A Flood of Sorts

Just back from watching Ireland HAMMER Argentenia in the rugby with Panties, Hangsandwich and members of both of their families, not a game I know anything about but that was okay as I had some excellent company, homemade Victoria Spongecake (possibly the best cake in the world?) and the undivided attentions of Panties’ three year old nephew, who kept asking me how his Superman character could get out of whatever particular difficulty he happened to find himself in whilst on his DS.   I had very little to offer, not being familiar with laser eyes, icy cold breath and invisible suits,  not to mention the DS, which just looks like a stupid gadget with two too many screens on it.  My lack of knowledge was regularly rewarded by said three year old running off and checking with his Dad about viable escape options and sad sighs of pity.  At one stage he told me he was three, and how many numbers was I?  I replied ”five, of course,” and he asked how this was possible.  I felt old, and waited for Hangsandwich to pour me more tea.

This is possibly my first social occasion in a while, as I have been in a bit of a funk for the last week or so.  I ended up not going to my social singles occasion, after the bus that was to deposit me at the pub failed to turn up, rendering me late, which was not allowed, and I slinked off home after waiting forty minutes for any mode of transport to turn up (taxis also refused to make an appearance).  This brought on a mini-depression and feelings of uselessness and failureness and general no-life-edness.  Add to this that the one I wink at when he isn’t looking is in a VERY serious relationship and life in general has been very blue, with plenty of black moments.

On such occasions I like to take to the bed and indulge in possibly my most favourite past time ever, which is lying in a warm bed listening to music.  I did this today and for some reason the Take That song ”The Flood” cheered me up.  Maybe it was the way Robbie Williams said ”watch your mouth son or you’ll find yourself floating home” but something ended and I started to feel a little better.  Then I got up and the water has been cut off in my house, but this didn’t cause me to go into a rage, so I must be getting along.  I had a ladywhizz and didn’t flush the toilet, made sure I had enough water for tea, and departed for the social rugby visit.

These are the things I want:

1. Beloved to dump his girl and whisk me away for romantic weekend, and tell me that even though I am incapable of being in a relationship right now, that is fine as he will wait for me to be ready, but sleep with me at every opportunity till that happens (yes I KNOW that this will never come off but I can dream can’t I?).

2. To pass my second horrible financial exam in January and get out of the horrific job I am in and into something that gives me money and a distraction from Beloved.  This is actually possible, as I have full control over studying.  Hurray!

3. To begin to look fabulous.  This week, in the depths of my funk, I began exercising again and already feel a little lighter.  I also only ate about half a tonne of rubbish, as opposed to several of my usual tonnes, and I have noticed that ONE of my bellies has begun to reduce, and that I have a shape to my hips.  Soon I will even look womanly!

4. Mammy’s fake cough is back.   Refer posts from this time last year.  I cannot STAND someone hocking their lungs up on me, let alone someone with nothing to hock.  It gives the hocking action a hollow,dry and cackling sound, and turns my (decreasing!) stomach.

5. To visit the Dublin Christmas markets.  Panties mentioned these earlier and I jumped in the air saying hurray, when are we going and she said she did not want a repeat of last year.  I had no idea what she meant.  She meant that last year, myself and Trevor were to meet her at 5pm at the Christmas markets.  Myself and Trevor met at noon, and went to the pub for lunch, but ended up having dirty pints instead.  At 7pm, after I cried on Grafton Street after seeing the Christmas carrol singers, we met Panties, excessively drunk, and Panties had to drive us both home.  I had no recollection of any of this, until Panties reminded me that, put upon friend that she is, she gave myself and Trevor cupcakes from the markets she had attended ALONE, and that when we got to Trevor’s house, we ate them with tea made by Boo Boo, who was judging us severely.

So the markets should be fun, then.

All Pain and No Gain

In an effort to be fit and fabulous for my upcoming social mingling disaster tomorrow night, I did a slight run on Sunday.  I say ”slight” because I was actually walking but felt buoyed up by listening to my 80’s music on my walkman, and broke into a slow trot for most of the second chorus of ”Train of Thought” by A-ha.  Now it is Tuesday, and I have pains in my legs, hips, back and arse (literally – I am actually struggling to sit down) and I am feeling frumpy and forty.  I should be a triumph tomorrow!

To combat the fact that I am unable to move, rendering exercising out of the question, I am attempting to eat less and failing miserably.  I cooked a batch of scones after my excessively not long run and then purchased jam and cream to go with them – delicious, but not diet material.  I have also been suffering with chronic PMT and have had to turn to chocolate much more regularly than normal.  So myself and my hormones should be in peachy form by tomorrow night.

Practice Makes Perfect

It’s Tuesday night which can only mean one thing in Lobomonsterland – HOMELAND NIGHT!  So as with most Tuesdays, I am at Panties and Hangsandwich’s abode, where I usually pop over before the show for dinner (tonight’s feast was steak and mash), tea and some form of cake (we have iced and poppyseed varieties tonight).  Cue also huge discussion about the various plot twists and where it’s all going and the apparent POINTLESSNESS of the two teenagers killing the pedestrian whilst speeding through the streets of DC, and Tuesday night becomes very special indeed. 

Horrificially, I have signed up to go to a social function tomorrow night, alone, because in a fit of madness I decided that in order to obtain something resembling a life, I would have to leave my home and ”meet” people.  No I was not drinking at the time, but by the power of Greyskull I will be tomorrow.  Anyway, this brings me to my second point about Homeland night, which is that, during the ad breaks, Panties is threatening to do some ”role playing” with me, but not the good kind.  No, as I have the social skills of a floor duster, I have to be schooled in the art of small talk, as opposed to glassing a stranger who happens to say hello to me in a bar (why can’t I meet anyone, I wonder?). 

I am worried that this will involve Panties asking me such seemingly simple questions of ”hi, how are you,” which I must resist answering truthfully at all costs.  I mean, no hapless handsome stranger wants to hear about the fact that I received a call in work today from an allegedly fully functioning member of society who needed to speak to the girl ”with a turn in her eye,” do they?  Do they? 


The ”event” I am attending is a result of joining an internet group thing – no NOT a dating website but a Dublin social club where people meet up to do normal things and this one just happens to be for single people.   Allegedly, a life ”coach” will meet us in a bar and talk to us about ”issues” facing we, the miserable alone, in what has promised to be an ”amusing” way.  We drink first, listen to the talk and assuming I haven’t run screaming from the building by then, drink afterwards.  So yes there is some drink involved, but it isn’t speed dating, which appears to be the only social function option available to us ”One is Not a Lonely Number” types and in fairness to whomever has organised it, it doesn’t sound TOO bad.  No, the horrific bit is the fact that I have to go, me, with the subtlety of a bin truck (and hips the width of one) and the charm of a fart in a lift, and make this small talk stuff with complete strangers, and not fall to the floor in a screaming heaving mess afterwards.  Can it be done?   I cannot answer.  All I can say for sure is that when I arrive home from work tomorrow I will put on lipstick and some gin and tonic – and ensure I am sufficiently tanked by the time I get there.  It really is the only way.  Strangers don’t need the truth.  It would be cruel.