Rambles Whilst the Wimbledon Women’s Final Plays Out

I must be gentle and barely tinkle with the keyboard here as my head is currently making it’s way out of my eye, due to some hastily-arranged dirty pints with a work colleague last night, followed by gin and strawberry dacqueris (for her, not me, as I am too tough for girly cocktails).

I did not drink long but I did drink greedily, not having had alcohol in a whole seven or eight days, actually, now I think of it, it was five, what is wrong with me?  I find myself gulping a lot of alcohol on a regular basis, just as I am beginning to behave food and exercise wise.   Hmmmm.

Last week’s escapades led us to a local watering hole, where I was accosted by Lilsister and Scarydancer to ”get a life and go out” after telling them my plans to watch a Christian Bale film (dribble) and get my buzz on by draining my box of beers ever further.  Honestly, a box of 20 beers is so cheap right now, it’s almost wrong not to buy one isn’t it?

After a quick shower and the spraying of that shampoo in a can stuff onto my filthy hair (my GOD that stuff is amazing, it is HONESTLY like you ALMOST washed your hair!!!) I was out the door, to meet up with Lilsister’s old friend Creamer, and her new beau, HesEnglish.   We attacked the first local bar which had the ”three bottles of beer for 10 euros” promotion which seems to be springing up in all the classier watering holes in Dublin, and interrupted the deadest sixtieth birthday party I have ever had the misfortune to stumble upon.  A man, who looked ninety, stood alone and refused to dance to the twelve year old dj’s ”crap tunes” (the birthday boy’s words, not mine) whilst what I assume was his family sat on plastic chairs and drank dirty pints.  We also ended up sitting beside two Glaswegians who wanted us to dance before we were drunk (idiots) and who kept using Creamer’s phone to take photos of us, which I hate, due to my excessive ugliness and the fact that said photos appear on facebook within seconds.

Drunkeness eventually overtook us and we stole two of the ice buckets our beers had come in (Lilsister and HesEnglish) and one beer opener (me).  Scarydancer declared that his moves were ”endless” and Creamer had a smoke with the birthday boy who verbally bashed the dj again.  Eventually ”Moon River” was found on somebody’s phone and played, but the boring Frank Sinatra version, so I didn’t dance.  Birthday boy was pleased and we ended up in an Indian takeaway, being attacked by a girl in a blue dress who started a fight with HesEnglish because he was English, and then Scarydancer,  because he was carrying two ice buckets.  Creamer muttered to Lilsister that she was about ”ready to lambate that bitch” and wanted to know if Lilsister had her back.  Lilsister nodded curtly, and I told everybody to calm down, as I was too tired to kick the shit out of some faux posh cow in a silly dress in a rundown part of Dublin.   Then the bloke behind the counter started talking about what the English had done to India, and I put in an extra order of naan bread.

Last Saturday passed in a haze of headaches and shivering, and then we perked up again Sunday to watch our beloved Dublin beat Wexford in the Gaelic Football at the ever amazing Croke Park.  We played badly at the start, which I noticed coincided with my putting my hood up on my Dublin raincoat, so I removed the hood and put on my lucky hat, and wha hey, we started scoring points.  It would have been so much easier if it just hadn’t rained, but hey, it’s Ireland, it’s summer, so we’re all wearing rain gear.  Sigh.

Back to Baggot street for post match analysis, alcohol and singing, and for a change I gin and tonicked it for the night, getting a delightful buzz but without the headaches that wine and beer seem to give me.  I pretended I did NOT know the barman from last time, and when he asked me if I had made it home safely after our last session I stuck my chin in the air and said in my poshest dealing-with-the-servants voice that ”I believe I did,” before stomping off.  My family is now (loudly) convinved I am in love with this barman because he keeps smiling at me and I don’t hit him, but in actual fact he is laughing at me and I am too embarrassed to do anything about it.

I’ve also just realised that there is now a picture on facebook of me looking like I am falling into my gin, which of course, I was.  Oh dear.  This will not assist my husband hunting mission one bit.  I must go, and sigh.

Running Back Home

Keeping the running spirit alive this morning, with several 8 second bursts intertwined with listening to Freddie telling me that he would rock me, to which I spluttered along and most amazingly, did not get a stitch afterwards!!!  Must be improving.

