“It’s just another manic Monday, I wish it were Sunday…cause that’s my fun day.”
I think that song is appropriate for pastors (maybe some wouldn’t agree). I, however, today would. Yesterday I had the privilege of truly embodying the life of a traveling preacher (John Wesley would be so proud). Unlike the great creatures that took our Methodist forefathers from the open air to preaching houses to eventually churches, by this I mean horses, my great stallion more closely resembled an oversized, luggage sodden bus. Well, that’s because it was an oversized, luggage sodden bus that I received a concussion from while retrieving a guitar from underneath (I’m so legit right now).
I traveled to the metropolis of Cork and to a little port city called Kinsale. Both were delightful. I will have to say, however, “way to flatter a girl Cork.” Let’s just say I got several offers to stay in Ireland. How sweet, I truly appreciate these remarks—they warm my heart, confirm my calling, and increasingly make me miss my mom. It’s true—if Karen was willing to move to the Emerald Isle, I may only return to America for month long holidays here and there (offended individuals please refer to the may in that clause). And by those offended I mean a handful of people, who I will now name: Marni Robins, Kelsi Robins, Lindsey Baynham, Erin Beall, Astronaut Mike Dexter (he cares in my dreams), and three precious puppies (better make that just two, Riley wouldn’t really care, better make it just one actually Razzle probably wouldn’t either), correction—and one precious puppy: Reese Marie Robins.
And I fear on those month long holidays that I may become so caffeine and Mexican Food sodden—that TSA may question my capacity to travel (fill in your own joke please).
This has and will continue to be my genuine, polite, pastorally politically correct, and (maybe just a little hopeful) response to requests for me to stay: “O well, you know—I wouldn’t limit God’s call, so I would never put the possibility out of my mind.” (insert girly giggle).
At this point it may be important (scratch that, I am not willing to commit that my blog is important)….At this point it may be…hmmm…well it may fit to analyze for a just a quick second some of the things I miss in America (Irish people don’t be offended, when I get home I promise to write a blog about the things I miss in Ireland and then my American friends can be offended, and I’ll tell them, “awwww…I love you too, now stop being so arrogant.”)
The official list of things I miss in America (this list is copyrighted, so you better pay up…)
1. Coffee. Instant may be convenient, but it is gross. Endstop (Americans that’s Irish for the grammatical period). And, not to hurt your feelings, but the filtered here is too strong for me. I’m one of two things in this world: a gourmet latte connoisseur (a majority milk) or a gas station, late night, hazelnut coffee with a splash of skim milk (light creamer if skim isn’t available) with a splenda (health freaks—I know it’s bad, get off your high horse, p.s. that is a dated cultural reference we don’t really ride horses to get places anymore, except on Tuesday I’m riding a horse with my first age appropriate friend in Ireland huzzah!—be jealous).
2. Coffee automatically brings me to the next thing I will say I miss…guess? It’s a little place I like to call WAWA. Wawa is a little foretaste of heaven (blasphemy, perhaps?). Where else can you get both a delicious meal for yourself and for your car in one stop? I know you are saying condescendingly, “Lot’s of places Kori, it’s called a gas station.” And to you I say, “yes, but where can you get all those things and a clean, accessible restroom…AHA! I have stumped you, and Wawa is the greatest ever whoever disagrees is a communist (Lindsey Baynham, you shut your mouth when you’re talking to me).
3. Next is another logical step in the ladder: I miss my car. Now, I believe all privileged brats of my generation should be forced to live without their precious steel stallion for a brief period, and for this experience I am grateful (and not dead, so anyone can do it). But I miss SPJ (not the director of Field Ed who I accidently, well unconsciously, referred to as this during an improv show), no I miss my car, Sally Patmos Junior. To you SPJ, I promise I won’t yell or get angry with you for the first week I am home. That’s what you mean to me. I can’t wait to listen to audiobooks with you and stop on the side of the road for over-priced, half-ripened fruits and vegetables. Yes! And then together we can stop at one of America’s greatest drive thrus…
4. Starbucks I am referring to—can’t help it—a latte by any other name is disgusting (honeybadger style). Yes, hipsters may question my audacity and my flailing commitment to seek out the little guy and then when no one is watching you will go into Starbucks on the other side of town and get your venti, chai latte with soy milk, extra hot, no water, no foam. And drink it shamefully while you contemplate and practice how to judge others for your own secrets. Grad students aren’t the worst, hipsters are, and secretly I want to be one (hehe).
