My toe fungal infection continues to be a headache.
Having paid a fortune to buy a box of what promises to cure my horrible disease, I opened it up one night last week to begin the treatment, only to be confronted with a guide booklet of several pages, some disgusting pictures of different types of toes at various stages of fungal infections (seriously, if your toe looked like it was going to fall off your foot should you be reading about it from a box? Should you not be screaming all the way to your hospital???), a box of files, a plastic thing of plastic sticks, some packets of wipes and a bottle of liquid. At 10pm at night I decided to listen to an Oscar Wilde play instead, and left it until I had a clear head, a full stomach, and a medical degree.
Lilsister has continued to be unsupportive, saying it’s fair enough if my toes are falling off but can they please be fixed in time for her upcoming nuptials.
My toes and I are not feeling the love.
No way am I going to Sligo I decided on the weekend, Mammy and Papabear are going to Lanzarote and by God, I will tag along! So it’s sun and non-Atlantic bracing winds for me, and perhaps some alcohol and a pool.
Instead, today is the first day of Battle Eat Better – I would get up early, possibly exercise and buy chickpeas.
It has not gone well.
I woke up late, after a night of odd dreams, where I had to apply for permission at a desk to have a passport photo taken of me, and then somehow managed to be in my front garden where I kept finding a variety of giant snails and teddy bears that looked like real animals, which all frightened me. Then when I was walking from my garden to the front door a creature with the face of a field mouse and the body of a cat kept jumping in front of me and saying ‘ha ha ha’. I was extremely stressed when I woke up, and decided I would not exercise as I was already sweating.
Have managed to buy the chickpeas though, and tonight I am cooking up a middle eastern feast of falafel with paprika yoghurt dip and roast veg cous cous, much healthier than my normal fare which usually includes mash. I have earmarked a half hour to clean the glass surrounding my shower but I cannot guarantee it will be done. No woman can do everything.
Just because you have some sellotape on your fingers does not give you the right to parade around as a Michael Jackson impersonator.
I had decided to forgo watching my beloved Dublin football team play what turned out to be an absolute belter of a match against Mayo in order to see this cretin. I had hoped that he would be bad, that wasn’t the problem, the problem was that I showed up at 8pm and he came on after a bloke with glasses and a tracksuit who sang Bob Marley songs, at an unholy 11pm.
He was short and fat with greased back long hair tied into a ponytail. He had a hugely receding hairline. Then he put on a black hat and shades and began to screech Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’. It was ok. The Baker said a professional troupe of impersonators were in Dublin at the moment and perhaps he was one of them, then he failed to hit the high notes on Billie Jean and we said no way. Then at the end he said he was part of a professional troupe of impersonators who were in Dublin and I continued drinking the beers from a large ‘five beers in a bucket’ promotion the pub was doing. Middlebro kept shaking his head and saying it was wrong wrong wrong. He is a bit of a purist when it comes to music.
A lot of people then began grabbing their crotches and doing really bad dance moves. A group of badly dressed (meaning barely dressed) girls with extensions then chatted up the non-impersonator and the tracksuited singer and once again I wondered how people like that could score whilst I can’t.
Next morning I woke up in splendour in the guest FLOOR of Middlebro and The Baker’s new house and Middlebro knocked politely to tell me he was heading in for a beer poo but would do the fry up immediately afterwards.
It was whilst myself and The Baker were making second breakfast, in my humble ever belly-rumbling opinion the most important meal of the day, that Middlebro decided his nipples were too hairy. He then proceeded to cut them, whilst standing over the bin, despite our protests and the smell of the chocolate melting into the pastries in the oven.
We were told it was not something to be upset about as it was ”only” me and The Baker there, and besides, the hairs were falling directly into the waste disposal area.
This was my first time staying in their new abode and it may be my last as I was distinctly told not to blog about this. I told Middlebro not to interfere with my rights as an artist and then we both laughed.
Time for a road trip, I think. I have spent the last two months recovering from the horror that was my last job and I am feeling better lately. I have certainly put on weight – I always lose it when depressed, and the lost depression bits have come back, so now I know I am well.