Luckily just as the rain kicked in, Mammy spotted me as she drove by, dropping my little Niece N back to Babybro and Sisinlaw, who took the night off from parenthood to inhale alcohol and chickenwings at one of Dublin’s bigger comedy clubs.  I swiftly obtained a lift from Mammy, and brought little Niece N back to the hungover arms of her daddy, and got a cuddle and babykiss for my efforts.  I perked up, revived, and strolled back to the apartment for a big wash as I was very sweaty.  I was only awoken from my cleaning operations by Hangsandwich appearing at the door with a tupperware box filled with cupcakes, lovingly prepared by Panties this a.m. and driven over, delivered and deposited to her ever grateful friend. 

To think I could have stayed living in Australia, with their wine, fine dining and silly accents, when all this awaited me.  I was a fool to ever leave.

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.

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.

A Quiet Week Ending with Sausages and Eggs

Hangover Central for my roomies today, with Scarydancer and Lilsister only rising to meet the 1pm sun and to argue about a bag of sausages.  I bought them the sausages yesterday so they would have something to eat with their hangovers (it being Scarydancer’s birthday do at the pub last night) and usually Scarydancer puts some sausages into a bag for eating and the rest into a special bag  in the freezer, for later consumption.  This was not done yesterday because

1. Lilsister hates touching raw meat and is excessively lazy and

2. Because Scarydancer had the gall to be at work all day.

Cue argument this afternoon breakfastime as the romantic couple queried each other in loud voices as to why the sausages had not been separated.  I ended up cooking them eggs and the meat is to be saved for their dinner.

Needless to say I have left the abode with its headache tablets, groans and the black eyes of my sister who did not bother to remove her makeup last night, to hide at Mammy’s house where I am hoping for a Sunday feed.  As I drove past the tram stop to get here I THINK I saw Mr Bright as there was a grey haired individual running by but his hair was overly grey and he was wearing navy – not the same vision I think.  In anycase, if I had stared any longer I would have crashed the car so I kept going and decided to myself that it was not he.

Apart from that little ray of hope precious little else has occurred this week, I worked, sighed, tried to eat better, partially failed (which infers partial success?) and did more walking exercise than normal, mainly due to my flabbiness and my wanting to see Mr Bright again (whatever motivates you I suppose).  The only other good thing is that I found my easter egg, which I had mislaid and secretly fretted about being eaten by Scarydancer – no, I had put it in a box for some reason, and covered it up.  Thankfully it survived intact, and I look forward to eating small bits of it in due course, as I am trying to be good.

Speaking Easter-related times, with Scarydancer, upon opening up ONE of his Easter Eggs, decided that the best way to get to the chocolate inside, was to headbutt the egg, and with great force.  The deed done, a cracking sound was heard, and bits of egg flew everywhere in the living room, leaving Scarydancer confused and dazed looking, with only the tiniest sliver of chocolate remaining in his hand, the rest being elsewhere in the apartment.  I think he underestimated the size and force of his head, but the funniest aspect of the incident to me was the fact that he looked totally bemused that his head actually managed to crack the entire egg into a thousand splintered pieces.  Who needs telly when there is comedy gold like this on display?


The Bright Light at the Dark Tram Stop

I have seen the man who is going to be my next husband.

Conveniently, he appears to dwell near our little apartment so this will help with the stalking situation I will now find myself in.

Speaking of our apartment, I realised a few weeks ago that the area I am living in with Lilsister and Scarydancer is the area I lived in from the ages of about two to five, with Mammy and Papabear, and an even younger Firstbrother.  So life once again has come full circle.  I also think this is a sign that I am dying.  I have returned where I roamed as a baby, although the view is a little different.  35 years ago, this part of Dublin was farmland and our council house backed onto an actual strawberry field, where we would go and feed ourselves.  Now it is full of silly roads blocked with cars, a sprawling shopping centre and many, many apartments.  It is FULL.

This is handy because I believe my future husband lives in one of the many apartments, or I would not have seen him run by my local tram stop.

