Hunting Jobs and Des Bishop (Both Elude Us)

Do hangovers work backwards?  Woke up yesterday tired, but generally fabulous, in Lilsister’s spare room, and whilst I didn’t bounce out of the bed I was capable of organising juice, tea, scrambled eggs and healthy grained toast.  Have I ever told you about my scrambled eggs?  They are buttery delights in a pot, and on special occasions, made with cream if I’m feeling like having a heart attack before I’m forty.  It is also scrambled eggs that made me fall for ExHimself, as when I first met him, I could not cook AT ALL, and used to go to a particular cafe in Sydney for my scrambled eggs on the weekends, as a hangover treat.  Anyway, one Saturday I awoke to find ExHimself cooking scrambled eggs in my little white kitchen and that was that.  I kept him on for many years on that basis.  So much so that when myself and Trevor met for lunch on Monday she told me that when I finally meet a new man (in the mists of the future I think) that ”he must NOT be allowed” to make me scrambled eggs.  What this means, and I’m not digressing, is that as nobody needs to make me scrambled eggs anymore, I will be alone forever.

I went back to bed, refusing cuddles with Lilsister (I HATE to cuddle when I have been on the drink) and we both got up at 1.30pm, which is disgraceful, but there you go.  I ate a fizzy cola bottle, for the sugar rush, and felt more tired than before, but okay, until we drove to Papabear, bringing him his junk food fix (burger with extra onions, and onion rings) and then I felt quite ill in the stomach area, and had to pop an anti vomit tablet Lilsister found amongst Mammy’s many medicines in the kitchen.

After that it was a junk food date with Sisinlaw and our niece N and life slowly returned to the old bones, but I have to say I did feel a lot worse as the day wore on.  Is this an age thing?  I know hangovers are supposed to hurt more but I find the older I get the more I drink (for obvious reasons) and it takes a lot more to HAVE  hangover.  But a reverse one is a newbie for me I must admit, and very confusing.

So on Thursday Lilsister had a second interview with a company in Harcourt Street for an actual job.  We were terribly excited so decided to celebrate the fact that 1.There is an actual job going in Dublin and 2.Braille had secured a second interview for this rarity.  As the interview was at 3pm, we decided to make an evening of it, deciding upon a couple of glasses of wine afterwards, followed by a nice meal.   The interview finished at 3.30 and off we went to the wonderful basement of Fallon and Byrne’s to sit at a barrel and drink Spanish white, and then a little Italian sparkling.  Feeling warm and giggly, we then made it all the way to Westmorland Street for earlybird (read: cheap – there’s a depression on in Ireland you know) Thai, which included a VERY oaked bottle of wine, which I complained about, and got normal tasting wine instead.

Now I forgot to mention between Fallons and the Thai place is the International Bar, and we took it as a sign that it was comedy night, so we decided over dinner that we were to go back to the comedy club and somehow get our comedy careers started.  We’ve been in deep discussions about my writing and Braille performing some standup, but obviously with my background as a banker and Lilsister’s as a credit controller we are a little bemused as to where to start.  Anyway.  We noted that the alleged comedy club in the International Bar is hosted each week by either Des Bishop or his brother, whose name escapes me, although Lilsister had met him one time when she was last at the International, as he came over to her and said ”do you know who I am” but alas she did not, and the brother could not capitalise on dear Des’s Irish fame.

I’m not exactly sure what the plan was but I think it would have included the general accosting of Des Bishop (for what, I don’t know) and the establishment of ourselves as fully paid up writers and comedians, by the end of the night.

Des wasn’t there, but Lilsister recognised the brother on one of the few seats, so we did our own stand up at the bar and hit the beer, and accosted the musicians to play something we could sing along to (this is how bad they are – they sang ONE Simon and Garfunkel song, and then advised me that they didn’t know any others.  Call yourselves stoners lads???  Disgraceful.  They also had a toy xylophone – pathetic.  Clearly just there for the girls, who it has to be said, SURROUNDED them).

We never made it to the comedy night anyways, as I spotted a not so familiar face sitting right beside me, and it turned out to be a bloke I had last seen, in college, 18 years ago (I hadn’t realised it had been 18 years, this was kindly pointed out to me by my friend later – THANKS).  This was a GREAT friend of mine in college, he was in my little gang almost from the first week I went there, and we roamed the streets on Friday mornings hitting the pub instead of attending classes, and have had many deep and meaningful discussions along the way.  He also stood up in one class one day, and declared he was going home, but before he did, he sang a rousing rendition of ”New York New York” with overcoat, manbag and umbrella in hand, ending up on his knees, practically in tears with the emotion.  And it was only half nine in the morning.  Great stuff.

