Packing Dilemmas, Holiday Excitement and English Boys

Packing is hard. It's not natural. How is a silly little lady like myself supposed to know what she'll feel like wearing every day for the next more than two weeks? C'est impossible! Nílim ábalta! I know some humans out there get their clothes ready days in advance, or at least the night before, and some of those inhuman humans can somehow pack confident in the knowledge that they aren't forgetting anything and have everything they need, but I'm not of these people. Yes, occasionally I know what I'll wear in advance, for an occasion! Not a whole fortnight... But usually I spend at least 20 minutes staring blankly into my wardrobe, completely dazed and incapable of choosing. There's never anything to wear. As a female, the words "I have nothing to wear!" being screamed every time I look for an outfit, are acceptable, and it is my right, as a lady, to have a mini tantrum or breakdown every time alongside this exclamation. Saying all this, le boif seems to think he's a lady in the clothes choosing department too... But no matter how many "should I bring a shirt and tie"s or "I don't know what shoes to bring"s he gives me, I have enough of my own packing dilemmas, I cannot play mummy and pack for him too! I don't mind his little clothes interjections every few minutes though, he is le boif after all, and a lovable one at that.

So, how about I help all you packing people out there with a few tips I came up with all on my own?

1. If you're going on a plane, pack at least 3 big bottles of nail polish remover, shampoo and conditioner, along with your machine gun, hand grenade and blades, just in case customs start giving you any trouble.
2. Also if you're going on a plane, don't bring your passport, nobody cares about them anymore, I mean technology has taken over, your iPhone will suffice.
3. Bring as many suitcases as you want, it's not like they charge you extra to bring another.

That's how aeroplane packing works, right?

Anyway, as you might have guessed, I'm not going on an aeroplane - oh, and the destination is England by the way - because ferries all the way. My favourite bit will be the 5 hour car journey in the Nissan Micra with us three kids in the back. It'll be so roomy. I can't complain though, le boif's family are pretty much treating me to a holiday, and even surprised me by extending the holiday so we can go to a Japanese festival (wannabe Japanese nut over here). Aren't they so cute?

Even if it's only across the water, to England, we're all still very excited. I have never been, believe it or not, and my fears of going are trying to remember which side of the escalator you're supposed to stand on, and which side to walk on (Ireland doesn't have any of these silly little rules that make sense, we don't like social unspoken rules, we like Guinness), that I'll get extremely lost and accidentally die, and that I'll fall in love with every single person there with an English accent. I'm a sucker for a cute English boy, ask le boif, and even he is worried about silly little me cooing, giggling and fangirling every time I meet a young fellow with a cute accent, especially his silly little friends! I'll try to restrain myself but I am a girl after all, you can't blame me. I will end up with an English accent after being there for a while though. Camouflage and all that jazz. Gotta be careful so I won't get the "no dogs or Irish" response my granddad did... I kid, it's not the 60s anymore. But I do tend to develop an English accent when chatting undilutedly to English people (and by undilutedly I mean only). My Japanese friend has ordered me to Skype her when my accent reaches its peak. Even Japanese girls love an English accent... I'd say le boif will get a top up on his little London-Irish accent (the Irish part obviously, I jest, I jest) and that'll keep me entertained for at least the rest of the summer. He'll just be stuck saying the words dance, France, girl and bad-ass for my giggles, but he's aware of these terms and conditions.

Just as I'm aware of the terms and conditions relating to le boif's clothes shopping, and over-excitement. I will be playing in suit shops all day, and I will be given at least one headache from rapid loud nonsense speak. But such is love, eh? I put up with his silliness, while he puts up with mine. Happy out.

My Boyfriend Loves to Shop for Clothes... Help me.

Growling laptops are quite off-putting, I must say. My chance to use the lovely Mac keyboard was destroyed due to unpredictable circumstances, and instead I must try not to provoke this growling, grumbling Acer, which I do fear may blow me to pieces if I anger it in any way.

Aaaaanyway... Today, has been... interesting. I went to Swords in Dublin with le boif, and his mummy and sissy, for some holiday shopping. Now, the usual circumstance for couples clothes shopping is quite simple, and the stereotype is rarely false: the girl drags the boy around Next, TK Maxx and Penneys, and his duty is to answer the "does my bum look big in this?" question correctly, and carry the bags. I say this stereotype is rarely wrong, but in our case (le boif and silly little me), this is severely reversed. I have long accepted the terms and conditions of le boif's admittedly camp obsession with clothes, and knew I'd have a thrilling shopping experience. 

