Hotel Loo and Pigeon Poo

Bumping into Scarydancer in the hallway on Saturday, both of us in our crazy party clothing (pyjama bottoms along with whatever top you happen to have worn that day) we discussed the presents we had both given each other.  Upon rising on Saturday morning, I was thrilled to discover that the end of the loo roll had been folded into a triangular shape, giving that lovely ”hotel” feel, but without the discomfort of leaving your home.  Lilsister advised me afterwards that this was Scarydancer’s gift to us before he departed for work.

Whilst he slaved away, myself and Lilsister visited a housing development which Lilsister and Sisinlaw swear blind they will live in one day, and priced three different types of houses, before finally settling on a three storey brick monster with centralised vacuuming and two bedrooms with built in wardrobes and ensuites (perfect because at the rate I am going I will probably have to move in with the happy couple when they leave our little apartment).  ”Your gift from me,” I advised Scarydancer in the hall, ”is the knowledge that my sister is fully committed to signing you up for a mortgage for the rest of your life.  Enjoy.”  We shook hands, and parted.

Our quiet weekend followed a long week, which was made all the longer by the sad news of my friend Isabella Bangin telling me about his brain tumour.  He reminded me that I was the only woman he ever went to bed with, after one of our nasty wine nights, where we picked up two bottles of something awful whilst out, brought it back to his place, tasted it, winced, drank it all, passed out on his bed and only woke up when it was discovered that he was quite literally climbing the walls and making a racket at first light the next morning.  He had no idea what he was doing, but we agreed that his gaydar was highly sensitive to the fact that a woman was about and it was best to get the hell out, be it up the walls or whatever.

We also had a visitor to the apartment on Saturday night, an extremely fat pigeon who sat on the bars of the balcony and did not move, even when Scarydancer went outside and puffed his partysmokes all over him, and I got close with some breadcrumbs.  As pigeons are usually grouped together, we decided that this particular one must have some issues that he needed to work out solo, and I declared that he must be gay, and feeling like an outcast.  It was at this point that I called him Georgemichael.

We got up on Sunday but no Georgemichael – just a long line of bird poo which was all over our balcony, the balcony below us, and the balcony below that.  Scarydancer swore if he ever saw him again he’d throw rocks at his head, and I told him not to be so homophobic.

But Georgemichael DID show up last night – outside my own window, just sitting there, looking at me, whilst squelching about in a pile of new poo.  Quite disgusting, and I told him he might be gay, but he was NOT stylish.  He flew off at some stage and we are still not friends.

 

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Break out the Big Hair

In what should be noted under the ”moving on from the end of mine marriage” chapter of my time on this planet (and allegedly the point of this blog), three things have occurred which convince me that I may be doing just that:

1. Whilst discussing food preparation with Scarydancer at the dinner table the other day, I mentioned the way my ex cooked a certain item.  Lilsister helpfully pointed out that this is the first time she has heard me refer to Exhimself as my ”ex”.  The actual name never even sprung to mind.

2. This morning, I followed an extremely handsome man around the supermarket.  Not something I normally do, handsome or not, and especially not in supermarkets, as they are full of food, and I like to look at food longingly whilst browsing.  It was also prior to beginning my working day, so for me to be even up and about, let alone stalking a complete stranger, was a miracle in itself.  Anyway, I saw him whilst I was browsing (but not planning on eating) the cake section (a girl needs something to cheer her up on a Monday morning) and once I had finished smelling the almond croissants, I followed him down to bread, cleaning products, gardening equipment  and eventually to the till, where he failed to even look up at me, even though I cleared my throat really loudly, and really manfully.  Sigh.  I tried to follow him outside but the bloke on the till INSISTED I pay for my goods (half healthy multi grain rolls if you MUST know).

