My Doctor Hates Me

I’ve been really ill so I went to the doctor.  Not because I was ill, but because my job refused to believe I was ill unless I paid sixty euro to a doctor to scribble a note to them saying ‘she is ill’.

Sixty euro?  I want something more than mere notage from a doctor.

‘Can I have some sleeping tablets?’

‘Why do you want sleeping tablets?’

‘To help me sleep.’

‘Why can’t you sleep?’

‘I am stressed out.’

‘You should assess the root of your stress which will help you sleep.’

‘I have and I am trying to deal with my problems.  However I am very tired.’

‘I am not giving you sleeping tablets.’

‘I haven’t slept properly in two years.  I would love a night off.’

‘This is no good.  Why are you stressed?’

‘I don’t want to talk to you about it.’

‘I need to understand why you are not sleeping.’

‘I am not sleeping because I am worried all the time.  Can you give me something to help me sleep?’

‘No because tablets will not solve your problems.’

‘I am not looking for tablets to solve my problems.  I just want some sleep.’

‘You need to work out why you are worried and work on that.’

‘I am working on them.  In the meantime it would be great to get some good night’s sleep before work.’

‘I need to know why you are stressed.’

‘I don’t want to talk to you about it.’

‘But I need to know.’

At this stage, I burst into tears, quite by accident.

I get two weeks worth of sleeping tablets, and my sick note says I have the shits.

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

Dirty Pints and Oscar Wilde (part 1)

My hair gets really fuzzy.  In rain, or sun – it fuzzes.  THIS is what I was thinking about last Saturday night, well Sunday morning, as I lay in the field near Trevor’s house and looked up at the stars.  It was only afterwards that Oscar Wilde came to me and said ”we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”  Well I was in the gutter, looking at the stars, and could think of nothing deeper than oh damn, the grass is very wet and I BET my hair gets fuzzy. 

Which it did – horrificially so.  I really must learn to control my ugliness.  It is having a shockingly adverse affect on the hunt for a boy plaything.

Dirty pints on Saturday with Trevor, as aforementioned.  We started out classily drinking prosecco in the garden, in the sun, and discussing our ageing process and who currently has the most wrinkles (I have shocking crow’s feet but Trevor is CONVINCED her frown lines more than make up for any lines I may have – they don’t).  She also was good enough to tell me that I am ”pretty, but need to wear makeup.”  Nice.  ”I’ll always tell you the truth,” she mused, while I wailed in the corner after witnessing my rosywithwine cheeks, sans makeup, and felt distraught.

Dear fuck, I’ve just realised that as I type this I’ve had some form of the antiques roadshow playing in the background.  I’ve just kicked the telly through the window and stuck ”Your Song” on instead.  Cheers Elton!

So after applying enough makeup to sink my crow’s feet and Trevor’s frown lines we declared ourselves sufficiently tanked enough to take to the streets of Trevor’s suburb and hit the local Italian, who had messed up our reservation and stuck us at a tiny bar waiting area with a child barman whom we insulted into serving us before everybody else, with dirty pints.

Dirty pints don’t go well with Italian but we ploughed on nonetheless, feeling quite drunk after our one course (we missed the early bird and refused to pay full price on anything else – there is a recession going on you silly restaurant owners, didn’t you know?).

Afterwards we bumped into some of Trevor’s neighbours in the toilets and I did a ladywhizz while she tried not to slur her pleasantries.  Once they’d left I signed my name on the toilet checking roster as Terence Trent D’Arby (80’s musos rise!!!) and then we sang many songs.  I’ve now just remembered there was a disgraceful drag queen singer in the restaurant, singing along with a karaoke machine – the food prices may not have been recession proof but the ”entertainment” had surely been haggled in on a knockdown price.  For any songs we didn’t know the words to, or refused to admit we knew the words of, we sang the Irish footballing anthem ”Ole Ole Ole” or, to give it it’s official title  ”Put Em Under Pressure” as released by the Irish football team once they qualified, for the first time ever, to play in the World Cup in 1990.  Now that Ireland has qualified to play in the Euro football finals for the first time in 10 years, the song is enjoying a resurgence and is being sung by our Green Army once again, in great hope and trepidation that we may actually succeed, for once.