This blog is lacking theology: spermatikos logos—if you don’t know what that is then seminary is doing its job.
5. I miss budgetary shortfalls…just kidding, I was trying to lighten the mood. It didn’t work, okay. I am going to go sign off on my student loans now to add a little more money to our national debt. I feel true guilt for this.
6. NPR…national public radio. As you continue to zap my account each month, I secretly relish in knowing you still exist. I miss you Rebecca Montagne and Steve Innskeep and whoever is filling in for them that morning. I miss you people’s pharmacy and the splendid table. I miss you Talk of the Nation, and last but not least I miss you BBC morning news. In America, you are exotic and make me feel superiorly informed about the world’s politics and events. But here in Ireland, you are annoyingly the norm and make me feel nothing. Call me a leftist, media elite, who probably shops at Wholefoods (Wholepaycheck) or Trader Joes and sometimes (once every six months) remembers her reusable bags…yea you think I’m pretty cool. You can blame this addiction on the number 7 thing I miss (always number one in my heart—did I mention these are not in order of importance but in stream of consciousness thought)…
7. My MOM. Let me just say her name is Karen, and she is totally better than your mom. Did your mom make you listen to NPR as a child, so that you became addicted to programs like “The Jefferson Hour”—exactly—my mom rocks. Does your mom call you in the middle of Ireland and google whether or not there are any Starbucks in the metropolis of Cork?—exactly. P.S. There are none, except one in the airport. Does you mom mail you your mac charger and seasons of 30 Rock, so you can maintain your university educated, hipster humor—right o, my boy, my mom R.O.C.K.s. and my mom is married to number 8.
8. My DAD. Let me just say his name is Willard but we call him Bill and he rocks because he reads my blog, he makes other people read my blog, and he is waiting until I get home to see the new Planet of the Apes movie. He also informed me that we are going to see the Redskins play in October and when I informed him I would need pink accented, Redskins attire. He emailed me one word back: obviously. My dad rocks and yours is a dentist. The former and the latter gave birth to #9.
9. My siblings. I have nine—you don’t. Discussion over.
10. Elmo’s Diner, last but definitely not least…I miss everything about this place. Well mostly the food and the people (Lindsey Baynham and Erin Beall will go down in history as permanent Elmo’s buddies). When you shamefully ask if we can wait a little longer to go to dinner at Elmo’s because you ate lunch there and want to make sure it’s a new waitstaff for shame of your gluttony-then you can be my friend. I will have to say that all three of us have done this before. When any combination of us is asked where would you like to eat, we pretend to think hard and sometimes even draw it out, but it is always the same. We make up lame excuses like “there is just so much variety”—bottom line: Elmo’s is our version of “Saved by the Bell’s” Max. We are cool. (This was a paid endorsement of Elmos—I wish).
There you have it. I like things in America (Lizbet Maxwell, do you see how I did that.) I love some things in America.
I almost forgot—I had to take a solo-vacation this past week (also something I miss in America—taking vacations with ma familia). Anyways it was an epic-fail. No, not epic. It was okay. It was kind of boring actually.
You see when traveling for pleasure alone, you must play three roles: the mom (get yourself where you need to be when you need to be there); the kid (be at the place you are going and participate); the kid’s best friend (entertain kid and make sure he/she enjoys said vacation). This is exhausting. I saw a castle, missed my bus, and didn’t have a TV at my B&B. I slept a lot? I guess that’s fun. There will be more to say about this outing in future blogs.
LAST THOUGHT…
The AMERICANS have arrived from California and will be in Ireland for the next two weeks doing youth and children’s ministry in Killarney. Pray for us and our ministry. AND I will see all five of the people who read this blog in two weeks. I love you like a mouse loves cheese (this is how my mom cleaned up the once popular phrase her children used: I love you like a fat kid loves cheesecake—I told you my mom rocks!).
Peace.
