itchy feet

"And just out of curiosity, are you Irish or American who just lived in Ireland for a while?" Good question Shorty. It's probably confusing sometimes times with all my New York, Boston, Texas, Dublin talk. And to be honest, sometimes The Husband gets confused too and he tells people that I'm Irish and this gets on my wick because no I'm not, I'm American.

So I'm going to try to unmuddle everything. And this is great for me because it has been a slow week in Le Petit Village with nothing much to report (except; Monday night The Husband saw a dog get hit by a car, and then on Tuesday night he hit a deer. The Husband has needed a lot of cuddles this week). So unmuddle I will do. And there may or may not be a quiz later.
(There won't be a quiz. I don't believe in quizzes on Fridays)

Let's see... where to begin... to quote the Sound of Music (because that seems like a Christmasy thing to do) "Let's start at the very beginning. A very good place to start"... My mother. My born in Dublin, Irish mother hightailed it to NYC as quickly as her little eighteen year old legs could carry her (It should be noted that she didn't actually run to NYC, she flew, and also  technically she moved to New Jersey, but as soon as the Au Pair gig ended, it was nothing but the Big Apple for her).

And it was there in the Big Apple on a hot summer night she met my Massachusetts daddy. Two weeks later they were engaged and four weeks after that they got married. My mother with flowers in her hair and a white lace mini while Hey Jude played in the background. It was all very peace and love wasn't it? For the record, if I was to get engaged after two weeks and married after six I'd be in serious trouble and probably grounded no matter how old I was. (But like Mom, I did get married in a mini).

And then on a cold February day, I made my debut into the world in the glorious city of New York. Because I guess I figured if I could make it there I could make it anywhere. And I grew up in NY until one day, while looking out over Manhattan through the window of my mother's office on 5th and 42nd (an address that really might as well be the center of the universe) my mother uttered these crazy words, "We're moving to Texas." 
Hold up... What? As visions of cowboys and tumbleweeds rolled through my NY head.

So Mom and I moved to Texas and Dad stayed in NY and then the D I V O R C E happened. And then I flip flopped back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until the college years where I figured out that the stars at night, truly are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas so I'd decided to stay put.

And stay put I did, until my feet started to feel itchy and I wondered what else was out there in the big wide world. And I thought that maybe my mother who had returned to Dublin shouldn't be there unsupervised because lord only knows what kind of scraps she could get into, or maybe she was lonely and would really like my company (for the record she wasn't and she didn't) and so I sold my Cherokee, packed some trunks and away I went to the land of Leprechauns.

Meanwhile my Dad's feet had gotten itchy too, and he scratched them all they way back to Massachusetts, and then he met my step-mom. So he returned to his roots and now I'm always looking for cheap plane tickets to Boston. Because sometimes, a girl misses her daddy.

And it was in Dublin's fair city that I met The Husband and voila... now I'm in France. (One day I swear I'll post the story of how we met). So to sum up and cover all the places bases... Dad is in Massachusetts, my childhood belongs to NY, lots of my stuff sits in storage in Texas, I'm in France and Mom is in Dublin. Until next month when she moves back to Texas.

It's those damn itchy feet.

bisou