3. A very good friend is dying of cancer.  Younger than me by a couple of years, he has less than 12 months with us living souls left.  After my immediate thoughts of why him, anger, shock, memories of him performing ”Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” in full drag in a club in Sydney one sweaty Friday night, thoughts of friends that I am grateful for came to mind, and encouraged me to send more texts and thoughts than I normally do.  Some responded, some not.  But not until a few days later did I think of Exhimself, and even then, only because his hometown is near my ill friend.  If he had any importance would he not have been the first face that came to mind?

Could it be?

Time?

To sing Whitesnake??????????????????

A Quiet Week Ending with Sausages and Eggs

Hangover Central for my roomies today, with Scarydancer and Lilsister only rising to meet the 1pm sun and to argue about a bag of sausages.  I bought them the sausages yesterday so they would have something to eat with their hangovers (it being Scarydancer’s birthday do at the pub last night) and usually Scarydancer puts some sausages into a bag for eating and the rest into a special bag  in the freezer, for later consumption.  This was not done yesterday because

1. Lilsister hates touching raw meat and is excessively lazy and

2. Because Scarydancer had the gall to be at work all day.

Cue argument this afternoon breakfastime as the romantic couple queried each other in loud voices as to why the sausages had not been separated.  I ended up cooking them eggs and the meat is to be saved for their dinner.

Needless to say I have left the abode with its headache tablets, groans and the black eyes of my sister who did not bother to remove her makeup last night, to hide at Mammy’s house where I am hoping for a Sunday feed.  As I drove past the tram stop to get here I THINK I saw Mr Bright as there was a grey haired individual running by but his hair was overly grey and he was wearing navy – not the same vision I think.  In anycase, if I had stared any longer I would have crashed the car so I kept going and decided to myself that it was not he.

Apart from that little ray of hope precious little else has occurred this week, I worked, sighed, tried to eat better, partially failed (which infers partial success?) and did more walking exercise than normal, mainly due to my flabbiness and my wanting to see Mr Bright again (whatever motivates you I suppose).  The only other good thing is that I found my easter egg, which I had mislaid and secretly fretted about being eaten by Scarydancer – no, I had put it in a box for some reason, and covered it up.  Thankfully it survived intact, and I look forward to eating small bits of it in due course, as I am trying to be good.

Speaking Easter-related times, with Scarydancer, upon opening up ONE of his Easter Eggs, decided that the best way to get to the chocolate inside, was to headbutt the egg, and with great force.  The deed done, a cracking sound was heard, and bits of egg flew everywhere in the living room, leaving Scarydancer confused and dazed looking, with only the tiniest sliver of chocolate remaining in his hand, the rest being elsewhere in the apartment.  I think he underestimated the size and force of his head, but the funniest aspect of the incident to me was the fact that he looked totally bemused that his head actually managed to crack the entire egg into a thousand splintered pieces.  Who needs telly when there is comedy gold like this on display?

 

Tigers and Temptresses at the Tram Stop

I know I shouldn’t be but I’m watching telly as I type this.   There’s a film on which is set in Ireland during those heady days of the Celtic Tiger which I THINK lasted for about nine years.  Anyway it’s showing us all in Dublin stoned, drugged, pinging on ecstasy, drunk, vomiting and being highly aggressive in a host of fabulous places such as shiny clubs, gastro pubs, party venues and things called ”events”.  This is funny as I lived in Ireland for at least two of these Grrr Tiger years and all I did was work.  I feel cheated!!!!  Where are my drugs and ”events”???    Although I did get head hunted one night in a VERY fancy restaurant.  Sigh.  Now if I get to the pub up the road I am doing well (really well, as most people party at home now).  Hmmpf.  I might just go down to the tram stop and see if Mr Bright, my future husband, is flitting by, and try to seduce him with my alleged ”charms” which I am alleging I have, but only because my allegation has no basis in fact whatsoever.

The Bright Light at the Dark Tram Stop

I have seen the man who is going to be my next husband.

Conveniently, he appears to dwell near our little apartment so this will help with the stalking situation I will now find myself in.

