An Unhelpful Helpdesk

Been at a computer training place to sign up for an expensive but practical course to make me more ’employable’ once they’re finished with me.  There is a place that sells cakes downstairs so it’s a great location.

Course is fantastically expensive but not to worry, our welfare system does help some people in training courses so off I toddled to my shiny social welfare office with the fancy new name, to symbolise how all the welfare components are there for YOU, the unfortunate non-tax payer who shouldn’t be allowed to live because you’re not paying tax.

The upshot is that YES, you can apply for partial funding once you provide a letter of offer of employment.

No, I said, this is a TRAINING course, not a job.

Yes, they said, so as long as your employer provides a letter stating your role is dependent on you doing the course, we will pay towards it.

No, I said, the point of the TRAINING course is to train you to GET a job.

Once you have the job we will look at paying towards the course.

If I had a job I wouldn’t be on welfare asking for help with payment would I?

Is there anything else we can help you with?

Bought a scone and a ‘come on you can do it’ writing magazine afterwards.

Will get fat(ter) and poorer as writing magazine was not cheap.

 

 

Attack Bellies with Vegetarianism, Boxing

Boxing class was horrific as always last night, but no suicidal thoughts during so that’s always good.

I am now heating up the oven to stick in the bloody courgette and peppers for roasting, so I can add them to my poxy cous cous leftover salad from yesterday, still seething with red onion, other crappy (ie healthy) vegetables, herbs, garlic and lemon.  JESUS!!!!

I did note in the shower however that my bottom belly, which now has LINES on it from flopping about so much, appears to be getting smaller.  No obvious improvement on my top belly, which I think would be referred to as a ‘muffin top’ on the mean streets of Dublin.

Operation fixthecrapthatismylife.com continues with a meeting today at a computer training college to hopefully do a course to enhance my aching computer skills, assuming I do not die of a heart attack when I hear about the fees.  But I think a little confidence will be gained by doing the course as I am most rusty on anything except banking databases which are all different, and insanely outdated most of the time.

This will hopefully lead to fabulous work opportunities (as if such things exist in modern Ireland today – check our (doctored) employment figures anytime!) where I will receive the love and adoration of my alleged colleagues as they admire my toned and flattened Liney and Muffie bellies.

After that, who knows, the very stars!

Rub It Into the Wound, Then

Another dream last night was receiving some sea salt in a matchbox.

My dream book has no listing for match boxes.

Salt represents ‘wisdom’ and to be given salt in a dream means I am aware of my own value.

I am now throwing my book out the window.

I am about to turn 40, I have no job, my mortgage is in arrears and the bank wants to eat my skin off and repossess my house, and thank the universe I’m not looking for a boyfriend because the last time I went on an online dating site a boy wanted to watch me wee.

As I make my way towards the chocolate, I am feeling less than valuable and not so wise.

 

Dog of a Dream

Have found a dream book.  Had a dream a dog was growling at me – dogs are the ‘guardians of the underworld’.  Am I dying?  I don’t feel great after my healthy vegetarian lunch.  Did I know the dog?  Eh, no.  Then it signifies loyalty and unconditional love, the type you get from dogs.

Yes I’m definitely dying, and without loyalty or unconditional love.

 

A Long and Winding Road

I am going to my exercise class later, what joy.

To not celebrate, I have been eating cous cous with roasted vegetables.  For excitement, I added coriander, parsley, lemon, garlic and whoopee!!! salt and pepper.  Strangely, the excitement hasn’t hit yet.

My stomach is literally churning with health, so I must balance this with tea and a chocolate chipped biccie.

In  happier news, Exhimself has emailed me to say he has just gotten married (four months after the divorce was granted) and would I like to see pictures of the event?

I think I’ll make that two biccies.

Feeling Creative? Then Pack a Box.

Job searching, and feeling useless.

To do a data entry job, paying 45 cents above the minimum wage, applicants must have ‘no gaps’ in their CV’s over the last five years.

Made redundant?  Feck off.

Had to leave your job due to bullying?  Feck off.

Been depressed?  Feck off.  You are not good enough to enter our data.

I looked at a packing role.  ‘Previous experience of packing luxury goods an advantage’.  WHY??????????

By the way, THAT role was advertised under ‘Publishing and Creative Arts’.  No, I swear.

Dating Opportunities If Aged 63

Our uncle arrived at the pub late, as he plays trad music in a different pub on Sunday nights.  Dublin had just thrashed Derry in the Gaelic football at the hallowed Croke Park, and we had a double celebration what with it being Papabear’s 65th birthday celebrations too.

There was gin, beer and shots of baby Guinness.  I threw up that night and all the next day too, thank the universe Lilsister cooked shepherd’s pie the next day, it was the only thing I kept down for 24 hours.

During the festivities Lilsister informed me that newly separated Unca (age 63) would be bringing ‘a girlfriend’ to her upcoming wedding extravaganza in October.  We were both a little shocked – it was only January when I and Unca hugged each other on our mutual marriage breakdowns – my divorce and his formal separation.

I immediately approached Unca.  ‘You have a girlfriend?’ I slurred.  Indeed he did, he advised, and for a few months.  Excuse me, I pondered out loud, how long have you been separated again?  He queried if I meant officially or unofficially.  ‘Both,’ I enthused.

My 63 year old uncle, officially separated since Christmas, marriage broken down about a year and a half, has a girlfriend.  I am single almost three years and whilst I may not be seeking a boyfriend (or whatever they are called when you are 39 and three quarters) it is not like they are beating down the doors to enter Loboworld.

‘How did you find her?’ I asked.

‘You have to get out there and meet people,’ he confirmed.

I mentioned to Papabear that he was making me look bad.  ‘Yes, he is’, he replied.

Prettyboy said as soon as I stop being bitter I will probably be alright.

I remain utterly bemused that all of the above have partners and I do not.