So me, Lilsister, the Newyorker and his two friends basically drank beers for the rest of the night, and had a huge fight over who made the best shepherd’s pie between Lilsister and one of Newyorker’s friend (Lilsister’s SOUNDED better, but, frighteningly, the friend had pictures on his phone of a recently-completed shepherd’s pie – straight out of the oven, and then with a slice taken out of it).

Then Lilsister got the hiccups really badly so we ran out to Grafton Street for Burger King, a quick call to Papabear to wake him up and tell him that we were eating again (he thinks we’re savages, the fool) and then taxi back to Lilsister’s place, where we woke up Scarydancer in our slow but giggly search for some pyjamas for me.  Lilsister hiccupped throughout, and then I passed out, in a t-shirt.

It’s All About Timing

It’s half nine AT NIGHT and I am trying to WRITE.   I am also in bed tapping away on my laptop.  Papabear is asleep in his boudoir.

Mammy has decided that this is excellent timing to climb up into the attic and throw down two giant plastic bags which contain the familial Christmas tree.  This has made an unmerciful noise.  Which is fine.  Because banging around an attic and throwing stuff down the stairs gets you all the attention you think you need.

Mammy has also decided it is now time to shove the NEW Christmas tree into the attic.  This gigantic box containing the aforementioned newbie tree has been sitting in the downstairs hall for at least two weeks.  Somehow, it has been moved to Papabear’s boudoir.  It is about five feet tall and extremely heavy.

Naturally, it has become my job to cease working, as Mammy has called me to go into Papabear’s room and obtain the new tree, and pass it up the ladder to Mammy.  Which is fine, as I didn’t do any weight lifting this week.

I have nearly broken my neck standing on the two giant plastic bags that contain the old Christmas tree and pulled a muscle passing the new giant box of a tree up to Mammy who then proceeded to yank the thing from me, drop it back on me, and proclaim that I wasn’t helping at all.  I also had to wake Papabear, not advisable under normal circumstances, let alone in a Christmas tree crisis.

I am most miffed, and having jumped back in bed to continue my writer’s block, realise that Papabear is now awake and yelling at Mammy from the bottom of the ladder.  The radio has been switched on and The GaGa is advising that she is bluffin with her muffin, and I SO get that.


Decided to tackle the short story I’ve been attempting to write for the last two weeks, AGAIN, and find things are flowing well.  I’ve put this down to the fact that amongst my mother’s terrible cd’s (Celine Dion and Leona Lewis OVERLOAD) I have struck musical gold, by locating a Barry Mannilow one, which not only has covers of very excellent songs by the Beatles and the Carpenters and the Hollies, but has an accoustic section at the end, which includes such poptastic tunes as Mandy, Weekend in New England and Looks Like we Made it!!!  I am in Fannilow heaven, and hoping I have a job soon and that I can get a ticket to see His Amazingness when he comes to Dublin in May.

In a haze of musical-induced writing, I am also texting Trevor about a lunch date next Monday, which happens to be the day I officially sign on to the dole.  I should be in a spiral of depression and comfort eating will be required, so we are having burgers.  Trevor says she will take a few minutes to get to the intended lunch spot, so can I order for her, and has texted me her lunch order already.  Today is Wednesday.  We are not lunching till Monday.  It’s scary, but it makes me realise how much I love her.

I am also reminded of my run in with Barry Mannilow in Howth, in north Dublin, one autumn day many years ago.  This would have been in 1992 or 1993, because this is around the time I was in college in Coolock in Dublin, and my friend lived in Kilbarrack nearby (don’t know Kilbarrack?  Watch ”The Committments” for a shot of the train station, which was given lights for the filming, which were promptly taken away again.  For more Kilbarrack, watch ”The Snapper” which was filmed on my friend’s road, and in her local pub – the car scene – ”That was A1 Sharon!”).  To get home to Tallaght, I used to walk to the Howth Road and get a bus to town, if I couldn’t hack the gangs and drug dealers at the station.  Sometimes, because I used to have a sense of adventure, I would take the bus in the opposite direction and head straight up to Howth, which I did on the day Barry Mannilow nearly killed me.

