All Pain and No Gain

In an effort to be fit and fabulous for my upcoming social mingling disaster tomorrow night, I did a slight run on Sunday.  I say ”slight” because I was actually walking but felt buoyed up by listening to my 80’s music on my walkman, and broke into a slow trot for most of the second chorus of ”Train of Thought” by A-ha.  Now it is Tuesday, and I have pains in my legs, hips, back and arse (literally – I am actually struggling to sit down) and I am feeling frumpy and forty.  I should be a triumph tomorrow!

To combat the fact that I am unable to move, rendering exercising out of the question, I am attempting to eat less and failing miserably.  I cooked a batch of scones after my excessively not long run and then purchased jam and cream to go with them – delicious, but not diet material.  I have also been suffering with chronic PMT and have had to turn to chocolate much more regularly than normal.  So myself and my hormones should be in peachy form by tomorrow night.

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We Don’t Like Mondays, Especially on Tuesdays

FRIGHTENED out of my bed this am, our first day back to work after the long weekend celebrating whomever St Patrick was (the radio last week proclaimed that far from being a snake-beating Christian bringing religion to the Emerald Isle, Pat was in fact an English criminal, using Ireland whilst being on the run from creditors zzzz…).

7.14am and my boudoir door is HURLED open by Lilsister, who screams at me ”DO WE HAVE ANYTHING FOR BURNS IN THIS HOUSE” which we do not, as it turns out.  It seems that in a fit of creating the illusion of washed hair, Lilsister, who hadn’t washed her hair at all in fact, had left her GHD on full blast, knocked it over, and it had landed on her wrist and hand, taking some skin off one side, and imprinting a red, scorched rectangular shape on the other.  Quite a view first thing of a Tuesday.   I naturally bounded out of the bed to stop Lilsister running cold water over the burns (the WORST thing you can do, according to a first aid course I did many years ago) and searched for cold cloths etc, in light of the fact that we had NOTHING to help her with.

Departing the house with some damp cotton pads which I placed in the freezer pressed to her wrist, Lilsister made her way to the bus stop, because the trams are running irregularly in Dublin today, due to a fire in the city several days ago, which somehow has made their crap service even worse.  I was contacted by text then to be advised that the bus had left early, brushing past Lilsister as she stumbled along the path.  It did not stop for her, and her mood got worse. I felt exhausted and based on the completely crap service that I usually get with the trams, but which promised to be worse today, I decided to drive to work, which I normally don’t do as parking is an issue.  Noting that several people in my training group have been parking in a free public carpark every day for the last three weeks (which they are not supposed to do but as nobody monitors it they go for it) I left half an hour later than normal, and instead of the 45 minute LITANY of tram travelling horror that I usually have to endure, found myself at my office within six minutes, and was happy.

That is, until an hour later, when I was informed that clampers were out in the carpark hunting for me.  Cue panic, and moving of car to the office basement, where there are no carspaces (hence the fact I was using the bloody public carpark in the first place) and me parking in a non space, that half blocked an emergency exit.  Ahem. I also developed a headache, and felt depressed, as I am trying to eat less rubbish in an effort to become slim and attractive to the opposite sex, so only had fruit and crackers for snack food.  Sniff.

Lilsister had arrived in the city in good time on a new bus, had found a chemist open and after making the assistant do dry vomits in her mouth from showing her her injuries, was able to secure burn cream and bandages for her wrist.  She then went to work, and found out she had to do a presentation to her directors on the state of their accounts, complete with a bandaged wrist, which she hoped they would not look like a foiled suicide attempt prior to the meeting.

Nothing else of any note happened to make our days get any better, except that at least it wasn’t Monday, which is only a slight consolation.  Then Lilsister discovered she had received the present of periods, and we declared her the winner of both our crap days.

Modern Bathroom Ruins Modern Family

Still popping up to Mammy and Papabear’s house to use their internet, which doesn’t take two years to upload.  Got the Mannilow Monster on full whack, cause he rocks.  Papabear seems to be back on form, he has just visited me in the kitchen where he plonked half a tub of ice cream into a bowl and floated off again, presumably to have manmoody thoughts.   Told you PMT is best fed so all should be well soon.

Spent the morning with my meditation group which I now have to abandon due to employment being found.  Put in request with them for evening sessions, as it is most beneficial when one has been abandoned by one’s husband, found herself homeless and jobless and returned to Ireland in the midst of winter.  If it helps me, it must be helpful.

Popped up to the house to catch on my programmes lovingly taped by me for me on the sky plus thing, which I barely understand, but which works wonderfully if Mammy doesn’t delete everything, which she likes to do as she gets panic attacks if she has less than 60% worth of memory available.