 

Goodbye Grey Hair and Grey Skies – Ireland Shimmers

Well what a fabulous day I am having.  Here is Ireland, in the GRIPS of an actual HEATWAVE – no joke, it’s been 25 all week and sunny, with maybe six clouds over the last few days in total.  And allegedly, according to our unreliable weather service, it is set to continue hurray!!!  Excellent news if this lasts through to next weekend as the Dublin Gaelic Football Team have their first championship match, which will be attended by moi, Lilsister, Scarydancer, Papabear and Papabear’s mad friend, who hates anyone born outside Dublin.  Whether we win or lose we will live it up afterwards in Baggot Street at a proper boozer, and Papabear will sing songs, and Dublinlover will shed tears and tell stories about different times he beat up non Dubliners after football matches.  Gaelic culture lives!!!

As I type this, Ireland has just scored a goal!!!!  Yes, our Irish playered soccer team, playing in the full rays of the sun in Dublin, has just scored against Bosnia – GO IRELAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Mr Long, we salute, and adore you. xxx

So I had my fruit and museli for breakfast, and had every intention of going out for a morning constitutional, even though I was dreading it (the face being quite easily burnt, even though I have had to purchase Factor 50 sunblock – could I BE any more Irish?).  Luckily, Lilsister came into my boudoir for hugs, and this delayed me somewhat, and then she talked me out of walking in this heat, so I popped to the shops instead for breakfast goodies, arriving back to cook my amazing scrambled eggs and inhale tea.

Afterwards, we headed up to Mammy, to take advantage of her sunny back garden, and catch some rays whilst the soccer blares from the tv in the front room.  We swopped health tips with the visiting window cleaner, who has given up dairy due to being lactose intolerant, and stopped mammy from giving him chocolate icecream because eh, he’s lactose intolerant, and chocolate and icecream contain much lactose, sorry.  Don’t worry though – Lilsister and I suffer from no such ailment, and happily munched on the lactose-levied sweets.  Yum!

I’ve also had Lilsister touch up my grey hairs with the hair dye whilst lounging in the backgarden, and then do my toenail painting for me after she saw how awful I am at doing it myself.  I used to get pedicures but this was before I got a job that paid just enough to eat breadrolls and nothing else all day.  Afterwards, Mammy did our tarot cards and stand up comedy came up AGAIN, so really it has been a busy day at the back garden salon.  Ah, summer in Ireland – you can keep your Italian Riverias and your Spanish coastlines – when the sun comes out in Ireland, and one half of the country retreat to their own backyards for barbeques, beers and beauty treatments, you are truly in the best country in the world.  Avoid us at your peril travellers!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Puffed to a Crisp

Earlier this evening I was lucky enough to catch Lilsister laughing at what, I didn’t know.  ”What are you laughing at,” I unwisely ventured, only to be told that she was laughing at me, because my life is a joke.  Wonderful.

My running is continuing well, thank you for asking, and I am nearly up to a good twenty second jaunt, which makes me feel fabulous and fit.  I also got burnt yesterday in the raging morning sun, I think the rays penetrated my factor 30 spf cream and I feel dry, crispy and old.  Ireland is experiencing another little heatwave, with soaring temperatures of 15 degrees yesterday – sure how could I NOT get burnt to an elderly crisp?

Needless to say on my way home today I stopped at the chemist and purchased Factor 50.  I did not run – it was too hot at an alleged 19 degrees.  What is this, Qatar???!?

Work is hideous, naturally, and only the sweet non-rememberance of alcohol consumption gets me through the nights, not that I can have any during weeknights, as if I was to come into work hungover the customers would literally eat me alive, which they attempt to do on an hourly basis, and which I have so far, been strong enough to resist.  Having said that, I have inbibed a little prosecco this evening before tapping this entry out, purely for sleeping purposes, as I have had difficulty sleeping the last week, being filled with bubbling rage most nights.  Right now I feel mellow and ready to snooze – ah drink, you blessed friend of the stressed.

Speaking of alcohol, I was able to partake of a little over the weekend, with Friday night drinks with Sisinlaw and Lilsister, and then Saturday night beers with Lilsister at an alleged comedy club in the city, which cost a fortune to enter, had flat pints and a comedian that looked EXACTLY like Robert de Niro in Taxi, making the whole night quite unsettling.   They also stamped my hand on the way in after being fleeced with the entry cost, and even today, I can still see the magic word on my hand – ”Puff”.  EXCUSE ME?  What does this signify?  Except that it is strangely resistant to several showers and scrubbing  brushes?

So with my snoozy boozy drink, I depart and seek my bed, in the hope that tonight I sleep, and forget the unfunny joke that is my life now.  Sigh…

 

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?

Time?

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