Modern Bathroom Ruins Modern Family

Still popping up to Mammy and Papabear’s house to use their internet, which doesn’t take two years to upload.  Got the Mannilow Monster on full whack, cause he rocks.  Papabear seems to be back on form, he has just visited me in the kitchen where he plonked half a tub of ice cream into a bowl and floated off again, presumably to have manmoody thoughts.   Told you PMT is best fed so all should be well soon.

Spent the morning with my meditation group which I now have to abandon due to employment being found.  Put in request with them for evening sessions, as it is most beneficial when one has been abandoned by one’s husband, found herself homeless and jobless and returned to Ireland in the midst of winter.  If it helps me, it must be helpful.

Popped up to the house to catch on my programmes lovingly taped by me for me on the sky plus thing, which I barely understand, but which works wonderfully if Mammy doesn’t delete everything, which she likes to do as she gets panic attacks if she has less than 60% worth of memory available.

One of my daily treats is a double helping of my near favourite comedy ”Modern Family”.  I have nothing bad to say about the show itself, but I must advise that Cam should be my daddy for evermore, he is a dream parent.  Having said that, I must protest in earnest at the ad that precedes all the episodes I’ve taped so far.  I have no idea what it is for, clearly a bathroom company of some sort, because it has all this clips of an Aryan-style child, doing crazy things in the toilet (???) like shaving, dancing and – gasp! – reading the paper.  I hate Whiteboy, with a passion I didn’t realise I had left in me.  He never speaks, his sole existence is to occupy the GIANT bathroom that I will never experience, let alone own, doing not so funny grown up styled antics, presumably whilst the rest of his family wait outside the door clutching their crotches and hoping the door opens soon.  I say family, but it’s probably only his parents, as he has GOT to be an only child, spoiled and unspecial, and going slightly mad, sibling-less, in the toilet.  I foresee a road of sexual incompetence, emotional issues and a dented head if I ever get my boots on and see him in an alleyway somewhere.  I HATE HIM.

The other thing I hate about these ads is that they are slow yet quick.  Slow in that they are long enough for you to build  a hate machine which you then turn on when they come on, letting all the hate and bile spray over the tv, but too quick for fast forwarding on the ”x12” or ”x30” speeds, which I prefer, as I see fewer ads, because I have issues with advertising, that are too boring to go into now, and for which I am too tired to go on about because I got up early to meditate and I need an afternoon nap.

I fast forward all the other ads, then in literally a  BLINK, this ad flashes on the screen long enough for me to know it’s there, and my programme is about to begin, because – and here is the scumbag part – when Modern Family starts they don’t show a Modern Family sign, they just GET INTO IT, right after these STUPID BATHROOM ADS, meaning all too often I then MISS the start of my show, and begin throwing large, unprofessional-like tantrums because I then have to REWIND, on the ”x6” speed, which means I ALWAYS catch a glimpse of Blondebits doing his stupid shaving dance, or swinging his legs on the toilet or whatever non-hilarity they’ve thrown at me this day.  I CAN NEVER JUST GET THE SPEED RIGHT AT THE START OF THE SHOW.  Having rewinded the opening parts of Modern Family, I find myself back in the white bathroom with the white child and then I have to FAST FORWARD, AGAIN, on ”x6” meaning I have to then watch the whole ad again before catching the start of my programme!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I hate marketers, and advertisers, and this child.  I would hate the company too if I knew who they were, but I don’t.

I should probably go and watch my programme now, I’ve just remembered I’ve two new ones today.

Barry is now cranking out Long and Winding Road – bust it out sista!!!!!!!!!!

A Pad for Your Thoughts

Spending quality time with Mammy and Papabear for various reasons, mainly to use their high speed internet connection (Lilsister’s laptop, stolen from Ex-Himself after we emigrated to Australia is pretty slow due to her pay as you go stick thing internet connection) and also to give Scarydancer some man time to himself in the apartment, as he awaits the imminent arrival of Lilsister from Day 2 in The New Job.

