Work, Beer, Tea – it’s Friday

I’ve followed up my beer buzz with a cup of tea…not rock of all ages material, and it’s made me feel bloated, alone and ugly, as it’s Friday night and here I am sucking beers and then falling at the last hurdle and succumbing to tea.  The shame of being 37 and nine tenths!!!

It’s been a long week, for no other reason than it just HAS, and it’s rained every day.   Work continues to be awful, with no respite from the abuse, hatred and general rudeness that is the Irish population when dealing with their bank.  Ah, we truly are scumbags, raised in the back of toilets, judging by some of the language and colourful death threats I receive on an hourly basis.

I’ve moved seats and am currently surrounded by a group of girls, which horrified me initially, but seems to actually have turned out okay.  The girl beside me has a make up bag the size of my actual handbag, despite being at least 18 years younger than me, thin and not requiring much maintenance, but there you go.  Bear in mind my handbag needs to accommodate my book (hardback), my giant purse, umbrella, hat, various notes that I write to myself, my pens, phone, keys, sunglasses and my net for catching potential husbandvictims, so you can imagine it’s size.  So that should convince you that there is a SERIOUS AMOUNT of making up going on.  However, myself and the Glamorous One seem to have forged something of a friendship, based on our love of food and our raging hormones.  I may have secret crushes every five seconds but I don’t wander around the staff canteen trying to take sneaky photos of unsuspecting males, like my friend there, or walk around a nightclub in a circle trying to catch someones eye.  FOR AN ENTIRE NIGHT.  Good tips for me though, should I find my eye wandering over lunch or ever end up in a nightclub again.

The girl behind me is actually worse, and even has a creepy ”I’m coming for you, boy” look, which makes me squeal like a girl every time I catch her doing it.  It involves a trout pout, one eye closing and one opening, and a vigorous nodding of the head, to ensure the victim knows she’s a-coming, and she’s ready.  She is also obsessed with my ex-team leader’s arse, which she insists is like ”two eggs in a hanky” despite my protestations that it is flat, and ugly, and he is a pigperson anyway so he cannot be fancied. 

Aside from this it has been an uneventful week, broken up only by Ireland being hammered in the European football matches, a fabulous evening eating Babybro’s stew with little Niece N and Sisinlaw, and the departure of Scarydancer and Lilsister from the apartment as they mind Scarydancer’s parent’s tiny dog whilst they have their jollidays.  This has meant many beers for me, with my music playing while I dance about and try not to fall over every time I try to lift Scarydancer’s new weights.   Sigh.  My flabby arms beg me to reconvene, and soon.

Freddie Mercury sings to me in the background, and advises me to be free with my tango, and on that note, I will drain my cup, tidy up and hit my lonely bed for what I hope will be a deep, beer induced sleep.

Loud Customers and Silent Shoes

Scented candle action in our little bathroom again, with Scarydancer disappearing for a lengthy period, and only re-appearing to quietly remove the giant double-wicked lavender effort Lilsister keeps in the kitchen, and place it in the man smelling bathroom for what I can only assume is fumigation purposes.

A heatwave in Ireland last week has been followed quite dramatically with sleet and hail and plunging temperatures, meaning that we were all incredibly pissed off after being pissed on today, so changed our take away food night from Wednesday to tonight, to ease our furrowed brows.  Unfortunately, this appears to have led to the Mansmells Situation, because Scarydancer had a terrifying combination of a kebab box thing, complete with garlic pizza bread dripping in cheese, and garlic dipping sauce, and smelly chips.  Take away night isn’t pretty in our house.

We also had a small celebration today as Scarydancer passed a forklift course and test, and Lilsister was brought out to lunch by her boss and received many compliments, while I didn’t get called a fucking bastard by anyone on the phone today – we all achieved something.  In fairness though, I was told that I, as the bank, was responsible for making a poor old man live in hell, by his neighbour, who alleged to have opened his bank statement ”by mistake” and called to complain that she had received it in the first place, even though his postal address was the same as her home address.  She then repeatedly told me that she would call a solicitor, and reminded me that I was a scumbag, and kept talking until she got quite tired and I thanked her for her feedback and hung up.  Dizzy times in my executive world.  I do believe she also commented on the latest weather cold snap which was nice.

This cold snap has lead to reorganisation of work clothes and the re-issuing of winter coats yes it’s THAT COLD.  Winter boots are now firmly back on feet, which is sad, as Scarydancer is no longer wearing his ninja shoes, green pumps which are so light they can only be worn in warmer weather, and which are so light again that you cannot hear him approach, hence their ninja-like quality.  When he wears his ninja shoes, Scarydancer likes to demonstrate their worth by jumping up the kitchen walls, silently, to show how, if he was stalking you or planning an attack, you would never hear him nor even see him as he would have easily made it to the ceiling in silence, and stay hanging there until he was ready to finish you off.  I really must invest in a pair myself.

Homage to the Pointlessness of Shipping Goods

Fucking customs.  After four thousand emails, two thousand calls (cause I don’t like talking to people and besides can’t we all just communicate electronically anyway due to the fact that I have precious little time on this earth and really why should I waste it talking to IDIOTS in customs) it has been decided that the ninety five pages I filled out in red tape, so red it dripped in BLOOD, plus the various bank statements confirming my address were all in vain because they have now decided to charge me VAT and excise duty on my ”goods” because, and I am guessing here, as the typing skills of the complete TWAT I am dealing with in the shipping company are second to NIL, as I spent less than a year in Australia this somehow makes me eligible for these charges.  I mean, I am seriously questioning whether to give customs a present of my work shoes, my vast collection of black trousers (worn by all women in offices with little or no intentions of ever being more than a serf in an airless cocoon filled with idiots and tears), a blanket I bought in Dublin, then shipped to Australia, then shipped back after Ex-Himself dumped me, plus a collection of what can only be termed as ”guilty pleasure” cds.  Should I REALLY be paying VAT and excise on my Smash Hits partyrific hits of the 80’s???  Does anyone REALLY want a copy of my Los Lobos crowd pleasing accoustic efforts?  And does anyone even KNOW who T’Pau are, and that yes, they did produce a greatest hits????

The answer is a resounding NO.  So fuck off customs.  I don’t need this shit, I want my blankie, I want my slipper shoes because my new job doesn’t pay me enough to buy new ones, and I’m tired of wearing my boots with the little heels in them, with my grey trousers because it makes my new job think that I am some sort of professional executive with a fully made up eye on the corporate prize, and I hate to give false impressions.  Invariably people expect you to live up to them, and I am just too tired to do ambition anymore.

And DAMMIT, I want my cds.  How am I supposed to make mix tapes of my various mood swings WITHOUT my Tori Amos collection (an entire catalogue from kooky to downright weird to suburban, and therefore boring, bliss, and back to semi-kookiness quite recently).

Fuck you customs.  Our country is in the middle of an economic depression not seen since the last Great One of the thirties, and people are queuing for food parcels in Dublin.  I am in a job that barely provides a wage higher than the state welfare payment, and I have PMT.  Give me back my cd’s and please, go fuck yourself afterwards.