Sunday Segues Into Monday

Stranded with 23 cent to my name, work in the morning and a hangover waiting for me under my bed, I sent him a message to see if maybe he might like to come fetch me. Because every ATM in Fun Laoghaire was fucked, because he's kind and I knew he wouldn't mind. When he called to see where he should pick me up from, I was sitting down to a late supper of paracetamol and milk, having realised that taxis can also be employed to drive one to a cash machine.

He turned the car around and dropped over anyway, just to kiss me goodnight. I apologised insincerely for my tipsy state and sighed into his shoulder, wishing he didn't have to leave. "You're about 40% proof alright" he laughed, and kissed me again. "40% proof but 100% honest" I mumbled, gee-eyed but trying to channel doe-eyed and winsome.

"Have you fallen for me?" he asked.

Fuck.

Because I have, just a very tiny little bit, though I have tried hard not to. The call came on Saturday morning; next Monday he leaves for London, indefinitely. And the rug is pulled out from under my feet once more.

Reader's Choice #1

A Time Before I Was Old

for B, the cheeky little Longford bollix

Looking back, I am mature enough to recognise that my greatest success during my teenage years was not the 8 As and 2 Bs I got in my Junior Certificate examinations, but the acquisition and retention of a boyfriend.

I was not an early bloomer by any means, so it was quite the unexpected coup when I managed to land myself a fella at 15 and hold on to him for two and a half years. It remains my record, which is something I am both disappointed by and embarrassed about at my now tender age of 27 (I know that I shouldn't be, and that makes it worse).

Our romance began as most do - with a little cack-handed help from a friend. One of his mates told me that he wanted to meet* me around behind the school, so I broke away from the herd and went to wait for him - I had to go first, because he was more popular than I, and couldn't be seen to wait on me (yes, even then I was the submissive). But I was thrilled. Thrilled that anyone liked me, but more particularly him because he was popular, and when you're 15 that's pretty much all that matters. He eventually sauntered around the corner and without so much as a how's-yer-father proceeded to wear the face off me for about 45 minutes straight. It was crap; messily uncomfortable and magnificently exciting. He asked me to "go out with him" about a week later (it was all very formal back in the day) and I became, for the first time, a girlfriend. We broke up after two years, but got back together again for a miserable six months during which I tried desperately to please him, and failed. He had noticed that there was greenish grass on yonder hills and fancied a roll in it, and nothing comes between a sexually confident teenage boy and his egotistical imaginings. I remember the agony of the aftermath, the crushing defeat. I cried for the longest time, sure that my heart was broken beyond repair. I didn't sleep or eat for, oh, two days. I ached physically with gut-wrenching sorrow. I wanted to die, and everything was in italics. SOMETIMES EVEN IN CAPS AND ITALICS.

Such melodrama is mortifying to remember. I was as tempestuous in my love as I was in my loss, and for the longest time I couldn't even think of him (or more specifically of me with him) without wincing. But now that I am contemplatively meandering through my twenties I have come to realise how much that relationship has given me. I was happy through the toughest times of my teens, happy and secure. I felt attractive, confident and occasionally even loved. Sure, I got a knock, but I've managed to carry that self-assurance into my relationships and though my love life may be an unmitigated disaster for the most part, my friendships endure. He was a bit of a gonk, but I have to give him some credit for who I've become.

Because she's not that bad.

*it was Clondalkinite for "shift" back in 1996.

Keeping Score

It's a bank holiday Tuesday after a long and sunny weekend, and I'm back in work (-1). My proffered olive branch is still being met with a cold shoulder (-1) and I can't post about it because the post ends up reading "fuck you and the horse you rode in on" no matter how reasonably I try to phrase it (-1). On another matter entirely, I sent a snotty email and was replied to in kind (-1) which is probably no more or less than either of us deserves. Ho hum.