Unfortunately Papabear must have his periods for he is very moody this evening.  Not sure what it is as Mammy only came home from her own work after I got here, and he was already stomping around upstairs combing each individual hair in preparation for training his football team.  Papabear’s hair preparation rituals is the stuff of legend in our family as he takes longer to prepare and set his extremely short barnett than any of the women in the house, no mean feat when we all colour, blowdry and straighten our hair.  He takes THAT LONG.  Lilsister has often joked that it must take the time it does as each individual follicle receives the utmost in attention and styling products, what other reason could there possibly be?  I think she is right.  Last Christmas, as a joke, she bought him a giant (by giant I mean think the length of your arm, and double it) bottle of ”extreme hold” hairspray, in reference to the vast amounts he uses every time he goes out, lest his tiny hairs wave in the Irish wind.  It was a joke, but Papabear was genuinely delighted with the gift, stating that with a bottle that size, he would get a good week out of it.   The joke and the lead balloon fell to the floor together in a thunderous crash of nothingness.  We all looked at each other, and asked Mammy when the turkey would be ready.

So after stomping around upstairs, Papabear took to stomping down the stairs and banging various items in the kitchen, whilst Mammy and I watched the news in the living room.   Only when the newsreader took a breath (they need to after the deluge of bad news that they DELIGHT in presenting to us – pricks) and there was a second’s silence, could Papabear be heard saying ”for fuck’s sakes” a lot.  As he was eating his hastily prepared dinner I’m not quite sure what the problem was, because when I have my periods or PMT or general womanly mood swings, a good feed usually sorts the issue out.  No so with manmoods.

Speaking of periods, Lilsister and I have collated all of our period related paraphernalia into a giant, see-through bag, and have hung it on the back of one of her storage cupboards.  I happened to have a few packs of stuff but Lilsister, in pure Mammy-influenced mode, will buy ANYTHING if it’s reduced, free, or two for the price of one, and has amassed a startling collection of wings, longs, shorts, thins, pads, bags, flats, shaped, daily, nightly and a variety of pretty packaging.  You got a mood swing, we got the pad for it.  There are literally HUNDREDS of them, and every time I go to the cupboard to get a clean towel, a paper bag for recycling, or some shampoo, I get hit in the face with it.  This is fine, but I fear for Scarydancer in the same situation, nobody needs to be hit in the face, but to be hit in the face with an array of sanitary towels on a regular basis is surely not what he signed up for as a roomie.

I must go and find something for Papabear, not sure if there is anything that relates to general frostiness, cursing and stompingess, but perhaps something infused with aloe vera or a shower fresh scent would do the trick.  All I can do is try.

The Beginnings of a Beginning

Valentine’s Day…and Lilsister is busy lighting an aromatherapy candle.  The good one, which doesn’t give you headaches (we both suffer, although she is far worse than me.  There have been TWO incidents in the last week where I have had to go into full headache reducing massage mode, quite tiring when you are old and silly).  This candle is a big one, so big it has TWO wicks.  So there is a lot of aromatherapy in the air, this Valentine’s Day.  Sounds romantic?  You big eejit.  For one thing, I’m there, the Romance-Reflector, and for another thing, the candle is being placed in the bathroom after Scarydancer has had a particularly vigorous session emptying his bowels.  Ah, the joys of sharing, I remember it well.  Lilsister places the candle in the bathroom, in what I presume is a vain effort to reduce the demons of mansmells, and calls out to us both ”Happy Valentine’s Day”.  Mills and Boon, do call.

I’ve moved in with Lilsister and Scarydancer, having enjoyed my jollidays there so much whilst they were away.  I get to see little N all the time, as she is in the apartment block opposite with Sisinlaw and Babybro, and Preggers and Firstbrother are just two floors down in our own apartment block, so four of the five children are within 30 seconds of each other.  It is most cosy, believe it or not, toilet issues aside.  I have a little room, with a bed that I originally gave to Firstbrother, who gave it to Lilsister, who left it for me, where the mattress is a different size to the base, but I have a radio, a heater and about a quarter of a wardrobe to use (Lilsister SWEARS she will empty this out – I remain watchful, and wait quietly, for now).  On Fridays we consume wine with Sisinlaw and Preggers, and during the week we consume wine as we believe it helps us sleep, and because we can’t afford any drugs.

