I feel like Basil Fawlty

During a call yesterday

Caller : My name’s Geoffrey Eichleba-something-something
Me : [distracted] ok, so that’s E-I-C-H-M-A-N?
Caller : Nooo, it’s E-I-C-H-L-E-B-something-something
Me : oh! right, sorry.

And all night it’s been bugging me. Who’s freaking name was I spelling!?!
It hit me at 4:37 this morning …

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SS-Obersturmbannfuehrer Karl Adolf Eichmann (1906-1962)
He was head of the Department for Jewish Affairs in the Gestapo from 1941 to 1945 and was chief of operations in the deportation of three million Jews to extermination camps. It was Eichmann who organized the Wannsee Conference of January 1942, which focused on issues related to the “final solution of the Jewish question.” From this point Eichmann assumed the leading role in the deportation of European Jews to the death camps. At the end of the war, Eichmann was arrested and confined to an American internment camp, but he was able to escape unrecognized. He fled to Argentina and lived under the assumed name of Ricardo Klement for ten years until Israeli Mossad agents abducted him in 1960 to stand trial in Jerusalem. The controversial and highly publicized trial lasted from April 2 to August 14, 1961. Eichmann was sentenced to death and executed in Ramleh Prison on May 31, 1962.

Eep.

Edited: 11th November. (Armistice Day. Wrong war, but same sentiment)
Someone left an anonymous comment on this entry linking me to a site that lionises Adolf Eichmann.
I feel that I should make it clear that I feel nothing but absolute hatred for what Eichmann was involved in. I remember his name not because I support his actions but because I feel he should always be accountable for them (even after death) and because I have studied WWII and the atrocities committed by the Nazis several times through my primary and secondary levels of education.

I’m going to delete his cowardly comment now because the last thing I want is others seeing his site.

I Smell Dead People

It was cold and wet as I walked home from work yesterday.
My hood was up and my head was down, watching the point of my cowboy boots plough through the damp autumnal leaves (yes, trying to not slip).
I smelled smoke, wood smoke, my favourite winter smell, so I looked up to try and find the source and say thank you.
It was at that moment that I realised I was currently walking past none other than the local funeral parlour.

The smoke was actually coming from a house next door, but for a second I wanted the ground to swallow me whole because Oh My Freaking … I just thought about how the smell of bodies being cremated was my MOST favourite smell in the world. And that is wrong on too too many levels

(title (c) My Husband, and probably a lot of other people, just not me)

I have a husband and my surname has machiavellian fricatives. Life is good.

So, How’s Married Life Treatin’ Ya?
and always like that. Always italicised and always as though each word has a capital letter (and yet it’s always in’ ya).

Here is my (and uh my Husband’s) final answer :

It’s just like Un-Married Life. Only I have a Husband(Wife).

And that’s the god’s-honest truth, ha! no. Rather it’s what I believe to be true. My objective truth (our objective truth?).

The day after Craig and I were married, it was our 5 and a half year ‘dating’ anniversary. FIVE AND A HALF YEARS. That’s quite a long time in anyone’s life. And as such there wasn’t much we didn’t know about each other.
We’ve had the discussions about children. Which mainly consist of Craig: 16! Sarah: 2. Craig: 12! Sarah: 2. Craig: 6! Sarah: 2. Craig: 4! Sarah: TWO! Craig: heh. 24! Sarah: 2. ad infinitum.
We’ve had discussions about finances and ‘life-plans’ and travel and religion (a conversation that went Craig: No. Sarah: EVERY SINGLE RELIGION IN THE WORLD. then no.).
Since we’ve lived together since March 16th 2004 (under the gracious roof of my familial home(stead)) and on our own since November 12th 2004, we’ve both know our annoying messy-home habits, Craig never throws receipts away, nor does he file them, and Sarah sheds like a cat. a very very long-haired cat. And we’ve sorted out chores.

There was nothing else to do After the Wedding! it was all the same. Nothing to learn but no terrible surprises either.
Except of course that now I insist on pretty much all barriers going up and staying up because there is no way I’m getting started on the soccer team just yet.

Little things change. oh, like MY NAME! that’s not really so little, but even things like that have settled down now. We’ve been married for 2 months and 12 days and I finally find myself writing Sarah-Rose Burke as default, it’s not something that I have to specifically remember to do.

