The Madonna Car Sticker Bought in Cambodia

Last year, whilst trudging around Cambodia alone as ExHimself, based in Australia at the time, didn’t find the idea of seeing this aincent country appealing, I happened across an odd little shop filled with signs, musings and fancy quotations.  It was there that I saw what I believed to be a car sticker:


There is nothing more to be said.  I immediately bought it and posted it back to Ireland, to Trevor, where I knew she would love and treasure it.

Unfortunately it turned out to be a normal sticker, not meant for a car at all, but Trevor prevailed and stuck it up on her new fancy double oven, in her newly designed kitchen, and promptly took a picture of herself, thumbs up, in front of it.

I received that picture in Melbourne, where I was alone, missing my mad family and wondering what the hell I was doing moving here with Exhimself, who, true to form, had promised much but delivered nothing once he got back into his homeland.  I cried when I saw the picture and missed my friend.  I showed the photo to Exhimself who declared that Trevor was too proud of her new kitchen and fancy double oven to ”ruin” it with a car sticker that had purple writing.  This made me very sad.

I stood in Trevor’s kitchen on Saturday night, on my fourth glass of prosecco, and screamed as if seeing that car sticker for the first time.  There it still is, stuck to her extremely fancy double oven (which also appears to have some sort of professional coffee making machine thing in it – is that possible?  Or was I on my eighth prosecco?) and there it will always remain, because Trevor loves it and treasures it.

I declared this story to both Trevor and Boo, and while Trevor made angry fist gestures and I spat out my hate, Boo retreated to the solitude of the living room and watched a home improvement show, I believe silently hoping we would both just get the hell out of his house.

If You Don’t Laugh You’ll Take to the Bed

”Today,” I announced to my parents earlier from under the duvet, ”I have taken to the bed, and will not get up until I have a job.”  Both parents, standing at the door of the room, looked at each other.  Papabear said ”What’s for tea?” and Mammy said ”Fish.”  As I don’t eat fish, I said ”I don’t eat fish.”  Then they both left, closing the door behind them.

Alone, I suddenly realised I was slightly peckish and can announce that I followed my ever loving parents to the kitchen where I partook of some tea and toast.  Then Mammy read my angel cards which have advised me to take a course in comedic writing,  and then become a stand up comedian.  This is funny, as I discussed the possibility of writing a comedy show thing with Lilsister, which she promised she would perform, as I am too ugly to go on stage.  The angel also asked me to have a sense of humour about my present situation, that being – I am alone, broke, jobless and living with my parents at the age of 37 with nothing but the rustling of divorce papers to keep me warm at night.

Funny?  You betcha.

Speaking of funny, had another weird dream last night.  Most of my dreams are weird but usually I forget all about them.  In it, I was a sad 37 year old living with her parents.  I was in our house, which looked slightly different, when a soldier from World War 1 parachuted into our housing estate, and plopped onto a field outside the house across the road. I watched this from a bedroom window, then went back to what I assume was my bedroom, and two people from my last job in Melbourne were there – Marcus the old team leader and Princess Martina, the excessively self-obsessed bloke who sat slightly behind me.  Both advised me they were here to clean the windows, as they had recently become window cleaners.  I congratulated them on finding jobs and advised them that I had not.  Then they said they had to go and clean the windows.  Then I said to them – what are you doing in Paris?  Which is odd because I live in Dublin, and the soldier outside was shouting at the house across the road for one of my Dublin neighbours to accompany him back to the war.

Then I saw Sarkozy on the news telling the Greeks how to manage their debt problems.  Think I’ll stick to Dublin.  Paris seems colder by comparison.