Ego and Car Pumped at the Garage

I was called ”baby”, ”honey” and ”my love”.  It was the most emotional affection I have received from a stranger in a long time and all I was doing was buying petrol.  The girl taking my money even said it was cool I was buying three scones – and I think she meant it.  No I wasn’t buying all three for me, the other two were for Mammy and Papabear.  We were all tired after our workout at the gym (me still managing to get in for about the sixth time on my three gym passes – nobody asks to see them, it’s the best gym ever!) and requiring carbs, and my car needed petrol to drive to the free gym that never demands my limited guest passes.

She even said ”have a great weekend honey, I’m sure you deserve it,” and even though I am once again jobless and have spent a lot of the last few weeks walking in the park next to my house smiling up at the mountains whilst blaring ”The Only Living Boy in New York” by Simon and Garfunkel on my headphones, I believed I did.

I get all the news I need on the weather report.

Break out the Big Hair

In what should be noted under the ”moving on from the end of mine marriage” chapter of my time on this planet (and allegedly the point of this blog), three things have occurred which convince me that I may be doing just that:

1. Whilst discussing food preparation with Scarydancer at the dinner table the other day, I mentioned the way my ex cooked a certain item.  Lilsister helpfully pointed out that this is the first time she has heard me refer to Exhimself as my ”ex”.  The actual name never even sprung to mind.

2. This morning, I followed an extremely handsome man around the supermarket.  Not something I normally do, handsome or not, and especially not in supermarkets, as they are full of food, and I like to look at food longingly whilst browsing.  It was also prior to beginning my working day, so for me to be even up and about, let alone stalking a complete stranger, was a miracle in itself.  Anyway, I saw him whilst I was browsing (but not planning on eating) the cake section (a girl needs something to cheer her up on a Monday morning) and once I had finished smelling the almond croissants, I followed him down to bread, cleaning products, gardening equipment  and eventually to the till, where he failed to even look up at me, even though I cleared my throat really loudly, and really manfully.  Sigh.  I tried to follow him outside but the bloke on the till INSISTED I pay for my goods (half healthy multi grain rolls if you MUST know).

3. A very good friend is dying of cancer.  Younger than me by a couple of years, he has less than 12 months with us living souls left.  After my immediate thoughts of why him, anger, shock, memories of him performing ”Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” in full drag in a club in Sydney one sweaty Friday night, thoughts of friends that I am grateful for came to mind, and encouraged me to send more texts and thoughts than I normally do.  Some responded, some not.  But not until a few days later did I think of Exhimself, and even then, only because his hometown is near my ill friend.  If he had any importance would he not have been the first face that came to mind?

Could it be?


To sing Whitesnake??????????????????

Hunting Jobs and Des Bishop (Both Elude Us)

Do hangovers work backwards?  Woke up yesterday tired, but generally fabulous, in Lilsister’s spare room, and whilst I didn’t bounce out of the bed I was capable of organising juice, tea, scrambled eggs and healthy grained toast.  Have I ever told you about my scrambled eggs?  They are buttery delights in a pot, and on special occasions, made with cream if I’m feeling like having a heart attack before I’m forty.  It is also scrambled eggs that made me fall for ExHimself, as when I first met him, I could not cook AT ALL, and used to go to a particular cafe in Sydney for my scrambled eggs on the weekends, as a hangover treat.  Anyway, one Saturday I awoke to find ExHimself cooking scrambled eggs in my little white kitchen and that was that.  I kept him on for many years on that basis.  So much so that when myself and Trevor met for lunch on Monday she told me that when I finally meet a new man (in the mists of the future I think) that ”he must NOT be allowed” to make me scrambled eggs.  What this means, and I’m not digressing, is that as nobody needs to make me scrambled eggs anymore, I will be alone forever.

I went back to bed, refusing cuddles with Lilsister (I HATE to cuddle when I have been on the drink) and we both got up at 1.30pm, which is disgraceful, but there you go.  I ate a fizzy cola bottle, for the sugar rush, and felt more tired than before, but okay, until we drove to Papabear, bringing him his junk food fix (burger with extra onions, and onion rings) and then I felt quite ill in the stomach area, and had to pop an anti vomit tablet Lilsister found amongst Mammy’s many medicines in the kitchen.