There I was, yesterday afternoon,  four day old dirty hair, tracksuited and in my Dublin football team rain jacket as it was as usual LASHING RAIN which it does every time I use public transport.  I was looking less than stunning and feeling miserable as the tram was 7 minutes away and the sky was grey, to match my soul.  Suddenly, a white light appeared before me and blasted brightness into the winter-themed afternoon.  I thought an angel had appeared to tell me she would make the tram come faster, but no, it was a male human person thing, in his running outfit.  Now I said he would be my next husband, I didn’t say he had any sense of fashion.  A white t-shirt (fine I suppose) but white shorts???  White shoes and socks?  With white i pod earphones?  Hmmm.  All matching the white hairs he so distinguishly owns.  Which means he must be at least in his thirties!!!  Hurray!!!

I may not be talking him up much but here is the best part.  So Mr Bright ran past me at the tram stop, I followed him until he became a dot, and then the tram came.  Four stops later, and there is Mr Bright again, RUNNING FASTER THAN THE TRAM.  AND he had gotten to the fourth stop quicker than me, and all he had was at most a six minute headstart!!!  I am VERY impressed by this.  It shows that he is fit, and active, and doesn’t spend his Easter Sunday drinking pints and eating giant easter eggs which is what I would have done if somebody had poured me a pint and handed me an egg.

These are all good things and I went out stalking, sorry, walking this morning and THOUGHT I saw him whizzing by but alas it was someone with a full head of brown hair.  Probably for the best, as my hair has now gone five days without washing, and not only was I tracksuited AGAIN and in my giant rain jacket (which does nothing for the figure) I also had a Dublin football team beanie hat jammed onto my filthy skull.  At best, I looked like a square male person.  However, Mr Bright gives one inspiration to go outside and exercise, something which is becoming increasingly difficult due to the horrific weather and the absolute depression and inability to do anything once I have completed a day’s work.

Now, where is my Easter Egg?  I feel a feeding frenzy coming on.

Good Gravy and Bad Smells

Being farted on whilst blogging, especially when one has very clearly used a pun on a literary classic as with my last entry, is never convenient.  But at least Scarydancer’s jam tarts are blocking out the smell of his partysmokes, which he must have been inhaling right before I came home, because the house REEKS. 

Sunday was particularly funny as Scarydancer met me and Lilsister at Mammy’s house after we inhaled our roast chickens, but instead of sitting with us at the table, spent some quality time in the sitting room alone, in front of the telly.  Mammy made him up a plate to take away and asked him if he would like gravy.  When no answer was forthcoming, Mammy simply put the cling film over the plate and left it there for him.  Lilsister went to check with him again as Mammy’s gravy is particularly fabulous, being made up of meat juices, oils, fats and other healthy goodies.  It is REAL gravy, and not for the faint hearted, or Australians, whose gravy is weak and puny.

Scarydancer was sitting in the dark, rocking backwards and forwards.  Apparently, Mammy’s question had thrown him over his partysmokes induced edge, and he could ”not handle” making a decision on the gravy, and was freaking out. 

We made a hasty exit, and Scarydancer went home, and ate the chicken dry.

Buy Meat, Study Hard and Obtain Life

Sitting here in Mammy’s house with Mammy obviously, Scarydancer and Lilsister after gorging on large Sunday roast.  Myself and Scarydancer are trembling with non-joy as Lilsister is threatening to hold one of her family meetings after we get back to the apartment later.  This involves Lilsister holding a notepad and pen and barking orders at us, while we sit quietly and wish she would shut up.  Personally, I also imagine her as a Stalin-esque type tyrannical dictator, which helps the time go more quickly.  Afterwards, when a list of something I am doing wrong is thrust into my face, it helps me sleep through the night.

As I type, I can hear Lilsister explaining to Scarydancer what tonight’s meeting will be about.  He looks suitably enthralled.  We are both being sent to separate shops, he to buy general groceries, me to purchase the meat from the butcher we like (level one of our local shopping centre, beside the ”everything is 2 euro” shop).  Not that I can go in to browze – a list MUST be produced later, and I must stick rigidly to it, lest I use free thought and go crazy with my bad self.