Le boif is also aware of his oddness, and in preparation, or foresighted compensation, I was first brought to Tiger (a shop of knick-knacks), and received treats of sunglasses and a sketchbook  to keep me quiet for the next few hours. We also went to one of those fun photo booths, to be all retro and hipster, with our couple silliness. Thus ended the compensation. And so it began. After many complaints of "it's the wrong material", "they're too low cut", etc, and the trying on and modelling of the various items to be bought, I will admit, I was quite exhausted, and slightly losing the will to live. Coffee and chats did the trick though and I recovered gradually, but it was touch and go for a while, and I very nearly perished due to the overload of shopping coupled with uncomfortably warm sleepy weather.

The rest of the day was one of sunshine, sand and sea. Not bad for an Irish summer. With ice cream cones in hand, we all headed onto a Skerries beach, to soak up and relish the vitamin D we can usually only find in Super Milk in this country. Now, I'm not one for sandy beaches; yucky, dusty, microscopic annoyances getting all over your clothes and hair isn't my cup of tea. I'd much prefer a nice stony beach, on a not too hot day (so I can exist peacefully). But saying all that, I did enjoy my beach time today. 

I will admit it was quite cute couple-ish, the whole scene. Le boif lifting me, giving me piggy-back rides, falling on the sand together which sparked fits of giggles, and sharing sandy kisses, all of which are quite rom-com movie-ish. You won't find me complaining about having a movie style relationship, or anyone else out there for that matter. It's hardly a bad thing. It is incredibly cheesy and ridiculous, but so is love when you think about it, and that doesn't stop everyone from participating and enjoying the madness of it all. 

Sadly, we had to leave the beach at some stage, and no matter how long you stay, leaving isn't something you want to do. But we managed, and had a sleepy, bumpy road journey home to le boif's. Since then, we've been even more hipster cute couple-ish, playing guitar and bass together, while singing. The fun accelerated though when we relived our childhoods by playing Rayman Raving Rabbits on the Wii with le boif's lil' sis'. 

While I'm running short of new news, I gotta say, even with the growly laptop (who is behaving relatively well at present), and the lack of Mac keyboard, sitting up here in le boif's room, writing while he reads The Catcher In The Rye (thanks to my influence of course) unintentionally looking so damn cute and handsome, life is pretty damn sweet.  

Disaster, Cute Couple Time, Common Sense and General Knowledge

Home at last! But not without calamity!

My mother broke her finger in a foreign land and has been flitting from doctor to doctor in search of adequate medical attention ever since. Also, my state of sanity is being tested by the scorcher of a day it is turning out to be. Not to mention I left my phone in le boif's car, and feel naked without it.

Regardless, the weekend came to a close on a positive note for me, myself and I.

Yesterday I had a very cute couple-y day, consisting of painfully giggly giggles, us two goggly glasses teens reading our books together like old age pensioner married couples, coffee, flicking through guitar, bass, Beatles and album cover books, and cinnamon buns.

Now, my boif ain't known for his common sense, but it's a whole 'nother story when you end up in his neck of the woods, topic-wise. He may have trouble applying butter to a slice of bread, or even toast for that matter, but ask him the year >insert name of some guitar< came about, who played it, and ask him to draw it and you'll find he's more than capable to make you feel like you're the one lacking in common sense. I'm not complaining, I find it quite an endearing thing. I'm aware of my lack of knowledge in the matter, and especially because of that I love to hear someone chat knowledgeably in their niche that is so foreign to my ears. To me, it's fascinating to hear le boif recite a load of specifics, and years of albums, makes/models and artists, that even if I read 10 books on each, from cover to cover, I wouldn't know a single solid fact, never mind any dates or years. But I guess that's the way my head works.

While le boif lacks common sense, I lack general knowledge. Don't ask me who Rolf Harris is, I couldn't point Alex Turner from the Arctic Monkeys out of a line up, despite the fact that I love them (I barely even know the lead singer's name), but I could recite whole script (or at least whole scenes) from Anchorman, Napoleon Dynamite or The Breakfast Club, and I'm quite adequate at solving equations, if I do say so myself.

I guess oddballs fall for adorable fellow oddballs; I'm not complaining.

Whilst looking through/looking at the pictures of the book Fab Gear, a very unexpectedly large book about the clothing of The Beatles, I began wondering how the authors could possibly fill a whole book with descriptions and such of the clothes, when all you need are the pictures. So I ventured into the dangerously comical world of reading the descriptions of each photo, and I was not disappointed. The analyses were splendidly hyperbolic and melodramatic, to the point of inducing stitches of laughter in both myself and my other, nearly wakening the entire household.

(All doodles are courtesy of le boif, thanks for that!)