After that it was a junk food date with Sisinlaw and our niece N and life slowly returned to the old bones, but I have to say I did feel a lot worse as the day wore on.  Is this an age thing?  I know hangovers are supposed to hurt more but I find the older I get the more I drink (for obvious reasons) and it takes a lot more to HAVE  hangover.  But a reverse one is a newbie for me I must admit, and very confusing.

So on Thursday Lilsister had a second interview with a company in Harcourt Street for an actual job.  We were terribly excited so decided to celebrate the fact that 1.There is an actual job going in Dublin and 2.Braille had secured a second interview for this rarity.  As the interview was at 3pm, we decided to make an evening of it, deciding upon a couple of glasses of wine afterwards, followed by a nice meal.   The interview finished at 3.30 and off we went to the wonderful basement of Fallon and Byrne’s to sit at a barrel and drink Spanish white, and then a little Italian sparkling.  Feeling warm and giggly, we then made it all the way to Westmorland Street for earlybird (read: cheap – there’s a depression on in Ireland you know) Thai, which included a VERY oaked bottle of wine, which I complained about, and got normal tasting wine instead.

Now I forgot to mention between Fallons and the Thai place is the International Bar, and we took it as a sign that it was comedy night, so we decided over dinner that we were to go back to the comedy club and somehow get our comedy careers started.  We’ve been in deep discussions about my writing and Braille performing some standup, but obviously with my background as a banker and Lilsister’s as a credit controller we are a little bemused as to where to start.  Anyway.  We noted that the alleged comedy club in the International Bar is hosted each week by either Des Bishop or his brother, whose name escapes me, although Lilsister had met him one time when she was last at the International, as he came over to her and said ”do you know who I am” but alas she did not, and the brother could not capitalise on dear Des’s Irish fame.

I’m not exactly sure what the plan was but I think it would have included the general accosting of Des Bishop (for what, I don’t know) and the establishment of ourselves as fully paid up writers and comedians, by the end of the night.

Des wasn’t there, but Lilsister recognised the brother on one of the few seats, so we did our own stand up at the bar and hit the beer, and accosted the musicians to play something we could sing along to (this is how bad they are – they sang ONE Simon and Garfunkel song, and then advised me that they didn’t know any others.  Call yourselves stoners lads???  Disgraceful.  They also had a toy xylophone – pathetic.  Clearly just there for the girls, who it has to be said, SURROUNDED them).

We never made it to the comedy night anyways, as I spotted a not so familiar face sitting right beside me, and it turned out to be a bloke I had last seen, in college, 18 years ago (I hadn’t realised it had been 18 years, this was kindly pointed out to me by my friend later – THANKS).  This was a GREAT friend of mine in college, he was in my little gang almost from the first week I went there, and we roamed the streets on Friday mornings hitting the pub instead of attending classes, and have had many deep and meaningful discussions along the way.  He also stood up in one class one day, and declared he was going home, but before he did, he sang a rousing rendition of ”New York New York” with overcoat, manbag and umbrella in hand, ending up on his knees, practically in tears with the emotion.  And it was only half nine in the morning.  Great stuff.

So me, Lilsister, the Newyorker and his two friends basically drank beers for the rest of the night, and had a huge fight over who made the best shepherd’s pie between Lilsister and one of Newyorker’s friend (Lilsister’s SOUNDED better, but, frighteningly, the friend had pictures on his phone of a recently-completed shepherd’s pie – straight out of the oven, and then with a slice taken out of it).

Then Lilsister got the hiccups really badly so we ran out to Grafton Street for Burger King, a quick call to Papabear to wake him up and tell him that we were eating again (he thinks we’re savages, the fool) and then taxi back to Lilsister’s place, where we woke up Scarydancer in our slow but giggly search for some pyjamas for me.  Lilsister hiccupped throughout, and then I passed out, in a t-shirt.