There I was rambling around, looking at the expensive houses (still a pastime of mine, a sad one I admit) when I must have wandered out onto the road, in a state of posh-housing induced rapture, and not noticed, for I heard a bit of a screech and I turned to see a big black car (I presume it was an expensive one, but knowing nothing of cars I can only describe what I saw) about to hit me.  Luckily, expensive cars have excellent brakes, and the driver screeched to a halt mere inches from my bod.  I looked up, shocked at my close encounter with death, and realised it was Barry Mannilow behind the wheel!  Imagine my tears of joy, not at being alive, but at being accosted by Barry in his Deathmobile.  He knew I knew him too.  He shook his head, laughed, and screeched, and sped away again, leaving me breathless, as if touched by a famous angel.

I love Barry Mannilow.

If You Don’t Laugh You’ll Take to the Bed

”Today,” I announced to my parents earlier from under the duvet, ”I have taken to the bed, and will not get up until I have a job.”  Both parents, standing at the door of the room, looked at each other.  Papabear said ”What’s for tea?” and Mammy said ”Fish.”  As I don’t eat fish, I said ”I don’t eat fish.”  Then they both left, closing the door behind them.

Alone, I suddenly realised I was slightly peckish and can announce that I followed my ever loving parents to the kitchen where I partook of some tea and toast.  Then Mammy read my angel cards which have advised me to take a course in comedic writing,  and then become a stand up comedian.  This is funny, as I discussed the possibility of writing a comedy show thing with Lilsister, which she promised she would perform, as I am too ugly to go on stage.  The angel also asked me to have a sense of humour about my present situation, that being – I am alone, broke, jobless and living with my parents at the age of 37 with nothing but the rustling of divorce papers to keep me warm at night.

Funny?  You betcha.

Speaking of funny, had another weird dream last night.  Most of my dreams are weird but usually I forget all about them.  In it, I was a sad 37 year old living with her parents.  I was in our house, which looked slightly different, when a soldier from World War 1 parachuted into our housing estate, and plopped onto a field outside the house across the road. I watched this from a bedroom window, then went back to what I assume was my bedroom, and two people from my last job in Melbourne were there – Marcus the old team leader and Princess Martina, the excessively self-obsessed bloke who sat slightly behind me.  Both advised me they were here to clean the windows, as they had recently become window cleaners.  I congratulated them on finding jobs and advised them that I had not.  Then they said they had to go and clean the windows.  Then I said to them – what are you doing in Paris?  Which is odd because I live in Dublin, and the soldier outside was shouting at the house across the road for one of my Dublin neighbours to accompany him back to the war.

Then I saw Sarkozy on the news telling the Greeks how to manage their debt problems.  Think I’ll stick to Dublin.  Paris seems colder by comparison.


Mammy Takes the Weekend and the Ghost Takes Everything Else

Strange days in the familial household.  Mammy’s moods seemed to have calmed down somewhat, just as Papabear’s strike up again.  It all kicked off on Sunday when Mammy announced to a very hungover Papabear that she was ”taking her weekends back”.  In English, this means that she will not cook Sunday roasts anymore, as allegedly they have taken her weekend from her.  Somehow.  Instead, she will visit her sister, for many hours on a Sunday and not cook.  I think.  I mean the basic upshot is that there will not be roast dinner, via Mammy, anymore.

Cue rolling of eyes, not in a ”whatever” way from Papabear, but in a hungover, what the hell are you on about type look, as he banged around the kitchen looking for headache tablets.  In what he thought was a cutting reply, but was in fact a help to Mammy’s stance, Papabear has declared that if there is no roast dinner in the house on Sundays then there will be no Papabear in the house on Sundays either.  This is supposed to be a bad thing.  Why husbands think that threatening absenteeism to their wives will help them win fights/public stances of taking weekends back, will always be beyond me.  Wives will think ”party!!!” and get on with aforementioned weekends.