I expected a sense of cognitive dissonance when changing my name. I expected the tiny ferocious feminist that my mother planted inside me to start wailing and tearing her hair but there was nothing. I suppose it helps that noone has called me Mrs Burke without a wink in their voice, but I also thought long and hard about changing my name.
Some say that changing my name is allowing my husband to brand me (ooh dirty) but then most surnames can be seen as brands, either of one’s mother or father, instead I am taking a name to indicate the new family that we (uh that’d be Craig and I) are creating together.
I considered hyphenation. But then Sarah-Rose Mulligan-Burke is really too too hyphenated, my sense of amusement in my name only goes so far.
I tried to convince Craig to change his name too, and to mix our surnames together, creating one ourselves. He was very sceptical , even more so when I realised that we could use letters from both our names to create the surname Mugabe. I guess my sense of amusement in my name goes that far.
It came down to trying to work out what I liked about each surname. Irish – both. Insults – both (uh, Burke is pronounced like Berk). A tie. Finally when reading Stiff by Mary Roach (possibly my favourite non-fiction book of all time) I came across this passage :
For his part, William Burke was eventually brought to justice. A crowd of more than 25,000 watched him hang. Hare was granted immunity, much to the disgust of the gallows crowd, who chanted “Burke Hare!” – meaning “Smother Hare,” “burke” having made its way into the popular vernacular as a synonym for “smother.” Hare probably did as much smothering as Burke, but “She’s been hared!” lacks the pleasing Machiavellian fricatives of “She’s been burked!” and the technicality is easily forgiven.
-p51

so it became one up for Burke. And try as I might, google would yield no proof of Mulligan ever being a term for a form of murder. (morbid? me? never.) Besides, Mulligan is a golfing term, and I abhor golf.

The decision was made. I would take on Craig’s surname and discard my own.

Then about a week? maybe as little as a day or so before the wedding I decided (in a pique of sentimentality, although my mother would not agree) that I just couldn’t give up my “family name”. I come from a family with only girls, and the name could die with us (mood music) unless we did something to save it!
But I really wanted my murderous surname, and so I did the next best thing (which was really nothing at all) and decided to keep Mulligan as my middle name.
Unfortunately with an already rather long first name, a now cumbersome middle name doesn’t get trotted out all that much, save for application forms. But I know it’s there, and my mother knows it’s there, and now EVERYONE IN THE WORLD can know that it’s there. And that’ll do for now.

Spam of the Day

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barrio, hash browns,. sneaker the bedspread immunization refuse mount icing thanks of with enjoyment of ice hockey or flighty of
logging of airing mother,

Apparently it was written by Gerard Manley Hopkins
lo, how the mighty are fallen.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Sona Daoibh

(La ale-lah pwad-rig son-ah jeev)
Happy St Patrick’s Day!

St Patrick’s Day and Christmas are the only festivals that Craig and I actually try and celebrate.

At my work the other day I had a conversation with a coworker that amounted to
CW : Do you have your leave sorted for Easter?
ME : No … when’s easter? I have my leave sorted for the day after St Patrick’s Day
CW : huh. When’s St Patrick’s Day?
Ah priorities.

Anything that advocates drunkeness is alright by me.
Drunken singing of crazy songs is even better.
Today Craig and I are both wearing green and tonight we will join a green sea in our local Irish Pub (Cheapest Guinness in Wellington!).

I mean, tonight we will be watching The Sound of Music and tomorrow we will be donating puppies to blind orphans. yes.

The other day I lost my Claddagh ring and ended up spending the better part of a day looking for it. I was actually quite upset, what with it coming up to St Patrick’s and all.
I’ve worn a claddagh since I was … 11? 10? 8? I must have been younger than 11. My cousin sent it to me when she was living in Ireland. So it really was an Irish Claddagh Ring. What? it was cool when I was in primary school.

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The traditional wedding ring of the Irish since the 17th Century, the Royal Claddagh ring is today worn by people all over the world as a universal symbol of love, loyalty, friendship and fidelity, and of their Irish heritage.

For love, we wear the heart. In friendship, we wear the hands. And, in loyalty and lasting fidelity: we wear the Royal Claddagh crown.