Lilsister runs the household with a Stalin-esque type grip, insisting on roomie meetings at least once a week so she can lecture Scarydancer and myself on whichever recycling we have failed to put out, or on meal planning (essential in a recession), or on something she has spotted which is dirty/incorrectly folded/on the wrong shelf.  Luckily Scarydancer doesn’t give a fuck, and I am quite drunk most of the time now, so it washes over us.

Mornings wise, it should work out quite well, Scarydancer rising at five am for his job, Lilsister who STARTED WORK THIS WEEK (whoo hoo!) rising at about 7 for her commute and as of FRIDAY, for a nine month contract, I myself should be getting up around 7.30 for my quite short commute to my new job, a little customer service thing for a big bank.  Hurray!!!!  Evenings should be spent eating, drinking wine to help us sleep, and complaining about public transport.  It will be divine.

Top Half Stressed Bottom Half in Magnolia

Stress can affect people in different ways.  You might lose sleep, or drink too much, and consequently because you are 37 years old, you spend half the night in the toilet having ladywhizzes (but not vomiting because at 37 you can drink a little better than when you were a young child – not that I was a child drinking, you understand, but it seems so long ago that I started drinking that I may as well have been a child.  Except for the time where I didn’t drink for four months.  I had spent a night on a disgraceful mix of pints, shorts and shots and ended up quite literally in a gutter, with my dress – buttons all down the front, split open.  As I say, I was a child then, so it wasn’t such an horrific sight).

Or you can have dreams where you are having sex with someone you know to be gay, whilst beside the bed your old HR manager reads from a list of things that you have done wrong in work.  Ah, my former employer.  I find the best way to deal with painful moments, or many painful moments as the case may be with my former employer, is to simply block them out.  I am Irish after all, and discussing difficult issues is strictly forbidden, although drugging yourself up on prescription tablets is both socially acceptable and morally encouraged.

Occasionally though I am reminded of the madness that once was my life, when having to speak to individuals this week, who may or may not have sneered across a table from me as I cried my eyes out.  Memories of emails about incorrectly discarded sanitary towels, sitting in the disabled toilet in the basement meditating my anger away every hour for fifteen minutes, particularly in the mornings, of the constant need for headache tablets, and the constant scarity of headache tablets for some reason (could we ALL have had so many headaches?) and naturally, the day when it all ended and a new life began.

But rather than dwell on that, like a thoroughbred Irish national I will brush it aside, to be stuck under the rug for another day with a big pint and a soapbox.

So in summary a few stresses this week, coupled with some painting, of the new baby room for Preggers and Firstbrother, which has completely destroyed a pair of tracksuit trousers, covering my legs and arse in magnolia for evermore.  Not to mention the sheer frustration and horror that is painting anyways, but also in a room where my bloody brother did not even empty, leaving me to paint AROUND the furniture, walk into it, and generally curse the day he was ever born.  His feedback?  ”You got paint on the wardrobes”.  Job satisfaction, indeed.  I did too.  This is what happens when you don’t pay professionals.  Not counting the chips I was given on Friday night, which were yummy I must admit.



It’s Jolliday Time

Spent the weekend being a social butterfly, which is unusual for me, and banned under the Irish Unemployment Rules, which states that if you are unemployed it’s your own fault, and you must be miserable, and thankful for the spit that befalls you when someone in the social welfare office bothers to look down on you and judge you for your general unworthiness.


Friday Lilsister and Scarydancer went on their jollidays to the sun, a holiday which was thankfully booked pre-redundancy.  Speaking of which, scrap my earlier rant about the place where Lilsister did TWO interviews and then never heard from them again – at my prompting, with a large stick, she rang them up and asked for feedback on her interviewSSSSS as there did not seem to be any earthly reason why she didn’t get the job (not having farted in the interview or anything, which I was deeply concerned about as Lilsister is VERY gassy).  They didn’t take her call so I told her to email them and they did reply, saying that the process was on hold and that they would get back to her next week.  So not a complete fuck off, and a ray of hope begins to glimmer.