But in other news today; I got an email from a pretend friend suggesting pints of Campari and orange juice (+1) and I got a phonecall from another pretend friend who is experimenting with being "nice" (+1) and reckoned cheering me up might be a good place to start. Buoyed by jolly conversation I ventured out to get some lunch; the lady in the shop across the road got the ridey till boy to make my sandwich (+1) and then she gave me a stack of free magazines (+1) because "we only send the covers back to them an all an annyway". As I whiled away the afternoon flicking through photographs of fat, spotty and sweaty celebrities (+1) I got an email back from Red Pepper Productions, addressing all of my concerns about the programme they've asked me to take part in and showing admirable restraint and humour in the face of my ripping the piss out of them (+1).

In conclusion: Fuck you, Karma. The margin may be tight, but I'm winning.

GreasyLocks

After my recent hair-raising tale I've been inspired to share another hirsute horror story with you. It's long enough ago for me to laugh at it now. Just about.

For years I've had patches of psoriasis on my scalp. I've found that what works best for me is the occasional application of a coal tar pomade, which is every bit as unattractive as it sounds. It's a thick, sticky brownish goo, it smells like old person's soap but does the trick if applied before bedtime and washed out in the morning. I'd run out of the offending substance and high-hoed to the chemist's to get some, planning on having shining tresses for the following evening's trip to London. I went home, smeared it in, wrapped my hair (which was lovely and long at the time) in a turban and went to bed. The following morning I got up early and washed it, as usual, but it wouldn't wash out. In fact, I couldn't get the shampoo to lather. So I washed it again. And again. And again.

Four washes, and still not so much as a bubble from the shampoo, despite all of my exertions. I emerged prune-fingered and raging from the shower to reexamine the container my coal tar goo had come in. Only to discover that it was not in fact my coal tar goo. The pharmacist had given me the wrong stuff; this was some kind of petroleum jelly based unguent. I had smeared my hair in Vaseline and left it to soak in overnight.

I scraped it up into a sloppy, sticky bun and stormed down to the chemist's to demand an apology and a miracle solution. The assistant helpfully suggested that I try wearing it in a "wet look style" for a few days. I punched her on the nose and stormed off home to call the hairdressers.

They advised me to put talcum powder in it to soak up the excess grease, and then to try washing it again. My sister was drafted in and we spent an unhappy hour making a hair, Vaseline and Johnson's Baby Powder paste. Three goes of this (that's seven washes now) and still no progress so I called up to the salon to see if they could do anything more. They applied some kind of nail varnish remover solution to my hair that they usually use to remove years of Dax Wax from pimply men's hair and left me under one of those space helmet dryers for a half hour before washing it another three times, and then spent a fucking lifetime trying to blowdry it. "It'll take maybe a week or two to get back to normal" the hairdresser sympathised. "It's nice and soft though..." she trailed off, hopefully.

Thankfully greasy looking fuckers were all the rage in Brixton Academy that night. Though it took weeks for my curls to come back.

Dear John

Is there an etiquette when it comes to responding to Dear Jane* letters? Or emails, rather, in this modern world we live in. "Hello" in the subject line of an email never bodes well; it heralds (a) unsolicited and misspelled shite from concerned strangers about the size of my penis (is it just me? All of my gmail spam relates to penis enlargement) (b) a bollocking from a flatmate about a recent misdemeanour or (c) a Dear Jane. I knew what was coming but my morbid curiosity would not allow me to delete it, unread. Almost immediately I began to hammer out a response but I checked myself before sending it. I find rejection embarrassing enough without exacerbating it with an ill-considered and hasty reply. And that got me thinking: How should one respond in such circumstances?

One could ignore it, and maintain a dignified silence. My garrulousness generally does not allow for such things.

One could rally back with a stream of invective; berating the Dear Jane's author for choosing an email over a call, for leaving it for too long before sending the email in the first place, for not having the energy or imagination to pursue something more.

One could be cheery and nonchalant; thanks, but I didn't care too much anyway.

Or one could be honest, disappointed, and a little relieved.

In the end I replied with the words I had rattled off upon reading the email. It's the only way I know how.

*The source of all knowledge informs me that In more recent times, women have come to be subjected to such impersonal break-up letters as well. These are refered (sic) to as "Dear Jane" letters.

