Where The Streets Have No Name (Literally)

So I finally hauled my increasingly flabby arse to a new gym for exercise classes, and today I can’t sit down it.

The gym was incredibly hard to find mainly because the roads surrounding it are so tough the STREET SIGNS have been kicked out!!!

The building, which is actually a proper, sweaty, ‘Rocky I’ style boxing club complete with smells, dirt, and aincent old men with huge bellies, is behind a school that appears to have a bit of a ‘reputation’.  Lilsister advises me that as a student she was driven to a basketball match there, and told that scores were not to be kept, to prevent rioting and the burning of teacher’s cars after, should the result not match the hopes of this evil place.

Lilsister is a terrible person and decided that if she could not win, she would have many fights during the match, and she hated her teachers anyways, so who cared if their cars got burnt?

 

Mammy Usurps the Irish Medical System, Adds Gin

After shelling out for the world’s nosiest doctor, Mammy and Daddy depart Irish shores to travel to the lovely Lanzarote, where it’s warm and medication costs less.

‘Get me my sleeping tablets,’ I bark at Mammy, ‘as I have no money left from the Doctor Prat-a-lot.’

Mammy does, and hands them over upon her return, alongside a very cheap bottle of gin, my drink of choice.

Gin and sleeping tablets – would the doctor be worried?  Surely they don’t cause alarm bells to ring if your mother gets them for you in a sunny place?

 

Lovely Food Go Away – I’m Concentrating

As if the day couldn’t get any more shite, all the girls bar me and the other new girl ordered takeaway chips and gravy (possibly my favourite food ever) whilst I binged out on my apple.

I comforted myself with the thought that in three months time when I am a slimmed down version of myself in my bridesmaid’s dress at Lilsister’s wedding I would be so amazing that men would instantly fall dead at my feet and I would have my pick of future playmates.

Then I thought of a recipe I cut out of the paper, to make a butternut squash smoothie with chia seeds and felt more depressed than ever.

At no stage did the apple taste bad, I was merely not in the mood for its natural goodness.

I went to buy a scone after work, and bought a brown one.  It was not the same at all.

Sorry, I’m Trying to Be Nice

Trevor rings me.  She speaks in a low tone.  I think she is either going to tell me about a terrible act she is about to commit, or she’s committed the act, gotten caught, and is ringing me from the courtroom where the jury has taken 16 minutes to decide she’s guilty.

‘I have to tell you something,’ she breathes down the line.

‘Of course?’ I gasp, in upspeak, as if to say, tell me if you want, but don’t expect  me to like it.  She keeps doing terrible things to her husband when he’s drunk such as standing behind him when he sits down to watch tv – she puts her hair over her face and stays still for the 45 minutes it takes for him to see a hairy creature in the mirror behind him.  She also blows up balloons and ties them to the inside door handle so when he falls in he has to contend with what he believes are ghosts grabbing at him.  Then she jumps out at him.  She has been known to lie in wait for two hours to do this, and I fear he has finally had the heart attack we all know is coming.  She’s killed him.  With hundreds of balloons.

‘So this is what it is.’

‘Okay.  Go for it.’

‘You looked very svelte the other night when I saw you.’

‘Right.  Did I?’

‘Yes.  I didn’t want to say it in front of the others because I know you’d kill me.  But you’re looking well.  Sorry.  I know you hate compliments.’

I hang up, but not before I scream at her that it’s a good thing we’re both in counselling because my giving out for receiving compliments and her apologising for handing them out is messed up.

Pending Guidance

I would like to begin by stating that despite making a list of healthies from my various cook books last night, and despite purchasing some of these healthies (pears, kiwis, various nuts and seeds for snacking, ingredients for my Lebanese salad which is a regular make I must admit) I also inhaled a scone the size of my face earlier.

I had to, for I had to deal with the social welfare again.

I turned up to my ‘guidance’ appointment at the allotted time and walked into an office run entirely by old and obese people.  My being ten minutes early seemed to cause some consternation amongst the staff, and the older lady that barely greeted me at reception went running away almost immediately to find somebody called ‘Billy’ (names have been changed to protect the useless).  This left me with an obese lady who had been standing at the reception as if propped up, who then looked out the window and shuffled away.  Then an obese man sat in the reception chair and wondered aloud how people sat ‘in this fucking thing’.

I took a seat beside some boys who smelt like cigarettes and was immediately called in to an office to see Billy.

Do you know who Lily Savage is?  He didn’t look like her but with a Dublin accent, sounded a bit like her.  He looked like Lily’s creator, Paul O’Grady, but seemed to have computer printed pictures of a wife all over his bulletin board, alongside, bizarrely one of a very young Jennie Garth of 90210 fame (who knew she used to be so chubby?).

  

Billy and ‘Mary’ then proceeded to have a long and deep and meaningful conversation about the data base on Billy’s computer NOT stating that I had been ‘engaged’ despite being to an ‘engagement gathering’ (see previous blogs for that golden nugget of time-wasting).  Cue lots of keyboard bashing which achieved nothing except sighs and declarations by both that I was ‘pending’ – something which appeared to be a Very Bad Thing.

I had been handed a folder, I looked through it and discovered that it had glossy colour photographs of the office I was marooned in and a printout of a Powerpoint presentation about what they were supposed to be doing in this office for me.  In the Key Words and Actions slide it did not say ‘pending’.

 

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.

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.