RIP Stylish Toes

To be blunt, I have a fungal infection in my big toe.

I never had one before so I didn’t know what it was, I just thought my toe looked a little funny and as I am ALWAYS pedicured (I may wear tracksuits on a daily basis and the same jumper two days running but the feet department are always tidy and colour enhanced) I didn’t really notice that it has spread to my other big toe.

I discussed the matter with Lilsister the other day, she being the expert, having had every foot disease known to man (and some unknown, when she first arrived on my doorstep in Adelaide in Australia she had a green toenail.  We went immediately to the chemist who asked to have a look at it so she could recommend a product to cure it.  The chemist JUMPED BACK when Lilsister took her toe out, like you would do if confronted by a particularly hairy spider in the bathroom, which happened to me in Sydney one night – it was as big as my hand and its legs were as thick as my fingers.  Not a country to live in.).

After my discussion with the expert I trotted down to the first chemist as I had ordered some concoction there to treat my toes with (yes, it had to be ORDERED in).  After waiting for a depressing young woman rabbiting on about how her headache tablets had caffeine and kept her awake at night till seven am! I was finally told by the chemist that my bloody toe order hadn’t come in (it was due in on Monday, today is Wednesday, what is the problem?).  I then told the caffeine addict beside me to take off her bright pink velour tracksuit as that would immediately see an end to her headaches and caffeine anecdotes, seriously, it was giving me epilepsy.

The second quite camp chemist entered into a deep and meaningful with me about what my toe looked like, I think he secretly wanted to see it but as it was covered in royal blue nail varnish I couldn’t.  He then disgustingly produced some pictures of toe fungi which made me retch and defend myself by saying I have a bit of this, and a bit of that, but my toe is sir, NOTHING like these pictures.  I am not an animal!  He then tried to get me to buy the treatment that makes your nail fall off, something also recommended by Lilsister, but as this is hideous I refused to bite.

Anyway 25 euro later I am the proud owner of a treatment box which I have to apply once a week to the ‘filed down, infected’ area.  Treatment will take MONTHS allegedly, because I am too much of a baby to do it the quick way and have my nail fall off (ugh).  Oh – and I cannot paint my toenails during this time.  And summer around the corner!  If it has not healed by then I will not go around unvarnished, damn the consequences!!!

Burning BumBums and Steak with Singles

A very disturbing message from Scarydancer via Lilsister earlier this afternoon, which I THINK was morning for the both of them.  Calling from her jollidays house further into the suburbs, she told me that Scarydancer needed me to do him a big favour.  Being stretched out on the bed at the time, chilling to a number of Madonna ballads, I was highly uninterested.  ”What is it?” I dribbled.

”He needs you to call the fire brigade,” she confirmed ”as his asshole is on fire.”

It seems that too much consumption of three for ten euro beers at the pub near their jollidays house, coupled with a burger n onion rings meal, has given rise to feverish beershites which have caused much pain in the bumbum area for poor Scarydancer.  I winced inwardly, as I thought of my own several beer consumption last night, firstly whilst reading the paper and then more at Panties and Hangsandwich’s house, where I was fed an excellent steak and baked potato meal, and got to meet the only other single in Ireland aged over 35, a friend of Hangsandwich, who appears perfectly at ease with his lot.  It is a great relief to know that these people actually exist.  I DO have my eye on an unsuspecting 36 year old, but naturally I found out he is girlfriended, so I had to put my husbandcatching net away there.  Will it ever get an outing?  Tune in to find out.

Dirty Pints and Catching Billy’s Eye (Part 2)

The swan song of Saturday night came when myself and Trevor fell out of the Italian restaurant, with Trevor loudly belching her appreciation of her meal, probably ensuring nobody else enjoyed theirs.  Outside, a woman actually jumped as Trevor continued to let rip. 

Back on the streets again and with a hunger for more dirty pints, we happened upon a pub which Trevor declared herself and Boo Boo never went to, and went there.  