One of my daily treats is a double helping of my near favourite comedy ”Modern Family”.  I have nothing bad to say about the show itself, but I must advise that Cam should be my daddy for evermore, he is a dream parent.  Having said that, I must protest in earnest at the ad that precedes all the episodes I’ve taped so far.  I have no idea what it is for, clearly a bathroom company of some sort, because it has all this clips of an Aryan-style child, doing crazy things in the toilet (???) like shaving, dancing and – gasp! – reading the paper.  I hate Whiteboy, with a passion I didn’t realise I had left in me.  He never speaks, his sole existence is to occupy the GIANT bathroom that I will never experience, let alone own, doing not so funny grown up styled antics, presumably whilst the rest of his family wait outside the door clutching their crotches and hoping the door opens soon.  I say family, but it’s probably only his parents, as he has GOT to be an only child, spoiled and unspecial, and going slightly mad, sibling-less, in the toilet.  I foresee a road of sexual incompetence, emotional issues and a dented head if I ever get my boots on and see him in an alleyway somewhere.  I HATE HIM.

The other thing I hate about these ads is that they are slow yet quick.  Slow in that they are long enough for you to build  a hate machine which you then turn on when they come on, letting all the hate and bile spray over the tv, but too quick for fast forwarding on the ”x12” or ”x30” speeds, which I prefer, as I see fewer ads, because I have issues with advertising, that are too boring to go into now, and for which I am too tired to go on about because I got up early to meditate and I need an afternoon nap.

I fast forward all the other ads, then in literally a  BLINK, this ad flashes on the screen long enough for me to know it’s there, and my programme is about to begin, because – and here is the scumbag part – when Modern Family starts they don’t show a Modern Family sign, they just GET INTO IT, right after these STUPID BATHROOM ADS, meaning all too often I then MISS the start of my show, and begin throwing large, unprofessional-like tantrums because I then have to REWIND, on the ”x6” speed, which means I ALWAYS catch a glimpse of Blondebits doing his stupid shaving dance, or swinging his legs on the toilet or whatever non-hilarity they’ve thrown at me this day.  I CAN NEVER JUST GET THE SPEED RIGHT AT THE START OF THE SHOW.  Having rewinded the opening parts of Modern Family, I find myself back in the white bathroom with the white child and then I have to FAST FORWARD, AGAIN, on ”x6” meaning I have to then watch the whole ad again before catching the start of my programme!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I hate marketers, and advertisers, and this child.  I would hate the company too if I knew who they were, but I don’t.

I should probably go and watch my programme now, I’ve just remembered I’ve two new ones today.

Barry is now cranking out Long and Winding Road – bust it out sista!!!!!!!!!!

A Pad for Your Thoughts

Spending quality time with Mammy and Papabear for various reasons, mainly to use their high speed internet connection (Lilsister’s laptop, stolen from Ex-Himself after we emigrated to Australia is pretty slow due to her pay as you go stick thing internet connection) and also to give Scarydancer some man time to himself in the apartment, as he awaits the imminent arrival of Lilsister from Day 2 in The New Job.

Unfortunately Papabear must have his periods for he is very moody this evening.  Not sure what it is as Mammy only came home from her own work after I got here, and he was already stomping around upstairs combing each individual hair in preparation for training his football team.  Papabear’s hair preparation rituals is the stuff of legend in our family as he takes longer to prepare and set his extremely short barnett than any of the women in the house, no mean feat when we all colour, blowdry and straighten our hair.  He takes THAT LONG.  Lilsister has often joked that it must take the time it does as each individual follicle receives the utmost in attention and styling products, what other reason could there possibly be?  I think she is right.  Last Christmas, as a joke, she bought him a giant (by giant I mean think the length of your arm, and double it) bottle of ”extreme hold” hairspray, in reference to the vast amounts he uses every time he goes out, lest his tiny hairs wave in the Irish wind.  It was a joke, but Papabear was genuinely delighted with the gift, stating that with a bottle that size, he would get a good week out of it.   The joke and the lead balloon fell to the floor together in a thunderous crash of nothingness.  We all looked at each other, and asked Mammy when the turkey would be ready.

So after stomping around upstairs, Papabear took to stomping down the stairs and banging various items in the kitchen, whilst Mammy and I watched the news in the living room.   Only when the newsreader took a breath (they need to after the deluge of bad news that they DELIGHT in presenting to us – pricks) and there was a second’s silence, could Papabear be heard saying ”for fuck’s sakes” a lot.  As he was eating his hastily prepared dinner I’m not quite sure what the problem was, because when I have my periods or PMT or general womanly mood swings, a good feed usually sorts the issue out.  No so with manmoods.

Speaking of periods, Lilsister and I have collated all of our period related paraphernalia into a giant, see-through bag, and have hung it on the back of one of her storage cupboards.  I happened to have a few packs of stuff but Lilsister, in pure Mammy-influenced mode, will buy ANYTHING if it’s reduced, free, or two for the price of one, and has amassed a startling collection of wings, longs, shorts, thins, pads, bags, flats, shaped, daily, nightly and a variety of pretty packaging.  You got a mood swing, we got the pad for it.  There are literally HUNDREDS of them, and every time I go to the cupboard to get a clean towel, a paper bag for recycling, or some shampoo, I get hit in the face with it.  This is fine, but I fear for Scarydancer in the same situation, nobody needs to be hit in the face, but to be hit in the face with an array of sanitary towels on a regular basis is surely not what he signed up for as a roomie.

I must go and find something for Papabear, not sure if there is anything that relates to general frostiness, cursing and stompingess, but perhaps something infused with aloe vera or a shower fresh scent would do the trick.  All I can do is try.