To challenge myself, I have picked somewhere I have to drive to as I hate driving and hate driving anywhere new, unless there is a man involved which always motivates me. I’ve also picked somewhere that does not look like Dublin at all, as I need a complete change of scenery. So I am going to the Atlantic – to the Sligo coast, to a bed and breakfast that has farm in its title but does not appear to have a farm anywhere near it. In fact, there’s nothing near it, except a beach which up that part of Ireland is usually deserted. I am absolutely terrified – of the drive, and of the fact that I will have to deal with people, something I have never been good with. I will have my own room however, so should basic conversation get the better of me, I can bang my head off my own wall in private until the panic passes.
To be blunt, I have a fungal infection in my big toe.
I never had one before so I didn’t know what it was, I just thought my toe looked a little funny and as I am ALWAYS pedicured (I may wear tracksuits on a daily basis and the same jumper two days running but the feet department are always tidy and colour enhanced) I didn’t really notice that it has spread to my other big toe.
I discussed the matter with Lilsister the other day, she being the expert, having had every foot disease known to man (and some unknown, when she first arrived on my doorstep in Adelaide in Australia she had a green toenail. We went immediately to the chemist who asked to have a look at it so she could recommend a product to cure it. The chemist JUMPED BACK when Lilsister took her toe out, like you would do if confronted by a particularly hairy spider in the bathroom, which happened to me in Sydney one night – it was as big as my hand and its legs were as thick as my fingers. Not a country to live in.).
After my discussion with the expert I trotted down to the first chemist as I had ordered some concoction there to treat my toes with (yes, it had to be ORDERED in). After waiting for a depressing young woman rabbiting on about how her headache tablets had caffeine and kept her awake at night till seven am! I was finally told by the chemist that my bloody toe order hadn’t come in (it was due in on Monday, today is Wednesday, what is the problem?). I then told the caffeine addict beside me to take off her bright pink velour tracksuit as that would immediately see an end to her headaches and caffeine anecdotes, seriously, it was giving me epilepsy.
The second quite camp chemist entered into a deep and meaningful with me about what my toe looked like, I think he secretly wanted to see it but as it was covered in royal blue nail varnish I couldn’t. He then disgustingly produced some pictures of toe fungi which made me retch and defend myself by saying I have a bit of this, and a bit of that, but my toe is sir, NOTHING like these pictures. I am not an animal! He then tried to get me to buy the treatment that makes your nail fall off, something also recommended by Lilsister, but as this is hideous I refused to bite.
Anyway 25 euro later I am the proud owner of a treatment box which I have to apply once a week to the ‘filed down, infected’ area. Treatment will take MONTHS allegedly, because I am too much of a baby to do it the quick way and have my nail fall off (ugh). Oh – and I cannot paint my toenails during this time. And summer around the corner! If it has not healed by then I will not go around unvarnished, damn the consequences!!!
Whilst in therapy today, I came up with an idea for a sitcom. Is this good or bad? My counsellor says it’s a good idea, but it’s not the idea, it’s the location of the springing up of the idea that concerns me.
Another good thing about therapy is its location is across the road from the discount supermarket where I get my butter (I got four today, buy in bulk Mammy says when it’s cheap) and even more importantly, a really nice Thai takeaway (hard to find in Dublin, in my humble opinion). I came home ready to butter up my veggie spring rolls and wok fried chicken. Bliss!
They (the world) say to write, you must write what you know. Sadly, I know nothing.
However, even I can envisage that if you spend less than two euro on an item of clothing, it will not rock your world.
So I found it odd that upon opening the cheap packaging that Spongecake had spent a titanic €1.99 on, she then cried a disgusted ”What the fuck???”. She had just set eyes on the plastic poncho she had bought, at a newsagents, for the first time. I think she was expecting something that would not look like something a cretin would wear, but how could it under these circumstances.
Horrifically, once we got inside our third pub and the poncho came off, I was the one that had to carry it in my handbag. This meant the next morning, whilst not dying but not bouncing off the walls with energy either, it was a frightening thing to behold when I went to look for my purse to buy croissants with and it’s bright blue self protruded at me from the depths.
