those who don’t know). Then someone asked what we had in common, and I was completely thrown for a loop. Not because we have nothing in common, but the question caught us off-guard, and all we could come up with were books and “he likes to cook and I like to eat.”

Not very interesting, I know. Had I been been thinking faster, I might have shared these stories:

On our very first date, the Giraffe picked me up at my apartment and we drove to a local restaurant. When we got out of his car, I noticed something taped to his back windshield…

…an Obama/Biden bumper sticker from moveon.org. You can’t tell here, but it’s actually Scotch taped to the inside of his windshield. Which is so dorky right? Yes, which is exactly why I had done the same exact thing with my sticker when I got it:

Not only did we have the same stickers on our cars, but we had both messily taped them there. The only difference was that mine was on the passenger side, his on the driver’s. A match made in liberal heaven.

—– —– —— —– —–

Thursday when I got home from work I told the Giraffe that I had a present for him, and I pulled out a 3-pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups that I bought from a fundraiser at work.

“That’s so sweet,” he said, “I got you a present too.”

And he pulled out a King-sized Snickers he had purchased at work that day.

Candy. Either that’s true love, or we’re just trying to make each other fat.

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.

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?

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: Connemara to Galway
I had officially run out of cold medicine the night before, but fortunately one of the hostel employees hooked me up with some amazing Canadian drugs that relieved the symptoms a little bit. Plus we were heading back to Galway this day, so I knew I could stock up. First though, we were stopping at Kylemore Abbey.

It’s a huge beautiful (and functioning) abbey that used to be a castle. From across the lake it’s almost haunting, especially when the mist is covering the hills above. We were excited to walk around the grounds. We did get to go inside, but it was a limited tour – obviously we didn’t get to see the parts where the nuns actually live.

I also have to quickly show you this photo because I think it’s so funny. I feel like total shit, I look about the same, but damn it I’m in Ireland and I WILL enjoy myself! Can you read it in my face?

After touring the abbey, we walked down to the chapel. It looks like such a gloomy day, but it really made the whole experience more beautiful and surreal.

I believe the chapel was built for the original owners of the castle, a couple who commissioned this huge “home” and probably had their own personal church services just down the path in their own personal chapel.

After the chapel, we continued walking to see the small family mausoleum. Then it was on to the gardens. We were in a bit of hurry at this point because we had to catch our bus back to Galway soon, and we were still eager to check out the gift shop. Our walk through the gardens was rather quick, but I did take a few pictures on the run.

Turns out we needed not be in such a rush. Ray, the best driver in the history of drivers, had driven us to Kylemore, but another bus was picking us up. Apparently this was an almost-full tour bus that we were just joining. And because we were late-joiners, we had to stand outside the bus until everyone else had boarded. Which took FOREVER! So there we are standing in the cold and the drizzle, half of us sick, feeling like second-class citizens.

The driver even said, “We have to let everyone else get on, then if there’s enough room, we’ll take you.” Um… and what were we supposed to do if there wasn’t enough room? Walk back to Galway? We ended up getting on eventually, but oh hell, it was the most obnoxious bus ride ever. The driver allowed people to get on his PA system and sing. Yes sing. Which, that’s nice and all, but not when you’re sick, you’ve been on your feet all day, you’ve been made to wait outside in the cold and rain, you’re trying not to get car (or bus) sick, and you just want everyone to shut up so you can focus on not being miserable.

Back in Galway we went to a highly-recommended fish n’ chips place for dinner. I only managed to eat about six chips and a glass of water. And the chips came sans ketchup because they charged about 25 cents for a each small squeeze pack! Here’s one thing about Ireland: they sure don’t like their ketchup they way we Americans do. Every place we ate, it was a struggle to get enough to appease the seven of us. The server at one place we stopped later in the trip happily brought us several troughs of ketchup throughout themeal and believe me, we tipped her good.

After dinner we tried to stop at a pharmacy for some much-needed cold meds, but guess what? Bank holiday. Everything was closed. I had truly taken for granted how easy it is to get some Sudafed at home when I need it. Never again. Anyway, back at the hostel I called the Giraffe and we talked for a minute, long enough to tell him how much I wished he were there to rub my back and make me soup.