It was sticky, sweaty, and full of ugly people so terrible in the face department that me with my makeup now running down my face and a new hole in the back of my top, looked positively classy and attractive.  SO attractive in fact that I immediately caught the eye of a man I can only say looked like a ”Billy” – a rotund and teethy individual practically wearing the brown suit that is in the wardrobe of all eligible bachelor farmers in their mid fifties.  He flashed me a smile and I sat in the only available seat in the pub, which was directly in front of the ”band”.  Billy moved on, catching the oddly shaped eyes of two extremely large and undressed females, who were only too delighted with the  free vodkas and cokes bought for them.  I focused on who was the ugliest of the ”band” and in my drunken haze, could not figure it out.    I DO recall the piercing in the singer’s lip, which kept catching the one light working in the bar, and finding it quite distracting, and wondering why he drank dirty pints instead of dancing or ad-libbing for the many guitar solos.

We ended up moving to the back of the pub, near the pool tables, inhabited by younger scumbags, and discussed the hazards of immigration with somebody who was on the way to Tanzania to work in a quarry.  We all declared that leaving Ireland was shit, and that our government should be shot to death for allowing thousands to depart our shores each week for the unbelievable privilege of seeking actual work.  For shame, Ireland’s politicians!!!

Trevor has since been told by neighbours that she was seen slumped forward at this pub, but as I was sitting right beside her and didn’t see that, I can only refute these ungrounded claims.

Afterwards, Lilsister advises me that I called her to sing the Irish footballing anthem, Ole Ole Ole, but had to stop because I had fallen in a bush.  She tells me the voicemail was initially full of singing, then banging, then foul language, then pleas for Trevor to pull me out of the bush, then more singing, then complaining because now that Trevor had fallen into the bush nobody would be able to pull anybody out.  I have no idea how long we were in the bush, but I do remember that afterwards Trevor seemed to have a sudden lease of life and brought me into a field, and told me to run around it three times.  I could see it was a big field, so while Trevor skipped off, I patted the wet grass as if a pillow, and lay my weary head down.  Trevor eventually figured out that she was alone in her mini marathon, and joined me to look at the night sky and argue which lights were satellites and which were celestial beings.  It was extremely comfortable and I have no idea why we got up in the end.

Back at Trevor’s we were thrilled to discover that Boo Boo had left us soggy chips in the microwave, with plates, cutlery and cups already filled with teabags – as if knowing we would be incapable of  obtaining these items ourselves.  We inhaled, went to bed, passed out, and only rose to find headache tablets.  Trevor wisely told my niece, Little NN, not to go and disturb her visiting auntie as she was very sick in bed, which I was.  Boo Boo took Little NN out to swim, and when they came back, I lay on her bedroom floor and told her the reason I couldn’t play with her princess castle was because I was closing my eyes and visualising the story she was to tell me, and please tell it quietly.  Trevor stepped over me to tell Little NN that her auntie had to be driven home now, and I suffered a two day hangover, only helped by the coffee cupcakes Trevor had baked for me to take home.

Gaelic Followed by Garlic

Plodding through the work week after a long weekend is tough.  Especially when the forecasters promise rain, rain and floods for the next weekend.  Irish summers ROCK!!!!

Friday was spent in the company of Lilsister, Sisterinlaw and some good friends in a little apartment with wine and beer.  Sisinlaw got quite merry on the bottles of red and kept referring to loving ”sausages” and Babybro in a very leering manner I thought, which was practically enough to stop me drinking any more beer.  Luckily towards the end of the night as Lilsister and I curled up on the sofa and watched Sisinlaw get enraged when we told her she couldn’t spell the name on the Italian wine she was drinking (she could), I was shaken out of all sense of drunkeness as Lilsister repeatedly farted on me, man-style, and scared the life out of me with her noises and scents.    How I am single and she is not will always baffle me.

Saturday was hangover central day, made worse by the fact that Lilsister had offered to babysit not just our crazy little Niece N, but the newborn Star also.  This I found extremely difficult, as I could not deal with the very loud tea party that Little N had to have with all of Lilsister’s teddy bears and outdoor picnic set, as we were also checking that Star had not stopped breathing in her pram every ten seconds.  Sisinlaw had also popped over with her offspring and repeatedly begged her Little N to hug her or kiss her, but to no avail.  The child had discovered that one of Lilsister’s frog ornaments (don’t ask) lit up and this was the most fabulous thing of all, and hungover mothers and aunts and brand new cousins just did NOT cut it.  We went hug-less and our headaches continued unabated.