SWF Needs TLC

I don't know what was up with me these past few days but I've been awful fucking fidgety. Distracted, impatient, cranky. So on Wednesday night I spent the evening cooking up a storm, in an effort to ease my jangling nerves. The results? A massive pot of truly excellent chili (the Swede was digging in at 11pm and pronounced it to be "werry gub" - it was hotter than he'd bargained for) and another cauldron full of my should-be-patented beef and beer stew (I had no Guinness, so I threw in some Brahma beers instead). I have limited freezer space and can't quite manage to eat 10 dinners by myself, so I've been feeding the Swede whenever possible (he's been eating two dinners all week) and I had the SWF* over for dinner yesterday evening.

We haven't seen much of one another of late. I missed her birthday celebrations as I was ill (dentist-related trauma, don't ask) and we were both busy over Christmas, so last night was a chance for a proper catch-up. I had much to fill her in on; my recent torrid affairs and tidbits from everyone else's. I love gossiping with herself and the Jock** because no detail is too gory or insignificant. I think the friendships you forge in college are of a special nature; all the drink drugs wanton sex*** study and hard graft leads to very open, funny and honest, I-will-always-love-you-because-you-know-too-much relationships. Also; when the three of us are together we inevitably end up talking about men's willies, a subject which fascinates me and one which is so rarely if ever discussed in the polite(ish) company I keep.

Last time I saw her she had a new man (and presumably a new willy to discuss) so I was interested to hear how things were progressing. Or not. Imagine my dismay at receiving this email just hours before the dissection of their sex life was to begin over beef and beer stew:

I realised this morning that I wield a weird type of power in the office. Every time I get dumped (more on that later) one of the girls in work gets engaged the very same day! Looking back through the years, the 100% success rate can't be a coincidence. They should start setting me up with guys who 'aren't looking for anything serious' so that in a few short weeks, their boyfriends will go down on bended knee. I could charge for my services and everything!

Reminds me of an awful film that I took pains not to see. She was upset but pragmatic and very funny about it; to borrow a saying from my mother - if wit was shit, she'd be rolling in it. So we had a laugh and then we watched Top Gear, while discussing the relative merits of Clarkson and Hammond and whether or not it would ever be okay to have sex with Jeremy Paxman.

*I asked her what she'd like her blog handle to be, she suggested Single White Female.
**She didn't get to choose her own. But in college she was a sporty jock, and now she works in radio, which is close enough to disc jockey for me.
***Total lie - I studied Irish and archaeology. Nobody ever wanted to have wanton sex with me.

Because Life Is Too Short

Chuala mé an oíche cheana gur bhris sé suas lena chailín. Bhíodar le chéile ar feadh na blianta. Bhí sé amhrasach faoin gcaidreamh le tamaill sách fada (cé go ndéarfadh sé sin liomsa ar aon nós, is dócha). Cé gur chas mé leis cúpla uair, ní rabhamar le chéile ach an t-aon uair amháin sin, breis agus bliain ó sin. Deacair an tionchar a bhí ag an oíche sin ar an mbeirt orainn a chreidiúint. Ní fhacamar a chéile ó shin mar go bhfuil cónaí air thall i Sasana. Mí nó dhó ó shin chuir me stop leis an gcomhfhreagras eadrainn, níorbh fhiú dom an chrá croí a tharraingt orm féin fhad agus a bhí sé fós ag siúl amach léi.

Agus ansin dúradh liom thar dinnéar an oíche cheana go bhfuil siad scartha. Gur eisean a chur deireadh leis. Tuigim go mbeidh sé trína chéile, nach mbeidh sé ceart ná réidh le smaoineamh ar éinne eile fiú ar feadh i bhfad. Ach chur mé ríomhphost chuige, dhá líne, díreach le rá go raibh an scéal cloiste agam, go bhfuil súil agam go bhfuil sé okay agus go bhfuil mé ag smaoineamh air.

Gach seans go mbeidh aiféala orm. Ach b'éigin dom dul sa seans.

A Peculiar Type of Moron

Apparently a truck milled into one of the railway bridges off Grand Canal St. this morning, so DART and train services have been cancelled for the foreseeable future disrupted. The bridges along the stretch between Grand Canal Dock and Pearse are so low that I automatically duck going underneath them (admittedly I don't need to, but they are claustrophobically low) so what the truck driver was thinking I can only imagine.

