Sunrise with Peter Capaldi

Odd dream last night, went out with a bunch of people I didn’t know and had a fight with a blonde girl about trousers, ended up with me writing a note to her from a taxi and somehow knowing that she got it.  We were, it stated, finished.  Then Peter Capaldi was in the taxi and he jumped out with about 8 other people from the group and walked across the road to a fence and announced that we were all to watch the sunrise.  Not sure if this is a positive ‘new start’ dream for me or symbolic of Scotland’s vote for independence today – either way,  all I can say is freedom to all, because it is, really, what we all want and deserve.

Saor Alba!

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.


Chickpeas Will Make it All Better

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.

Google Penetrates My Subconscious

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.

Puffed to a Crisp

Earlier this evening I was lucky enough to catch Lilsister laughing at what, I didn’t know.  ”What are you laughing at,” I unwisely ventured, only to be told that she was laughing at me, because my life is a joke.  Wonderful.

My running is continuing well, thank you for asking, and I am nearly up to a good twenty second jaunt, which makes me feel fabulous and fit.  I also got burnt yesterday in the raging morning sun, I think the rays penetrated my factor 30 spf cream and I feel dry, crispy and old.  Ireland is experiencing another little heatwave, with soaring temperatures of 15 degrees yesterday – sure how could I NOT get burnt to an elderly crisp?

Needless to say on my way home today I stopped at the chemist and purchased Factor 50.  I did not run – it was too hot at an alleged 19 degrees.  What is this, Qatar???!?

Work is hideous, naturally, and only the sweet non-rememberance of alcohol consumption gets me through the nights, not that I can have any during weeknights, as if I was to come into work hungover the customers would literally eat me alive, which they attempt to do on an hourly basis, and which I have so far, been strong enough to resist.  Having said that, I have inbibed a little prosecco this evening before tapping this entry out, purely for sleeping purposes, as I have had difficulty sleeping the last week, being filled with bubbling rage most nights.  Right now I feel mellow and ready to snooze – ah drink, you blessed friend of the stressed.

Speaking of alcohol, I was able to partake of a little over the weekend, with Friday night drinks with Sisinlaw and Lilsister, and then Saturday night beers with Lilsister at an alleged comedy club in the city, which cost a fortune to enter, had flat pints and a comedian that looked EXACTLY like Robert de Niro in Taxi, making the whole night quite unsettling.   They also stamped my hand on the way in after being fleeced with the entry cost, and even today, I can still see the magic word on my hand – ”Puff”.  EXCUSE ME?  What does this signify?  Except that it is strangely resistant to several showers and scrubbing  brushes?

So with my snoozy boozy drink, I depart and seek my bed, in the hope that tonight I sleep, and forget the unfunny joke that is my life now.  Sigh…


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.

Top Half Stressed Bottom Half in Magnolia

Stress can affect people in different ways.  You might lose sleep, or drink too much, and consequently because you are 37 years old, you spend half the night in the toilet having ladywhizzes (but not vomiting because at 37 you can drink a little better than when you were a young child – not that I was a child drinking, you understand, but it seems so long ago that I started drinking that I may as well have been a child.  Except for the time where I didn’t drink for four months.  I had spent a night on a disgraceful mix of pints, shorts and shots and ended up quite literally in a gutter, with my dress – buttons all down the front, split open.  As I say, I was a child then, so it wasn’t such an horrific sight).

Or you can have dreams where you are having sex with someone you know to be gay, whilst beside the bed your old HR manager reads from a list of things that you have done wrong in work.  Ah, my former employer.  I find the best way to deal with painful moments, or many painful moments as the case may be with my former employer, is to simply block them out.  I am Irish after all, and discussing difficult issues is strictly forbidden, although drugging yourself up on prescription tablets is both socially acceptable and morally encouraged.

Occasionally though I am reminded of the madness that once was my life, when having to speak to individuals this week, who may or may not have sneered across a table from me as I cried my eyes out.  Memories of emails about incorrectly discarded sanitary towels, sitting in the disabled toilet in the basement meditating my anger away every hour for fifteen minutes, particularly in the mornings, of the constant need for headache tablets, and the constant scarity of headache tablets for some reason (could we ALL have had so many headaches?) and naturally, the day when it all ended and a new life began.

But rather than dwell on that, like a thoroughbred Irish national I will brush it aside, to be stuck under the rug for another day with a big pint and a soapbox.

So in summary a few stresses this week, coupled with some painting, of the new baby room for Preggers and Firstbrother, which has completely destroyed a pair of tracksuit trousers, covering my legs and arse in magnolia for evermore.  Not to mention the sheer frustration and horror that is painting anyways, but also in a room where my bloody brother did not even empty, leaving me to paint AROUND the furniture, walk into it, and generally curse the day he was ever born.  His feedback?  ”You got paint on the wardrobes”.  Job satisfaction, indeed.  I did too.  This is what happens when you don’t pay professionals.  Not counting the chips I was given on Friday night, which were yummy I must admit.