This meant that by Sunday we were all fine, and myself, Lilsister, Scarydancer, Papabear and assorted friends toddled off to the Croke Park and watched Dublin play the first match of the championship Gaelic football league.  Fabulous stuff, well not really, we looked a little out of breath at times on the pitch, but we had our new seats, much closer to the front than normal as we are officially season ticket holders this year, and we enjoyed all the Dubs have to offer from a much better angle than we are used to.  We do believe that we may be in a slightly more upmarket area though, as every time Papabear called the referee a cunt more people than usual turned around.  Oh well, they will soon get used to it.  I was also able to listen to the lads behind me declare how variety is the spice of life, which inevitably led to discussions of KFC variety buckets.  Sigh.

Dirty pints afterwards, naturally, and this is where it all gets a little hazy for me.  I do know that we were visited by Middlebro and his girlfriend, The Baker, for much of the night, and much singing and slagging was had by all.  A girl came in dressed in the Dublin jersey and sang IRA songs, to the delight of Papabear. 

Somebody from Cork came in and as Papabear sang anti-English songs we hugged and cried about our delight about not being English – it was most moving. 

Then some football players came in who had been coached by Papabear and addressed him so respectfully myself and Lilsister had to put down our drinks and ask them why this was, and why they didn’t call him Papabear, which seemed to scare them off. 

Then I went to the toilets and when I came back everybody was gone and the barman had to open up the pub to let me out, I confirmed his name, hugged him and told him he was alright, because Papabear and Lilsister had said he was a twat.  Hopefully I didn’t say that part.

The taxi ride home was driven by a lovely man who let me sing along to all the songs I wanted and didn’t complain as I hung my head out of the window (”like a dog” according to Lilsister) and played my Dublin football team umberella like an air guitar, and then used it as a microphone.  It truly is a multitasking instrument.

After we got out myself and Scarydancer made garlic pizza bread whilst Lilsister passed out on the sofa, and we found it hilarious when Scarydancer cut the pizza in half as it was really funny that we had two big pieces.  Then he cut it again and we rolled about the floor because smaller pieces were the funniest thing EVER.

Next morning, eating a two day old jam doughnut for breakfast, I contemplated the championship season ahead for Dublin, and quietly berated myself for not having more hangover food in the house. 

Dublin to win, and an abundance of fresh pastries to be held in the house for the forthcoming season.

Another Completely Shit Day at Work

Came in.

My desk was moved while I was out.  Go to new desk.  Log into computer.

  1. I have lost all the systems I work with.
  2. Call helpdesk.  Approx 30 mins to get sorted, including email, which Ive lost.
  3. Finish with helpdesk.  Mouse stops working.  Unplug, replug, light comes on, no joy.
  4. Call ex team leader over.  Get new mouse.  Not working.
  5. Ex team leader is missing.  Ask another team leader for help.  She unplugs the keyboard and the mouse and cant get either plugged back in.  I replug it all.  A third team leader advises to shut down the whole computer.
  6. I do this, and find that the mouse and the keyboard is no longer working.  I plug, unplug and plug again.
  7. I am moved to another desk.  I have no systems – I call the helpdesk.
  8. 30 mins later I am ready to start again.
  9. I now have no internet access, meaning I cannot use our internal call log systems to transfer calls, send messages or order statements.
  10. I am ready to go home, and tell the helpdesk bloke the same thing. 
  11. The helpdesk computer crashes.
I have eaten a LOT today.

Attempt to Run; Smear Chocolate on Self

I just ran up to the bathroom, and against my own advice looked at myself in the mirror, and noted that the chocolate icecream I had been inhaling downstairs is now, inexplicably, all over my neck.  Why why why?   And all this as I sit across from a picture of Dita Von Teese.  Sigh.

The icecream comes hot on the heels of some bad job news, I got a job, then they withdrew it, as they don’t need me anymore.  Major sigh.  I have come straight to Mammy’s, and had fried food with her and Papabear, and then inhaled icecream, as it is my favourite dessert.

Lest it sound pig-like, I will also have you know that I have been out walking and exercising several times each week in the last few weeks, and yesterday I even attempted running!  Wonderful timing on my part, as there was for some reason, a full gale force wind going on, which may sound awful, but it wasn’t sleeting and hailstorming and rain, and I could see a blue sky, so I went straight out into it.  I walked outside the door of our apartment block and my baseball hat was immediately blown off.  I did consider not chasing it, as this was not part of the exercise plan, but I really needed it, because it meant my hair had now blown fully into my face, and seeing in front of me was becoming an issue.  So I ran after it, retrieved it, and ventured out into the cruel cold world.  Please note this was NOT the running I was referring to, although it should count, as I did trot about the carpark chasing the hat, so it was at the very least, a warm up.  Ha!