As Lilsister was on her jollidays, this meant that MINE could start too, and I have moved into her apartment for the week to abuse her chocolate press (a WHOLE press yes, devoted to junk food oh the humanity!) and her car, which makes me feel like a normal person again, what with having somewhere to live and a method with which to get around in.  Hurray! I spent the first half hour running room to room, giggling at the space and lack of parents killing each other.  The silence was like a velvetly blanket hugging me.  I embraced it back and began giggling again.

My new founded ability to have my own space prompted invitations to Sisinlaw, who lives in the apartment block opposite, and Preggers, who lives two floors down with Firstbrother, to pop up for a visit, and a chat.  I found a quarter bottle of champagne in the fridge and had a glass of that, while Preggers had the dregs of what was left, and Sisinlaw brought her half bottle of red, and we all settled in for a night of discussing my brothers and their shortcomings, politics, and solving the world’s problems, in that order, until Sisinlaw decided she needed more wine, and ran downstairs to the shops to get some, and I discovered a bottle of prosecco in the fridge, which I did NOT share with Preggers, as she’s pregnant, then we ate some cheese I had just bought, and Preggers and Sisinlaw decided that the red went really well with the cheese, so they had some red and cheese, and I kept drinking, and then it was 2.30am and Preggers and Sisinlaw stumbled out and I decided to wash the dishes, which meant I was quite drunk.

This would all have been fine, except it was Smasher’s 30th birthday the next day, and I had agreed to drive to her apartment, drink more prosecco, then do dinner, a pub and a club.  Unfortunately when I awoke my headache was coming out of the side of my neck, and no amount of my fabulous scrambled eggs with extra salt would appease it.  I felt old, and horrific.  I looked worse.

After seriously considering not going at all, I dragged my sorry bones and Smasher’s pressie to the car and took several breaths, and drove slowly and safely to her apartment, where I had a lie down for an hour and then a glass of prosecco before heading to the Thai place with her and P Diddy, and Smash’s other friends, with whom I had to make conversation.  I did though, and felt triumphant, until the newly wed couple beside me began to banter about their honeymoon, prompting thoughts of bitterness and hatred towards Exhimself, which I did not mention.  I had been given pork belly with a spicy dip, and I just kept eating and looking at our handsome waiter, who was very handsome, but sadly, knew it, rendering him unattractive in my eyes.  Not in Smashers’ though, as she loudly proclaimed in her outside voice that his bum looked like two peaches in a hankie, when he was about ten centimeters away from her.  Then we all told her to use her inside voice and she told us all to fuck off, he couldn’t possibly have heard her.  Then we kept getting served by a nice girl.

Afterwards we went to a trendy pub where trendy people were drinking and I wondered how I had gotten in.  Probably because of P Diddy’s fabulous organisational skills, which are as good as any professional event planner.  Drinking several pints of Tiger beer, I began to get mellow and sheepish, and my headache moved away from my neck and disappeared into the abyss for a while, while I bopped away from the trendy people, lest my unemployment miserableness rubbed off on them and caused them to spiral into despair.

We then hit the streets to Ri Ra, a nice club I hadn’t been into for many moons, and whilst looking for a bathroom I found a dancefloor that was playing Salt n Pepa’s ”Push It” – naturally I had to dance there, and myself and P Diddy enjoyed the 80’s and 90’s medly until some smelly boys and their groping got in the way of us busting our moves.  Good stuff though until that point.

Towards the end of the night, Smashers became seriously drunk, as evidenced by the general ranting and waving of hands to.emphasise.every.single.word. so we were very alarmed when she suggested going to Leeson Street for further boogeying.  My neck had begun bulging again and P Diddy really wanted some junk food.  Outside the club, as Smashers discussed further clubbing, we waited quietly and fretfully while she made up her mind, fearful to tell her what to do on such an important b day.  Luckily, P Diddy spotted Smashers taking a breath mid-rant, and quietly suggested that we go eat, which was immediately accepted, being as Smashers is as much of a savage as the rest of us, and then we ran into the middle of the road, to get to the food, and avoided being murdered by the many taxis, luckily, very luckily.