This was all done in the kitchen, which has reminded me, as I’m sitting here and reaching for the biscuits, and noting that the packet that appeared quite full the other day (when it was bought) is in fact practically empty.  Could it be that there seems to be a demon eater in our little house of fun and games?  Over Christmas, Mammy had amassed a small fortune in biscuits, chocolates, cakes, puddings etc etc for the festive period.  Yet she declares she hasn’t eaten any of it.  And I haven’t either – that’s not to say I NEVER eat it but for the simple reason that I get crippling headaches if I eat rubbish several days in a row, I actually CANNOT eat it – and we’ve established that Papabear is too lazy to get his own food, preferring instead to take weekends from people in order that they can get it for him…well if I’m not, and Papabear isn’t, and Mammy insists that even though she bought it all it’s not for her – who then?  Nobody visits us because I usually visit them, and let’s be fair, Papabear and Mammy cannot be introduced into society yet, so I believe the secret stuffer of junk food must be within the four walls of our house, and being as I’ve just watched all three Paranormal Activity films since I moved back to Ireland I conclude, as an expert, that it must be a ghost.  It makes perfect sense.  Besides, every time I query Mammy on the subject she hits me and calls me a bitch, so it CAN’T be her.

I digress, but not for long.

Papabear, having shouted as loudly as his head would let him that he would not remain in the house on any Sunday that did not see Mammy producing a roast, also declared that he would not eat ANY food that Mammy prepares, ever in his life again.  This meant that on Monday (after we all got a roast on the Sunday) he would not eat the leftover meat, veg and mash that Mammy made, and which I gratefully inhaled.  He instead made a sandwich of cheese and crisps, which didn’t look great, in all fairness.

By Tuesday I was lecturing him on the non-benefits of eating crisp sandwiches which he ate at lunch aswell, for which I got a rant about roasts and missing weekends.  I left him to it and was delighted to see him joining us for Tuesday dinner – having made his point about never eating Mammy’s cooking again, he appears to have lasted a good 24 hours in his conviction, and this is to be admired, not laughed at, and how dare you think otherwise.

I am on dinner duty tonight, preparing my potato cakes, in an effort to convince my parents to eat less meat.  Mammy called me earlier to take the sausages out of the freezer so that they are defrosted in time for dinner.

I also showed Papabear my leek and potato soup earlier, lovingly prepared from scratch, with fabulous garlic bread, at which he sniffed, and reached for the crisps.

Who needs tv, with this great stage of fools.  Sigh.

When Mince is a Lie

It might be New Year’s Day and I might be watching the nine o clock news on our ever-pointless national television station (which opened with the newsreader declaring ”happy new year to you” and then proceeded to list all the new charges and bills coming into effect from today – thanks lads, and happy new year’s back, you depressing cretins, cause that’s exactly what we in Ireland need right now, a list of MORE things we can’t afford, after a fake greeting wishing us nothing but more bad news so you PRICKS can have something to report on so we have something to CRY ABOUT and then you can be happy you ARSEHOLES) – BUT there are more pressing issues at hand that don’t include the fact it’s 2012.

By the way, whilst watching the above I sunk into a mini depression and have now flicked over to Ferris Bueller’s Day Off as reality and my hangover hurt too much.

Anyway, I have discovered, after a night spent yapping to Smashers whilst staying in her apartment, that there is NO MINCE IN MINCE PIES.  Never knew this – having always assumed the word ”mince” alluded to, you know, MINCE, or meat of some kind, and it’s an English dessert thing, and they have a thing about meat pies, as do the Australians, who just want to be British anyway (they don’t know it but they do, no matter how American their cities seem).

Smashers was telling me how she was forced at a Christmas family gathering to try a mince pie, after refusing to eat one all her life, because she didn’t like the idea of eating, you, know, MINCE, like, in a PIE.  Anyway she was peer pressured into eating one and discovered that mince means some sort of fruit mash type thing, and it wasn’t as vomit inducing as she had thought.  She asked me did I realise mince pies didn’t have meat and I said no, and we discussed this alongside our usual deep and meaningful stuff, so it’s not like we’re boring or anything.

Should also mention here that after I had gone to bed, I had a VERY sleepless night imagining Smashers was standing at the end of my bed like yer woman from Paranormal Activity, of which myself and Lilsister saw with Firstbrother and Preggers in their apartment (Part 3 this time) and which stressed us out immensly.  But that is a separate issue.

Mentioned the mince pie thing to Lilsister who finds it hilarious that somebody would think mince pies contain meat and despite my perfectly valid arguments that these are an English tradition, and they eat lots of meat pies etc, she is using this as an excuse to slag off and generally belittle me, which is getting quite annoying.  She also can’t believe Smashers thought the same thing, which I think only confirms what I said.

She’s nine years younger, which makes her a total twat anyways, that’s what I think.