Life Thoughts Before My Burger

Friday evening, I’m sitting alone in the apartment feeling quite unloved and unattractive when the phone rings.  Hurray!  Unfortunately it is a charity I used to subscribe to, asking why do I not subscribe to them any more????  So I now feel unloved, unattractive and reminded of my destitution.  Party in mine!!!

Lilsister’s wrist and hand is healing nicely, if you count the giant red scars and bubbling blisters she likes to show me most evenings.  She celebrated getting some feeling back in the area by washing her hair last night, something she could no longer avoid doing, it had been many days now and the birds were looking to nest in it.

She finds herself in Belfast tonight, with Scarydancer partying it up in his friend’s house, leaving me alone tonight, and sober.  I have considered drinking my bottle of wine but not sure I’m in the mood yet.  Besides, I am 98% certain that I will be driving to Mcdonalds in a while to treat myself to burger, chips and ice cream sundae happiness.  That should REALLY help with my unattractiveness.

Finished my weird Serbian novel last night, the stoned hero stopped doing weed and found himself in a transendental well, inbibing the Kabbalist spirit of a Jewish man that had died many hundreds of years before, and then finding a friend of his dead, and fleeing the city.  I must admit, I am quite lost.  I presume this is a tragic ending, but I don’t really know why.  My head hurts.

Have also been making Life Decisions over the last few days.  Will bite the bullet and do my financial exams, so I can start looking for a job that pays a wage sufficient to cover the cost of a glass of wine on the weekends, as my current role does not.  I may have previously mentioned my hatred of the Institute of Bankers, and that continues unabated, but without sitting their silly exams I cannot even apply to do the work I used to do, and must then starve by the wayside, and as a single 37 and three quarter year old woman with no prospects, this simply will not do.  So I am, with a heavy heart, shelling out SIX HUNDRED euro to sit two MODULES – not the whole thing, as I am not a millionaire, then grasping around my purse for more pennies as I first have to ”register” with the ever friendly institute, and pay fifty euro I think for THAT privilege, then pay again to sit the bloody exams in the first place!!!  I seethe, and burn, and rage quietly.

If I pass these exams I will celebrate by obtaining a normal paying job, and purchasing a man to pretend to be my boyfriend at all the social events I will then be invited to.  See, I have it all worked out.

Advertisements

We Don’t Like Mondays, Especially on Tuesdays

FRIGHTENED out of my bed this am, our first day back to work after the long weekend celebrating whomever St Patrick was (the radio last week proclaimed that far from being a snake-beating Christian bringing religion to the Emerald Isle, Pat was in fact an English criminal, using Ireland whilst being on the run from creditors zzzz…).

7.14am and my boudoir door is HURLED open by Lilsister, who screams at me ”DO WE HAVE ANYTHING FOR BURNS IN THIS HOUSE” which we do not, as it turns out.  It seems that in a fit of creating the illusion of washed hair, Lilsister, who hadn’t washed her hair at all in fact, had left her GHD on full blast, knocked it over, and it had landed on her wrist and hand, taking some skin off one side, and imprinting a red, scorched rectangular shape on the other.  Quite a view first thing of a Tuesday.   I naturally bounded out of the bed to stop Lilsister running cold water over the burns (the WORST thing you can do, according to a first aid course I did many years ago) and searched for cold cloths etc, in light of the fact that we had NOTHING to help her with.

Departing the house with some damp cotton pads which I placed in the freezer pressed to her wrist, Lilsister made her way to the bus stop, because the trams are running irregularly in Dublin today, due to a fire in the city several days ago, which somehow has made their crap service even worse.  I was contacted by text then to be advised that the bus had left early, brushing past Lilsister as she stumbled along the path.  It did not stop for her, and her mood got worse. I felt exhausted and based on the completely crap service that I usually get with the trams, but which promised to be worse today, I decided to drive to work, which I normally don’t do as parking is an issue.  Noting that several people in my training group have been parking in a free public carpark every day for the last three weeks (which they are not supposed to do but as nobody monitors it they go for it) I left half an hour later than normal, and instead of the 45 minute LITANY of tram travelling horror that I usually have to endure, found myself at my office within six minutes, and was happy.

That is, until an hour later, when I was informed that clampers were out in the carpark hunting for me.  Cue panic, and moving of car to the office basement, where there are no carspaces (hence the fact I was using the bloody public carpark in the first place) and me parking in a non space, that half blocked an emergency exit.  Ahem. I also developed a headache, and felt depressed, as I am trying to eat less rubbish in an effort to become slim and attractive to the opposite sex, so only had fruit and crackers for snack food.  Sniff.

Lilsister had arrived in the city in good time on a new bus, had found a chemist open and after making the assistant do dry vomits in her mouth from showing her her injuries, was able to secure burn cream and bandages for her wrist.  She then went to work, and found out she had to do a presentation to her directors on the state of their accounts, complete with a bandaged wrist, which she hoped they would not look like a foiled suicide attempt prior to the meeting.