Worn on the right hand, with crown and heart facing out, the ring tells that the wearer’s heart is yet to be won. While under love’s spell it is worn with heart and crown facing inwards. Wearing the ring on the left hand, with the crown and heart facing inwards, signifies that your love has been requited.
from claddagh.com

My first Claddagh I wore so much that by the end it wore through. Split right along the seam where it had been sized and they told me there wasn’t enough silver to repair it. Poor worn out dead ring.
So naturally I went straight out and bought a replacement.
This one didn’t last long enough to wear out. At the time, I was working at a Subway restaurant (oh the shame) and as far as I can tell it ended up in a rubbish bin buried beneath plastic gloves and lettuce remnants. Even I have my limits.
My third Claddagh (and the one I’m wearing now) was bought for me by Craig after the plastic-y death of my previous one, it has a black sapphire heart, apparently to match the cold hard blackness of my own heart. He’s lucky that I love him.

I hope tonight lives up to the hype. I think last year I had to start work at 7am the next morning but this year I planned ahead and I have no work tomorrow. I needn’t get up at all!
Kat is going to come with us tonight, with a view to drinking and meeting some Irish (oirish) boys. I hope she knows that most of the people will be over fifty and that they don’t have eftpos – it’s a hardcore Irish Pub. But the drinking will be done.
Oo that reminds me. I don’t have any cash either. Must remedy that. Don’t forget!

(oh and I found my ring by the way)

Making absolutely no sense since 1983

Craig and I were in the kitchen earlier (in fact just a few minutes ago which shows my dedication to you, my internet, that I will cook dinner and update at the same time!) and he was dealing with the unsavoury business of slicing chicken while I retrieved the Hoisin sauce (how is that pronounced anyway?) from the fridge.

Not furthering the reputation of small large-breasted women everywhere I was struggling to open it. And so, furtheing the reputation of my all-knowing-feminist mother I leaned over and banged the jar against the floor several times, swearing halfway through.

I put the jar down on the counter and Craig turned to me and said in a vaguely bemused fashion “D’you want some help there?”
Instinctively my left hand felt for my hip, my left eyebrow raised and my lips skewed ever so slightly, left (my left side gets very het up) and I measured my next words very carefully. They were a level tablespoon of “Excuse me?”
I think I saw him withdraw ever-so-slightly and he wrinkled his eyebrows and said “oh, did you get it open” pausing between each word.
“Of COURSE I did!” my left hand was still cemented to my hip “I am a … strong … independent woman and we don’t need men for anything! Except maybe that procreation thing”

Craig fell back on his fool-proof method to talk me down from any (and all) ledge. He became annoyingly adorable “yes you do, you need us for love, and hugs” my eyes rolled “and … to buy you things and drive you places” he was almost winning with that one so I buried my head in his chest for a second, looked up at him (being short can be useful) widened my eyes and tried to out-cute him.

“Nooo we don’t! I don’t need you for anything, except that procreation thing because I want my babies to have your eyes” he kissed me! I was winning “with my eyes as the only other option. I don’t want my babies to have some creepy sperm donor eyes … they’d be all white and squiggly”
Craig broke down into laughter and victory was mine.

On Our Way … aka The Overuse of Parentheses.

It seems that the Husband and I have so far managed to save 30% of the money needed for our shift to the United Kingdom.
So it looks like within 12 months from now, we’ll be there!

It’s so exciting to finally have a saving scheme worked out (oh. how sad. I said it was exciting) but I really miss buying shoes (miss you prettypretty shoes!).
My new mantra is “it’s for a good cause” … the good cause of moving to the U.K? at least it keeps me motivated.

Won’t it be exciting when we’re actually over there though?
I plan to keep this up (as well as my own) and just ramble endlessly about the museums I go to and Craig’s always at carpart stores and the snow and the rain and oh man everyone has accents!!
So thrilling.

The domain name is up for renewal again in 14 days. I keep getting emails counting down the days. They really really want me to keep ohdarling up and running (it’s nice to be loved!) or perhaps they know that I really really want to keep it up and running (sneaky buggers).
So the ads are there. And there’s a paypal donate button over on the side. IF you feel so inclined.

Basically I’m saying that I really don’t know what to make with mince-meat tonight.
There are only so many things I know how to do!
(oh and cook? really isn’t one of them. Poor Craig.)