It is best to hide your resolution to go drinking under the illusion of having afternoon tea. We had our afternoon tea and scones (seriously, I can’t stop eating them) with some wine (beer for Spongecake), then hit a bar on the quays that serves Thai beer, then another bar for gin (vodka for Spongecake), then another bar for beer where the toilet has not been renovated (or cleaned) since the 1960’s, then another bar for more beer where you walk through the door and the one gay at the door hears you (or Spongecake) saying ‘nice bit of cock in here’ and immediately wants to be your friend.
I do remember meeting Spongecake’s (married) friends who did not even pretend to look away when she flashed her heaving chesticle at them, and swopping our shoes at one stage because mine had wedge heels and I am such a non girl my feet even hurt in THOSE, and Spongecakes’ were flat. It was also very hard to change our shoes back again whilst standing but we distracted attention away from our falling over by blaming two very serious blokes with beards and horn rimmed glasses on an eggy fart we caught when the back door opened, something they displayed absolutely no sense of humour about, nor lowered themselves to discuss with us. I think they went back to their corner to discuss the rubbishy sonnets they wished they were composing.
Lilsister is getting married in October, and I can’t stop eating scones.
Ever since cutting the ties with my last job I have found that my local supermarket makes the biggest most sugar filled beautiful scones I have ever eaten, and I can’t stop eating them. It is a daily battle not to drive up and buy six of them. It is a battle I am losing.
To combat my scones and Lilsister’s belly, we are Going to Do Something About It. We have six months, I have told her we will be running. We have gone outside once since I made this statement, and I ran three times (running time in total about forty seconds due to excessive wheezing, oncoming heart attack) and Lilsister, in pink walking shoes, ran for about eight seconds before giving up and saying her neck hurt her (?).
We have both purchased our dresses (her wedding, my bridesmaid) and our bellies fit into them currently. Should we fail on a massive scale with our health venture, we will fit into our outfits, but I will feel a little bit sad.
Another dream which Mammy partially interpreted (we were busy screaming at each other because we had become lost in the Ranelagh area of Dublin, trying to find a place called Sandford School of Languages, which will be teaching Mammy Spanish. Unhelpfully, it was in a building called the Milltown Institute. When we found the Milltown Institute there were three doors, one saying Milltown, one saying nothing, and another saying Emerald. The building we wanted was the one that said nothing. This is why people slag the Irish).
I told Mammy of another disturbing dream regarding the pop ”band” One Direction. I am not a fan, although I have had discussions with Papabear and Lilsister that their last effort, something about driving a car all night and talking walls, does not make me vomit. I mentioned this to Spongecake who nearly clapped with delight. At 37 years of age, she is more excited about the upcoming One Direction concert taking place in Dublin soon than her SEVEN YEAR OLD daughter. There is no accounting for taste, or madness. I told Spongecake that I did not understand the lyrics to whatever this song is called, she said to watch the video and all would be revealed. I’d rather clean the sleeve that Little Niece N keeps wiping her nose with by using my tongue.
There is an Irish bloke in One Direction (the shame!) and in my dream it was announced somehow that he had 11 months to live. I can’t remember why and I think in my dream I didn’t care because of who he is, even though I thought it was sad that someone that young had such a short time left. I knew the songs would continue without him and I think that was the more sobering thought.
Mammy says it’s the numbers here that are significant, there is a ‘One’ Direction and ‘Eleven’ months. That was as far as we got because we finally found the Milltown Institute at that stage and Mammy went banging on the door with no name to see if it was the Spanish class place. I stayed in the car because I really needed to go to the toilet and if I had gotten out and moved I would have wet myself.
Lilsister googled the dream whilst being not busy in work and yes the numbers are significant. I asked her to email me the link she was looking at but as usual she didn’t bother. What I do remember is that the ‘one’ part is telling me I want to be creative and fabulous, and the ‘eleven’ part means I want to be fabulous and alone. All of this makes sense and I am in awe at what my brain is doing to me when I am asleep. I was listening to a radio play by Agatha Christie last night so how that turned into a teen pop group telling me to trod the creative path alone has given me plenty to consider whilst I eat another cupcake.