It was another early night for me.

Also see Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5

Day 6: Connemara

This was the peak of my illness. My whole body ached, my head was so congested I couldn’t think straight, I wasn’t sleeping, and I also developed a sinus infection. Part of the problem is that I didn’t want to miss anything, so I kept pushing myself. And not sleeping (I later realized that the meds I had gotten from the chemist were keeping me awake at night. Nice. Even the handfuls of PM pills I was taking were defenseless against it.). So on this day, everyone went for a few-hour long walk to the village of Leenane, and I stayed back and took a few-hour long nap.

When I woke up, they weren’t back yet, so I grabbed a book and my journal and sat outside to enjoy the fact that I was in a truly gorgeous place.

That’s about all I did. It kind of worked out good because if you’re going to be ill in Ireland, this is the place to do it. It’s completely relaxed. Only a couple times did I feel guilty about not feeling like doing anything but sitting or sleeping.

When everyone returned from the walk, we watched a movie, and then the owner of the hostel – a friend of the professor and a very intelligent guy – sat down and talked to us about Irish politics and economy. After the talk, we all made dinner together, and a few people took a cab to a pub in Leenane. Pas moi. I read and went to bed. It was a chill day and I was so thankful. I missed the Giraffe a lot though. I wanted him to comfort me, but not only was he not there, and not only could I not call him, but there was no internet in secluded Connemara, so I couldn’t even email and complain and ask for sympathy.

I know I just spent a few paragraphs complaining about being sick, but seriously that’s all I did on Day 6. Feel sick. That was my only day of true non-activity though.

Also see Day 1, Day 2, Day 3:

Day 4: Galway
This day didn’t start out great. I woke up with a sore throat, which usually spells doom for me. It went away by mid-day, but I was pretty sure I was getting a cold. Plus, we had an all around failure of flat irons. Mine stopped working back in Dublin, but I was able to use one of the other girls for a couple days. But on Day 4, hers overheated and the plastic melted, making the flat iron unable to close and rendering it useless. So the rest of the trip I struggled to keep my hair under control.

It took a hair tie, about 15 bobby pins, and eventually a headband to keep it pulled back. I wasn’t so much worried about how it looked, but keeping a fro under control in the rain and winds of Ireland had me very aggravated. So between the developing cold and the broken hair tools, I was kind of grumbly. Luckily it was a nice day and we were spending the whole thing exploring Galway.

First we walked over to the Galway Cathedral, which, like most cathedrals, was ornate and beautiful. And so much fun to walk through and photograph.

After the cathedral, we walked along the river and back onto the streets just to get the lay of the land. We also took some time to check out a few shops.

We knew we were heading to a pretty secluded area the next day, so at lunchtime we hit a grocery store and stocked up on a few days’ worth of groceries. We filled several large canvas bags with food, enough for seven people to struggle in carrying back to the hostel. You should have seen us, it was comical. I wish I could have taken a picture, but I was too busy breaking my back under the weight of enough food to feed an elementary school. After the grocery situation was settled, we decided to head out for some serious souvenir shopping. That dominated our afternoon, and when we were tired, we stopped in at the Quays for a drink.

From the storefront, the Quays looks like a quaint little pub, but inside it’s huge! And at that time of day it was nearly empty, so we just relaxed awhile and had deep discussions about who knows what. Probably solving the world’s problems.

That night we grabbed dinner out, then visited the Spanish Arch to listen to some traditional Irish music. One thing I love about Ireland is that when there’s a musical performance, instead of setting up a stage for the band, the performers just sit around a couple tables, mixed right in with the customers. There’s not a big to-do about it. The group will start out with maybe an accordion and a pipe player, then a fiddle will show up and join, then a banjo, etc. It’s all very casual.

On the way home, I captured this image of Galway. It’s even lovely at night, no?

The other nice thing about that night is that I got to call the Giraffe. I didn’t have a cell phone, but a few of us chipped in to buy an international calling card. Then after a 15-minute conversation, we both got online and g-chatted for awhile. It was nice, I needed a Giraffe fix.