Anyway, whilst doing my usual ”round” I felt extra bouncy and decided to give the old running a go.  I had ten euro in the right boob part of my bra (to stop at the shops afterwards, and buy the Sunday papers, after I sweated all over the counters and scared off the children), and my walkman (to encourage fast walking with 80’s pop music) stuck into my left boob, so everything was secure and ready for action.  I began to run, and immediately had to lean forward, towards the ground, to stay on my two feet, such was the might of the gale force winds.  I then began to worry about my hat again, so for extra sexiness, I pulled my hoodie over my head and tied it beneath my double chins, and attempted to run that way.  Unfortunately this ”look” is flattering to no-one, least of all to a 37 and seven eighths year old woman with no makeup, sunstroke (as we had some extremely weak sunrays pushing through, and I have no experience of this, so I was quite red) and leaning forward in the aforementioned unattractive manner.  Luckily, the White Bright Light running man I spotted some weeks ago was nowhere to be seen (I think) so I haven’t ruined my chances just yet.  But give me time.  I will.  I always do.

Thirty seconds later and I was heartattacking, panting and wheezing, but still on two feet, so I’m getting better.  I even looked up proper running shoes on the internet to help with my sloping foot which affects my gammy knee, so it’s getting serious.  Luckily the Olympics are a hop skip and wheezy jump across the pond in London; by June I should be marching through the opening ceremony, Irish tri-colour in hand, ready to do my country proud.  Or – maybe not.  Maybe I should just down pints in the pub with everybody else and watch Ireland in the football instead.  Hmmm.  Either way drink should be involved, which brings me to my next point – I need to start drinking again.  It had been several weeks since my last sup, and on Saturday night, filled with rage and general grumpiness, myself and Lilsister downed a couple of bottles of our beloved prosecco, which caused Lilsister to fall asleep and leave me and Scarydancer up discussing the merits of German versus Czech beer.  However, I woke up with an awful headache the next day, and I conclude that this is due to the fact that I have not kept up with my regular drinking, meaning I have become weak, and pathetic, and sober.

It stops here.

Wine, beer and spirits must once again enter my life, or I will become like a child – unable to handle the drink.  We have Ireland in the olympics, the European football and the Gaelic Football season all about to begin, and here am I, clear headed and not slurring – it will not do!!!  It WILL NOT DO!!!

Pyjama Party

I turned to Lilsister earlier to tell her that we really must get together to work on our stand up comedy routine, but she was busy scratching her arse, through her completely awful pyjamas – which are white with green trees on them, and the trees say ”smelly”.  I myself am a firm believer in good pyjama wear, particularly as I am wearing aforementioned pyjamas from about 6pm onwards most weeknights.  My current attire is matching top and bottoms that say ”fabulous” over and over again.  Hopefully the incessant message will get through to somebody, anybody, and they will confirm it, and my ego will soar (assuming I can find it, it has been buried rather deep lately).

Life plods on as it generally must, and flits between days at work and days of joy when I am not.  I am getting the hang of it, and find that lately I have ceased to dribble at the end of the day in sheer tiredness, and can generally manage to say words and stuff to my comrades, as I bolt out the door.  And I mean bolt.  It has actually been commented on about how quickly I move when I am going home.  There is simply a flash of light, some flames, and I am no more.

I am trying to see the beauty of life after the news of my sick friend, but stupidly, before he told me he was dying, I ordered a book by a writer who was diagnosed with cancer, and wrote about his experiences with the end of his life.  This book arrived about two days after my friend told me his news, and it has been pretty much impossible to read without being upset.  For some insane reason, I bought the book to stop me moaning so much, and hoped it would make me appreciate what I (don’t?) have but the idea has backfired in a spectular fashion, so I have a sick friend, an expensive book I can’t afford, many tears, and still bad humours about work.  Success!

I’ve also bought a big bag of jellies, which I can’t stop eating, and now that I have approached the sweet press (have I told you about our sweet press?  So many calories and cures for depression, stuck in between two shelves – our happy place) and tucked in, Scarydancer is following suit by raiding the sweet press himself and locating his own snake shaped jellies, and Lilsister is contemplating eating crisps.  Domestic bliss.