And I'd imagine it was something along the lines of "Sure fuck it, it'll be grand".

The newsreader read the story and then continued with undisguised glee to say that the spokesman for Iarnród Éireann was "very angry". He wasn't joking. "The bridges around the Grand Canal Dock area are visibly very low," he spluttered into his soundbite. "It takes a peculiar type of moron not to be aware of that."

Brilliant.

Normal Service Will Resume Shortly

I don't like to blog when I'm not in good form, I only end up with melodramatic posts like last Thursday's. Nobody likes a whingey bird, and fewer people still like poetry. So I'm going to get my shit together this week, cop on, get out, all that shite, and I'll soon be in flying fettle and wittering wittily about:

• My night out with the boys last Tuesday, which caused me to bypass Wednesday like it was a nasty little midlands town
• My night in with the New Parents on Friday, where I pretended rather uncomfortably to be a grown-up who likes dinner parties
• What a fucking disappointment Superbad was
• My anxieties about an upcoming family gathering that I've taken to calling (uncharitably) The Séance
  
• The origins of the phrase "in your la-las" (an oft-used one in our house, meaning to be in uncharacteristically dire humour (like I have been for the past week)

I'll bet you can't wait.

Call the Fire Brigade!

I had a panicky moment there on the way back to my desk from the kitchen. I took the lift, in honour of the scalding hot tea I was carrying, and got stuck. The indignity of it. I'm awful clumsy and accident prone so when something like that happens to me, I automatically feel guilty (regardless of whether or not I'm at fault) and assume that I am somehow to blame. Problem is, my reputation precedes me and everyone else usually assumes that I am somehow to blame also. So I stood there for a minute or two, mentally preparing myself and getting my story straight. The porters here already think I have special needs. I'm rightly fucked now.

I reached a finger towards the alarm button. And realised that I'd never pressed the button to tell the lift which floor I wanted in the first place. I wasn't stuck, I was just standing like a dickhead with a cup of scalding hot tea in a stationary lift, with the doors closed.

Sometimes I wonder.

Scuba Steve

After mam's dramatics, my day improved. Pretending to be musicians, my brother and I blagged our way into one of the gigs (this one, as it featured my love interest from that weekend in An Cheathrú Rua...). Typical me, The Festival of World Cultures and there I am, hanging out in the Gaeilge tent. From there we headed up to catch a bit of Dónal Dineen's set in one of the hotels and again, typical me, I ended up drinking in the car park instead and talking to random strangers. Interesting ones though; these boys. I must keep an eye out for their work.

From there we got a lift into town from a kind if directionally challenged friend (we ended up taking a spin in the wrong direction down Harcourt St's Luas line but beggars can't be choosers- the queue for a taxi in Dun Laoghaire would make your eyes water). On to the POD for a bit of a Pogo and more vodka than was strictly necessary, and then my brother and I barrelled drunkenly into Aprila's chipper, in Portobello, for a bite of dinner. Civilised drunkards that we are, we strolled down the leafy-with-love banks of the Grand Canal and sat down on a bench to enjoy our fare. I had just stood up to shake the curry chips out of my skirt and start for home when I noticed a figure about 20 yards away, standing on the path and wretchedly puking on his own shoes. "Look at this poor fucker!" I exclaimed in glee (always fun to see someone drunker than yourself) and my brother craned his head for a gawk, just in time to see the poor sot pitch head first off the footpath into the canal.

I ran to his rescue, with all the grace of a flat chested C.J. Parker. Just as I reached the spot he'd launched from, a hand shot up from the reeds, and then another. He struggled to standing in the 2ft deep water, huffing and puffing, and breaking his bollix laughing. I helped him out, and backup arrived (in curry-chip stained jeans and a fit of the giggles). "Are you alright, mate?" More giggles. From all three of us. He began fishing various sodden items from the pockets of his biker's jacket, a dripping mobile phone, wet banknotes, smelly canal weed. I asked him if he'd far to go and he explained -with the frank honesty of the truly drunk- that he was close to home, he'd been drinking in The Barge Pub and had just wandered down "for a dump". How glad am I that he wasn't mid shite when he toppled in. "Have you a pen and paper?" he asked. "Take my name and address, and remind me that this happened. Not tomorrow though, in a while, like. Maybe next year. No, in three years time. My name's Stephen, Stephen Boyle. Nice to meet yiz."