The night ended quietly after that, apart from my feeling very odd watching Smashers lean against the railings of the Bank of Ireland, pulling her tights and knickers up, which she protested were down around her knees, something I can’t confirm.  She gave them a good yank upwards though, and after food, we were home and for some reason I was showering in her apartment and climbing into bed at 4.30am, and apart from a cock crowing about half an hour later from somewhere within her apartment block, a decent night’s sleep was had by all.

I’ve also promised Sisinlaw and Preggers a meal tomorrow night, which will hopefully not involve more wine and my neck as ceased it’s constant banging and I can walk upright now, as opposed to stooping, or crawling on the floor.  And no more 30th birthdays for a while, it is highlighting the fact that I am nearly forty, and therefore, consigned to the dusty shelf for being crap.  Sniff.

And now to the post office to post an actual job application!!!!  The glimmer gets slightly bigger…

Signing on and Silent Suppers

Just finishing up from what I thought was a very ravishing dinner with Lilsister, Papabear and Mammy, but which I fear was not appreciated by our deranged parents.

Papabear in full New Year’s resolution mode (well it is February) has decided to quit smoking, and finds himself hungry almost most of the time he is awake, currently running at a good six hours per day.  This meant that as Lilsister’s shepherd’s pie was fizzling away in the oven, next to my own amazing garlic bread rolls, Papabear sat at the table, with a napkin, cutlery, cup of tea, bread roll (as he hates anything garlic-related) and a jam doughnut, naturally, until the food was eventually slopped up on a plate to him, by a strangely silent Mammy.  Dinner was short and quiet with only the gnashing of teeth from Lilsister and desperate protestations from myself about how nobody was thanking anybody for handing them their dinner.  It was painful, yet delicious in a piercingly horrific way.

The point of the shepherd’s pie was to eat something comforting after our awful time down at the social welfare office, where we stood in line and Lilsister got yelled at by the gargoyle at the hatch for not putting her mark in the correct corner of the greasy paper which holds so much power.  Afterwards, being gluttons for punishment, we decided to go and register at the state employment agency, which costs our IMF-indebted government a billion euro a year to run.  I could say function, but I never lie.

Moving away from the porn he was navigating on his computer screen, the extremely skinny bloke behind the counter (who never rose from his seat to address us) told us that to register for a course, you had to register, which we advised him we were here to do.  Oh no he said, you can’t just come in and register.  We only take registrations from 9.30-1.30 Monday to Thursday, and you usually have to queue two and a half hours to do even that.  And every day we close the doors at 1.30 and there are people still waiting, we send them away.  We are public servants after all (okay I included that bit myself but it isn’t a lie).  We turn away on average twenty people a day, he said.  I then asked him about courses and he said there were waiting lists for ”many, many months” for the majority of them.  These courses are just fabulous – if you go on them, then your details are removed from the live register, which is the amount of people out of work in Ireland.  This means that the unemployment figures reported in Ireland at any one time are completely false, as they do not include all those people on the ”Jobs Club” course (where you work at a computer on your CV and discuss interview techniques in a room with other unemployed hopefuls – for 11 weeks); the ”Receptionist Skills” course (eh – switch skills?  For a whopping EIGHTEEN weeks) and other such useless, pointless entities which fudge the figures we present to our European bosses when we put our hands out for more bailout money.  I then asked about internships, as I had spotted a really good one that required journalistic ability and was working (for free mind) with a government agency doing interviews, press releases etc.  NO, I was told quite clearly by Starvingpornman, you must be unemployed for LONGER to even apply for an internship where you work full time hours doing the same work as everybody else, but for free, and while you’re there we take YOUR details off the live register and don’t report on the fact that you are still unemployed, just whoring your skills out for nowt.  I asked was there any way around this and was given a repeated loud NO.

In essence, you must queue to register to queue to do courses with our state employment agency, which costs a billion a year to run, but which cannot see individuals after 1.30pm four days a week, lest lunchbreaks be interrupted.

