And now for something completely different.

Oasis, Bono and the lost passports.

In the early spring of 1999, I moved from New York City to Sligo, Ireland.

I was a 24 year old who had recently flunked out of college, essentially because in my ever-so-wise 24 year old mind, my then boyfriend (eventual husband, eventual ex-husband) was a far more interesting use of all of my time and attention than actually attending class in a city 200+ miles away.

So, I did what any incredibly mature and rational and eye towards the future 24 year old who’d just spent an entire semester throwing away a perfect grade average by simply never going to class would do — I moved in with my boyfriend in New York.

That career as the White House Press Secretary I’d been dreaming of and working towards?

Fuck it. I was in love.

So off to New York I went. Got a waitressing job at a pretty swanky seafood joint on the Upper East Side called The Atlantic Grill and started playing house with the man I thought was the love of my life and his absolute psycho of a roommate, Chris.

I had abandoned the path I had been traveling towards the career I wanted, and frankly, at the time, I didn’t even look back.

I was in love.

And when that man that I loved so deeply, so desperately, so breathlessly - told me that he had decided to move to Ireland with his band mates (one of which was from Ireland and needed to go back for medical care), and that they were destined to be “the next Oasis”, I panicked.

‘He can’t leave. He can’t move. To IRELAND?!? I can’t survive without him! I’ll literally die.’ I thought.

“You can’t leave” I said. “I’ll literally die.”

He said he simply had to go and chase down his certain future of fame. They were ‘really good’ and they all just knew they’d instantly get paying gigs. After all, the Irish fella in the band named Tom knew all the owners of all the live music spots, so it was basically set in stone.

He told me that they’d be practicing when they weren’t playing shows, and that he would be working non-stop. And while he was assuring me that the move wouldn’t be “forever” he couldn’t say just how long it might be. It really depended on how fast they hit it big.

Looking back, it’s really all just so ridiculous, that it’s impossible for me not to laugh at just how fucking ridiculous it was. But I digress.

I really didn’t know how I would survive. What was I supposed to do - move back to Jersey? While the man who I had decided at that time, defined every single solitary shred of my self-worth moved across the ocean to become a rockstar?

”I have to go with you.” I said.