Speaking of our apartment, I realised a few weeks ago that the area I am living in with Lilsister and Scarydancer is the area I lived in from the ages of about two to five, with Mammy and Papabear, and an even younger Firstbrother.  So life once again has come full circle.  I also think this is a sign that I am dying.  I have returned where I roamed as a baby, although the view is a little different.  35 years ago, this part of Dublin was farmland and our council house backed onto an actual strawberry field, where we would go and feed ourselves.  Now it is full of silly roads blocked with cars, a sprawling shopping centre and many, many apartments.  It is FULL.

This is handy because I believe my future husband lives in one of the many apartments, or I would not have seen him run by my local tram stop.

There I was, yesterday afternoon,  four day old dirty hair, tracksuited and in my Dublin football team rain jacket as it was as usual LASHING RAIN which it does every time I use public transport.  I was looking less than stunning and feeling miserable as the tram was 7 minutes away and the sky was grey, to match my soul.  Suddenly, a white light appeared before me and blasted brightness into the winter-themed afternoon.  I thought an angel had appeared to tell me she would make the tram come faster, but no, it was a male human person thing, in his running outfit.  Now I said he would be my next husband, I didn’t say he had any sense of fashion.  A white t-shirt (fine I suppose) but white shorts???  White shoes and socks?  With white i pod earphones?  Hmmm.  All matching the white hairs he so distinguishly owns.  Which means he must be at least in his thirties!!!  Hurray!!!

I may not be talking him up much but here is the best part.  So Mr Bright ran past me at the tram stop, I followed him until he became a dot, and then the tram came.  Four stops later, and there is Mr Bright again, RUNNING FASTER THAN THE TRAM.  AND he had gotten to the fourth stop quicker than me, and all he had was at most a six minute headstart!!!  I am VERY impressed by this.  It shows that he is fit, and active, and doesn’t spend his Easter Sunday drinking pints and eating giant easter eggs which is what I would have done if somebody had poured me a pint and handed me an egg.

These are all good things and I went out stalking, sorry, walking this morning and THOUGHT I saw him whizzing by but alas it was someone with a full head of brown hair.  Probably for the best, as my hair has now gone five days without washing, and not only was I tracksuited AGAIN and in my giant rain jacket (which does nothing for the figure) I also had a Dublin football team beanie hat jammed onto my filthy skull.  At best, I looked like a square male person.  However, Mr Bright gives one inspiration to go outside and exercise, something which is becoming increasingly difficult due to the horrific weather and the absolute depression and inability to do anything once I have completed a day’s work.

Now, where is my Easter Egg?  I feel a feeding frenzy coming on.

Twisted with the Tourists

Pints with Trevor on Saturday for our not too regular catch up where we discuss the problems with Ireland, how to resolve them, and then cry because we have had too many pints, and because we love each other.  Fabulous stuff.

Several pints in Dame Street led to several more in the very touristy Temple Bar area of Dublin, where Americans roam in search of their Irish destiny, and we oblige them by singing Johnny Cash songs in a traditional Irish way with banjo, tin whistle and bodhran as was the case in the pub we ended up in.  After scaring some overly large Italians away by dancing to the crazy Irish beat and singing in Gaelic, we finally snared a table where we could see the band, and enjoyed our heritage until Trevor noted that the ageing, pudgy guitar player had a lovely collar bone and that she needed to ”bite it”.  I found this very worrying and requested an immediate venue change, once we found the loos of course, as we are old and full of wee.