Contacted the ever-worthy of my attentions Institute of Bankers to enquire about doing some study in order to move up the banking ladder again, as my current pay (60% less than my last job in Ireland) is not really sufficient to get my own place with, nor eat food on.  They told me that I am a defaulted member (the horrors!) and I must PAY them just to register to begin my studies, and when I complete my studies, and gain a qualification (recognised nowhere outside of Ireland) I will need to pay them again to keep the tiny letters from disappearing from behind my name, every bloody year until the regulator in Ireland sees sense and realises this is nothing short of a money making SCAM, or until sweet death delivers it’s sweet embrace.

Dancing on Ice has started, and Mammy is dispensing chocolate.  I really need to get involved with this so adieu.


Mammy Takes the Weekend and the Ghost Takes Everything Else

Strange days in the familial household.  Mammy’s moods seemed to have calmed down somewhat, just as Papabear’s strike up again.  It all kicked off on Sunday when Mammy announced to a very hungover Papabear that she was ”taking her weekends back”.  In English, this means that she will not cook Sunday roasts anymore, as allegedly they have taken her weekend from her.  Somehow.  Instead, she will visit her sister, for many hours on a Sunday and not cook.  I think.  I mean the basic upshot is that there will not be roast dinner, via Mammy, anymore.

Cue rolling of eyes, not in a ”whatever” way from Papabear, but in a hungover, what the hell are you on about type look, as he banged around the kitchen looking for headache tablets.  In what he thought was a cutting reply, but was in fact a help to Mammy’s stance, Papabear has declared that if there is no roast dinner in the house on Sundays then there will be no Papabear in the house on Sundays either.  This is supposed to be a bad thing.  Why husbands think that threatening absenteeism to their wives will help them win fights/public stances of taking weekends back, will always be beyond me.  Wives will think ”party!!!” and get on with aforementioned weekends.

This was all done in the kitchen, which has reminded me, as I’m sitting here and reaching for the biscuits, and noting that the packet that appeared quite full the other day (when it was bought) is in fact practically empty.  Could it be that there seems to be a demon eater in our little house of fun and games?  Over Christmas, Mammy had amassed a small fortune in biscuits, chocolates, cakes, puddings etc etc for the festive period.  Yet she declares she hasn’t eaten any of it.  And I haven’t either – that’s not to say I NEVER eat it but for the simple reason that I get crippling headaches if I eat rubbish several days in a row, I actually CANNOT eat it – and we’ve established that Papabear is too lazy to get his own food, preferring instead to take weekends from people in order that they can get it for him…well if I’m not, and Papabear isn’t, and Mammy insists that even though she bought it all it’s not for her – who then?  Nobody visits us because I usually visit them, and let’s be fair, Papabear and Mammy cannot be introduced into society yet, so I believe the secret stuffer of junk food must be within the four walls of our house, and being as I’ve just watched all three Paranormal Activity films since I moved back to Ireland I conclude, as an expert, that it must be a ghost.  It makes perfect sense.  Besides, every time I query Mammy on the subject she hits me and calls me a bitch, so it CAN’T be her.

I digress, but not for long.

Papabear, having shouted as loudly as his head would let him that he would not remain in the house on any Sunday that did not see Mammy producing a roast, also declared that he would not eat ANY food that Mammy prepares, ever in his life again.  This meant that on Monday (after we all got a roast on the Sunday) he would not eat the leftover meat, veg and mash that Mammy made, and which I gratefully inhaled.  He instead made a sandwich of cheese and crisps, which didn’t look great, in all fairness.

By Tuesday I was lecturing him on the non-benefits of eating crisp sandwiches which he ate at lunch aswell, for which I got a rant about roasts and missing weekends.  I left him to it and was delighted to see him joining us for Tuesday dinner – having made his point about never eating Mammy’s cooking again, he appears to have lasted a good 24 hours in his conviction, and this is to be admired, not laughed at, and how dare you think otherwise.

I am on dinner duty tonight, preparing my potato cakes, in an effort to convince my parents to eat less meat.  Mammy called me earlier to take the sausages out of the freezer so that they are defrosted in time for dinner.

I also showed Papabear my leek and potato soup earlier, lovingly prepared from scratch, with fabulous garlic bread, at which he sniffed, and reached for the crisps.

Who needs tv, with this great stage of fools.  Sigh.