Nothing else of any note happened to make our days get any better, except that at least it wasn’t Monday, which is only a slight consolation.  Then Lilsister discovered she had received the present of periods, and we declared her the winner of both our crap days.

Spicy Pork Chops Interrupt Serbian Mysteries

I’m TRYING to have an intellectual night in my room by blogging, listening to Madonna’s possibly best album (Ray of Light – it transends, people) and getting my brain ready to tackle the last few pages of my Kabbalist inspired mystery type story by the Serbian writer whose name I cannot spell (except the David part) which has been written without the benefit of paragraphs, so is just hundreds of pages of block text, and is quite difficult to follow.  Brilliant, but fuck do you work for it.  However never let it be said that it does not contain one of my most favourite lines ever in a book – our hero, being completely stoned and looking around for something in a kitchen, kneels down, and peers into something, where he tells me he felt ”my brain touch my forehead on the inside.”  This is fantastic, and should be a medical description of all self induced highs, be they drug, alcohol or naturally attained.

Anyway, here I am preparing myself for the superior onslaught of writing far better than I will ever achieve in my non-career, when Lilsister calls me from her mobile phone, worryingly, as I had left her in the living room ironing only moments before.  Do I want spicy pork chops for dinner tomorrow, she asks.

I don’t know, I reply, because I like mashed potatoes with my pork chops, but Scarydancer is cooking tomorrow, and he doesn’t like mash, and if he makes anything else it won’t be right.

What is Scarydancer putting with the chops, I ask, and Lilsister says she doesn’t know.

We both ponder a little in the silence.  I decide to throw caution to the wind.  Okay, I say.  Sure lash on the pork chops.

He’ll figure something out, she says back.

Where are you, I ask.

In bed, she says.

In the next room?  I ask.

Yes, she says.  I couldn’t be bothered getting out to ask you and Scarydancer is going to defrost the chops first thing in the morning so he had to know now.

Oh, I say.  That’s fairly lazy of you.

Yeah, she says.  But it’s Monday.

Jolliday Presents

Lilsister and Scarydancer are just back from their Manchester jollidays, which was fabulous for me as I got to roam about the apartment and feel very sorry for myself on Saturday night, thinking about Exhimself and how nobody loved me.  Ah, parties!

Naturally Lilsister stole everything not nailed down in the hotel room, including what is actually called an ”executive” shower cap.  We took it out of it’s box, put it on our heads and have concluded that it appears to be the same as every other shower cap in every other hotel room in existence, but that we must be wrong, and ignorant, as we cannot see it’s executive powers.  We must be silly billys indeed not to recognise it.

I have also received a box of vaginal wipes, which I am thrilled about, as a girl can never have too many.  Luckily, these wipes are completely flushable, although not bio-degradable, which is a serious flaw I would have thought?  Now if I ever get caught out having sex with a stranger on my way to work I need not fear, as my vaginal wipes will erase all evidence of fun times in an instant!!!!  And should I give up on our planet, and life in general, I know that the toilet will be the only one that knows my dirty secrets.

Prince Albert Gets Shafted, Madonna Sings the Blues and Aunt Jackie lives in Me

Monday evening in our little apartment, I have Madonna on claiming that ”you” don’t know ”What it Feels Like for a Girl”.   Lilsister is busy doing the ironing, because I won’t do it, and has her soaps on to keep her company in the living room.  Monday is her bad day, and in protest at its existence, refuses to shower – this is her stand, and she has been doing it for many years now.

Personally I just like to greet Mondays with a groan, try and get ready for work on time, go down to the tram stop and then scream at the five different validator machines for not accepting my stupid swipe card ticket thing, which is exactly what happened this morning.  People stared and I cried.  It’s Monday – these things shouldn’t happen.  It’s enough to make a girl not shower (but not quite, because I am not an animal).

The long and short of it is that my card is probably broken, and when I rang the dump that issues them, they advised me that they can’t replace it till the card is registered online (?) which I tried to do but the website kept putting in the wrong postcode and then spitting me out to the homepage (or ”spitting on me” as I explained to ”Pam”, the harried customer service person I ended up squawking at when I rang).  This means that Pam cannot cancel my card, nor refund me the money on it, nor issue me a new card, because I am not registered online, and I can’t register online cause the website is being updated, and keeps crashing.

Jesus fucking Christ what is the point in even typing out the words.

FINALLY finished training with The Worst Trainer in Ireland today, hurray.  I even passed one of his stupid tests which he makes us take because he can’t get erections until he sees people stressing out over his non-powers.  When he handed me the test with my 93% result on it, he said he was surprised I passed.  I asked him to explain exactly what he meant, and to maybe just come out and say what he was thinking, but I don’t know, he kept edging towards the door, maybe I had one of my scary faces on.  Doubt it though, I think it was morning time and I hadn’t had my tea yet so I’m not so tough at that stage.  I think.

