A few weeks ago my father had to go on business to England and instead of inviting us over there to share in the joy that is hanging around with English people in the rain, he stopped over here for two nights before taking off in the early, Monday morning hours.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love living here. I can't believe how easily I call this home. What's more shocking, though, is how I genuinely do not understand how people can dislike Ireland. I understand being fed up with the politics and bullshit and left-side of the road driving if you live here, but if you're just visiting, how could you hate it?
Oh, the shitty weather. Yeah.
Every time my father is here it's cold and rainy. And every time he says to me, "I don't know how you live here. You're basically the colour of paper." I can't argue how pale I am not, but the weather just doesn't bother me like it once did. It's just not a factor in my quality of life any more. Maybe I'm feeling optimistic or cheerful or just happy that we had a fantastic summer, and just this past weekend, a second summer (third summer? What are we up to?) but I'm sort of thinking: fuck it. Rain is kind of nice. Peaceful. Serene. Unless you're in a hurricane, and then not so serene. But how often does Ireland have hurricanes anyway? They are the moderate voters of the weather world. No extreme weather. A weather fence-sitter. I can get on board with fence-sitting.
Dad brought a happy smile, Combos, Pez and the rain, because after all the amazing weather we have been having, there is no other explanation but his presence. I might blame the 1.5 pounds I gain while he was here on that, too. THANKS A LOT, JERK.
I kid. Christmas is coming.
Here is Liz's Dad in cloudy, rainy Dublin:
James thinks Howth is Sodor. You know, where Thomas the Tank Engine lives.
"Look! Sodor!" See?
Come back soon, PopPop.