We ended up then in our third location, in front of another band, much younger and uglier, in some half trendy bar full of hens parties trying to eat the young singer off the stage.  They formed a circle and began dancing until Trevor jumped into the middle and busted some moves.  We drank two gins (me) and two vodkas (Trevor) in twenty minutes and left, absolutely blind drunk and stumbling.  At this stage, neither of us were frightened by using public transport, so Trevor took her crap coach home and I took the tram, and tried not to fall asleep, by putting my walkman on really loud, and texting my brother, father, mother, sister, and Trevor and saying silly drunk things.  Then I realised the tram wasn’t running to our little apartment, so somehow managed to get Mammy to pick me up near her and drop me off outside my poor door.  She alleges that she parked her car across the road from the tram stop, and nearly died when she saw the huddling mess that was her daughter ambling towards her.  Supposedly I was walking with the top half of my body slumped forward, and had my arms dangling, monkey like at my side, until a sudden jolt caused me to lean backwards and shout ”FFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!” when I realised I had not swiped my electronic tram ticket.  I ambled back to the ticket machine, argued with it, perhaps hit it, and then fell into Mammy’s car.

After being deposited at the door of the apartment complex, I called Lilsister to confirm tea and toast were being initiated for me upstairs, which they were.  After this I am informed that I came in, and got a fit of giggles whilst buttering my toast, and spilt my tea on the sofa, which caused it to steam, and then tried to clean it up with a tissue.  Then I spilt it again, and when Lilsister and Scarydancer informed me I had done it again, I replied haughtily ”I find that technically impossible”.  Beautiful.

Woke up with my head coming out of my neck the following morning, and rose only to eat some fruit and inhale headache tablets.  Trevor texted to say that her husband Boo Boo had attempted to deliver fried food to her in bed but she had had to turn him away, much to her disgust.  She normally loves her fried food.

To upset me, Scarydancer then got up and kept busting scary moves in front of me, I think to make my stomach contents rock, and therefore heave.  Lilsister cooked a fried breakfast at noon, and I began to feel human again.  I was driven to Blessington nearby, in the beautiful county Wicklow, where we walked along the lake, visited a country house, and stopped for chips in a terrible cafe full of pink, with a very grumpy  waiter.

What a very successful weekend.

Loud Customers and Silent Shoes

Scented candle action in our little bathroom again, with Scarydancer disappearing for a lengthy period, and only re-appearing to quietly remove the giant double-wicked lavender effort Lilsister keeps in the kitchen, and place it in the man smelling bathroom for what I can only assume is fumigation purposes.

A heatwave in Ireland last week has been followed quite dramatically with sleet and hail and plunging temperatures, meaning that we were all incredibly pissed off after being pissed on today, so changed our take away food night from Wednesday to tonight, to ease our furrowed brows.  Unfortunately, this appears to have led to the Mansmells Situation, because Scarydancer had a terrifying combination of a kebab box thing, complete with garlic pizza bread dripping in cheese, and garlic dipping sauce, and smelly chips.  Take away night isn’t pretty in our house.

We also had a small celebration today as Scarydancer passed a forklift course and test, and Lilsister was brought out to lunch by her boss and received many compliments, while I didn’t get called a fucking bastard by anyone on the phone today – we all achieved something.  In fairness though, I was told that I, as the bank, was responsible for making a poor old man live in hell, by his neighbour, who alleged to have opened his bank statement ”by mistake” and called to complain that she had received it in the first place, even though his postal address was the same as her home address.  She then repeatedly told me that she would call a solicitor, and reminded me that I was a scumbag, and kept talking until she got quite tired and I thanked her for her feedback and hung up.  Dizzy times in my executive world.  I do believe she also commented on the latest weather cold snap which was nice.

This cold snap has lead to reorganisation of work clothes and the re-issuing of winter coats yes it’s THAT COLD.  Winter boots are now firmly back on feet, which is sad, as Scarydancer is no longer wearing his ninja shoes, green pumps which are so light they can only be worn in warmer weather, and which are so light again that you cannot hear him approach, hence their ninja-like quality.  When he wears his ninja shoes, Scarydancer likes to demonstrate their worth by jumping up the kitchen walls, silently, to show how, if he was stalking you or planning an attack, you would never hear him nor even see him as he would have easily made it to the ceiling in silence, and stay hanging there until he was ready to finish you off.  I really must invest in a pair myself.