We ”studied” customer care today, which involved Idiotman not reading from a large manual as we’ve previously had, but from a powerpoint presentation.  Great!  And we watched a video about the famous fish market in Seattle, because allegedly they have amazing customer service skills and spend the day playing catch with fish, so naturally this translates very well into our customer service rolls at the bank.  We also discussed empathy with customers, and Twatbreath talked about how he used to have long hair and piercings, and how he was treated badly at the bank because of his looks.  Doubtful this was the reason, him being a prick and all, but I let him go with it, until he began talking about nipple piercings, which naturally for the men in the room led to discussions on the different types of piercings and piercing methods for their ”Prince Alberts” until I requested permission to speak, and when granted, I said ”heave”, referring of course to the fact that I had had my tea, with two dry crackers and all of the above was about to come spewing out of my mouth.  This did not go down well with Fuckface and we carried on with the designated programme.  My stomach contents calmed somewhat, and the boys looked disappointed.

This didn’t stop one of the girls who sits to my left from breaking out into peals of laughter at the sight of my so-close-it-could-have-happened, heave.  This is a girl who just looks at my face and laughs into it.  It was a little disturbing at first, but now that I’m used to it, it’s actually quite sweet.  Now I look at her and am worried if she DOESN’T laugh.  She also keeps telling me, quite inexplicably, that I am ”exactly like” her Aunt Jackie, whose identity is a mystery to me, but seems to give my comrade some comfort, so it’s good to be of help.

ONE good example of good customer service today though – I cried to the kitchen staff that my vegetarian samosas came without any sort of dipping sauce, but bought them regardless, and attempted to dip them in honey mustard instead – a huge food failure.  As if in a dream, one of the staff then appeared half way through my complaining at my table to deliver a large plate of sweet chilli sauce – success at last!!!  I declared my love for her, and inhaled.  Sigh.

A Little Vent

Oh it’s on with me and Craptrainer.  Spent 20 mins fighting with him about why the bank does a certain thing a certain way (answer ”cause it does” – hmmm sign of a feeble mind or a useless trainer?) only to discover the thing he was non-training us on is something we will NEVER DO IN OUR JOBS.  Point?  ”So you know it happens.”  Point?  None.  Not my fault you were bullied as a kid, and not my fault nobody here likes you.  Grow up, move on, and lose some weight – maybe stop eating mars bars in bed when you’re crying over your crap childhood in the wee small hours of each stinking night.  Prick.

It’s not just me.  There’s eleven of us in the room, and about four of them this afternoon attempted to speak to Craptrainer about how difficult it is to learn banking procedures when one person stands in the front of the room, giant book in hand, and just reads from it.  All the things he reads have all got accompanying systems on the computer that need to be mastered, yet we aren’t looking at them.  Why?  Unanswered.  Then somebody tried to explain how nobody in their right minds could learn about ”unusual currencies” one minute and ”hot codes” for stolen cards the next without some discussion, or practice, or role plays or all of the above.  Gnashing of teeth, general putoutedness face and then we all went back to the book.

To top it all, we have a test tomorrow.  Yes.  In what?  I don’t know.  Most people took the book thing home but it’s a thousand pages long and tonight is junk food night in the apartment and I didn’t want it ruined by working out how much it costs to send a foreign bank draft.  Besides, Prickfeatures has already booked time for the following day for all the people that will fail the test.  If the time is already booked, why delude myself tonight?  Best to eat the junk, sit back,

I even found myself drinking a bottle of coke for the afternoon session, something I NEVER do as it makes me hyper.  Such was the comatose state I found myself in however the coke did little more than provide a long enough sugar rush to induce semi-happy thoughts, preventing me jumping out the window, or flushing myself down the toilet (as the windows are those typical of those found in banks in Ireland nowadays – sealed shut, with no options to open – fresh air and the banking fraternity never mixing well historically, plus there is always that urge to jump and join the socialists on the ground).

Grrrr dribble.

 

Good Gravy and Bad Smells

Being farted on whilst blogging, especially when one has very clearly used a pun on a literary classic as with my last entry, is never convenient.  But at least Scarydancer’s jam tarts are blocking out the smell of his partysmokes, which he must have been inhaling right before I came home, because the house REEKS. 

Sunday was particularly funny as Scarydancer met me and Lilsister at Mammy’s house after we inhaled our roast chickens, but instead of sitting with us at the table, spent some quality time in the sitting room alone, in front of the telly.  Mammy made him up a plate to take away and asked him if he would like gravy.  When no answer was forthcoming, Mammy simply put the cling film over the plate and left it there for him.  Lilsister went to check with him again as Mammy’s gravy is particularly fabulous, being made up of meat juices, oils, fats and other healthy goodies.  It is REAL gravy, and not for the faint hearted, or Australians, whose gravy is weak and puny.

Scarydancer was sitting in the dark, rocking backwards and forwards.  Apparently, Mammy’s question had thrown him over his partysmokes induced edge, and he could ”not handle” making a decision on the gravy, and was freaking out. 

We made a hasty exit, and Scarydancer went home, and ate the chicken dry.