I made him promise to walk on the lower path, away from the water, and he staggered off, leaving a dripping trail and laughing spastically to himself. I hope he made it home.

Mammies are Nothing but Trouble

I headed out to the festival yesterday, brimming with good humour and sunshine, and tripped down to the main stage to meet my parents. I missed dad at first, I hadn't seen him in a while and he shaved his 'tache while he was on holidays. (In all my 26 years I've seen him baldyfaced just the once, when I was about 10 and he shaved it for charity. I think we all made strange, mam included, so it was back 3 days later). Gave him a hug, asked where mam was. He pointed to the ambulance parked behind him.

And sure enough there she was, waving out through one of the little windows.

She'd been fine, dancing to Kila and generally having a ball until she got a pain in her chest and started having difficulty breathing. Luckily there were medics on hand, they took her to the ambulance, checked her out and then decided to whisk her off to St. Michael's to make doubly sure that she was okay. Dad accompanied her to the hospital, my brother and I had an anxiety laden pint while we waited for word of her blood results.

I'm horribly, irrationally superstitious. I knew she'd be fine, but a little voice in my head kept whispering "these things happen in threes, you know". Two friends of mine lost their fathers this summer and though I know better, I sat there making smalltalk and sinking into a panic that I was going to lose my mam.

Turned out she's been shifting furniture at home the day before, with little regard for her bad back or for the abundance of willing bodies nearby who would happily lend a hand. She'd pulled a muscle in her chest, so she's fine.

She nearly gave me a fucking heart attack, though.

Like a Monkey with a Minature Cymbal

I'm checking in again today with a hangover. I'm beginning to think this blog should be sponsored by Lucozade Sport and Nurofen. And yes, it's Tuesday, I went boozing on a Monday, I'm suitably ashamed of myself, yada yada. It's been a surprisingly productive day on the work front so I'm not going to beat myself up over it.

And I had a great night. It was myself and three friends from school, that I don't see often enough but whose ability to pick up wherever we left off, no matter how long it's been, never ceases to amaze me. It's a wonderful quality, and I really appreciate these easy and happy relationships.

I did feel a little like a fish out of water at times though. It's rare that I'm out in the company of women. They scare me, truth be told, and a girls' night out for me would be a nightmare. I've never seen myself as a girly girl but abhor the idea of myself as some kind of tomboy, so it leaves me a bit stuck. I don't wear fake tan or have nice hair (I suppose I might -if I brushed it- but it's awful curly, you see) but I do wear pretty skirts and paint my toenails, so I'm not a complete lost cause. But groups of women intimidate me. We're disgustingly competitive, us females, and I worry that I just can't compete. The conversation inevitably boils down to men, and at the moment (who am I kidding? for fucking ages now) I find myself tragically and bafflingly single. Plenty of my friends are in the same boat, but I have this tendancy to overdramatise my own singledom and assume that their men are just around the corner, whereas my Prince Charming is hiding behind the couch stuffing his fingers into his ears, thinking of a happy place.

I wouldn't blame him. I suffered what we'll politely call a romantic setback some time ago, and I haven't really been acting like ideal girlfriend material since. I'll grow out of it. In the meantime though, my tales of drama, disaster and debauchery have made for good conversation when in the company of my female friends. I may not be able to compete with the shiny hair and the size 10 jeans, but I can tell a good story. It's great to sit and talk shite to people who have a genuine interest in what you're at and how life's going for you, and to make them laugh while you're at it.

I'm worried that I've taken self-effacement to a new level though and I find myself a little deflated sometimes, wondering if I'm turning into some kind of performing idiot. The trouble I get myself into is usually as a result of my own short short span of attention, but I'd want to watch out that it's not stemming from some unconscious desire to amuse everyone else. A comedienne I ain't, and it'll do me no good to behave like one.

So i'll go get a haircut. Wear some heels. Spend more time with these strong, clever and funny women and try to learn from my past mistakes. I'll tempt that fucker out from behind the couch yet.