Just to put the cherry on the cake, we popped along to our post office to collect our dole payment which, for anybody unemployed out there knows, is FUCKED at you through the window by the haggard and horrible post office mistresses, with a snarl and no word of a thanks for keeping post offices open, which only serve to hand people dole payments these days.

So!  To summarise:

There are no jobs in Ireland.

The state employment agency has no jobs, just courses, which have many months waiting lists, and the waiting lists themselves have waiting lists.

These courses may not lead to jobs.

The bitches at the post office can get off their fat arses and thank us for paying their pensions in the first place, and get over the fact that people are not on the dole because they love it, but because they were made redundant by companies who could claim 66% of the redundancy they paid you back from the government.  Why pay wages when you can get away with that?

Our parents are ungrateful, and depressing.

But cynicism and hatefulness, you will not have me!!!  I will NOT let you get the better of me!!!

Having said that, it may be time to pop a few headache tablets.




My Face Falls Off and I Prepare for a Family Daytrip

I haven’t written for a while because, quite frankly, there has been nothing to say.  When you are unemployed, even for a relatively short time as I am (short being the amount of days, not the soul crushing hours of tedium not to mention the depressing art form that is watching every single penny you spend, lest you starve the following week) you become insular and feel that you are not part of the world (as you’re not – politicians don’t refer to ”the people” here or even ”the electorate” but ”tax payers” which I am not, through no fault of my own, therefore I must have no value as a citizen with a vote – another blog and another rant for another day I feel).  So being insular and not a tax payer, you begin to go a little crazy, and lose the power of sentence making and general purposefulness.

Two observations from last week though (which did include catching up with my wonderful bro in law, back from many months of travelling and eating Babybro’s shepherd’s pie with him, Sisinlaw, Sisinlaw2 and N).  Firstly, I thought I would cheer myself up and splash out on an inexpensive toner and daily moisturiser.  My Clinique days firmly over, I chose brands I knew from my youth that didn’t cost more than five euro.  I spent the evening giving myself a good cleansing, toning and moisturising and feeling better and brighter until the following morning, when I awoke red faced and extremely itchy, especially, inexpicably, around the eyebrow region.  My face looked as if a tiny monster had taken big lumps out of it, and then laughed at it.  The itching was incredible, and silly looking, as I was tearing at my eyebrows.  I was more upset that I had wasted ten euro than anything else, but luckily, Mammy had anti-histamine tablets in her amazing medical box of tricks, and after two days, facial muscles returned to normal, and the eyebrows could relax.  Not before Lilsister had a chance to see my face, and as I accompanied her to yet another interview (new company the previous one with TWO INTERVIEWS not even having the MANNERS to call her and tell her to fuck off, nor send a letter) as a day out, many unsuspecting members of the public saw me too, and cowered as I thundered round Baggot Street trying to find the Siberian winds to cool my face.

Secondly and finally, as I never go anywhere, at the shepherd’s pie event at Babybro’s place, I undertook to borrow six DVDs from his vast collection which is disturbingly (for him) in alphabetical order.  I picked my films and then had to hand them back to Babybro, so he could write them out in a little notebook he magically produced from under the sofa.  I’m not sure if I was given a return date but I do believe should they not be given back, I will be heavily fined.  I think this makes Babybro look quite mad, and I was the one trying to bite my own eyebrows off at the time.

Which brings us to today, sign on day at the dole office.  A futile exercise whereby all the unemployed people stand in a line, sometime for hours, to stick their X on a piece of paper, only to return the following month to do it all again.  Amazingly, Lilsister and I have the same sign on day, making it for a proper family day out.  So I am off to meditation class shortly, which helps me not want to stab the world, and then I shall be collected from my circle of calm and brought to sign on my Lilsister, then we can go to a separate building and collect our dole payment, and cry about how different our lives our since the Depression hit Ireland.  On the plus side, it might be four degrees outside, but the sun is actually shining, and I think it’s trying to tell us something.  So onwards we will plod.  Adieu!