Caught By Defuzz

I was blessedly ronnie-free until relatively recently. I spent ten years on Dianette as a result of my having polystyrene ovaries and so never had to worry about facial hair, so bursting was I with ingested womanly hormones. I was fat, mental and darkly depressed, sure, but sublimely smooth of skin.

Yes, until relatively recently. Some three years ago I began to wonder if my chubby crackedness could be blamed on the meds rather than my gen for chocolate and high drama, so I sought alternative treatment. In the hope that I might some day be able to have babies, and the like. Though I haven't dropped any sprogs just yet, I now sport the merest hint of a mustache and a pair of peachy soft sideburns. I'm told you wouldn't notice them, but then he also tells me that I look beautiful in the morning, when I know fucking well that I look like Wurzel Gummidge after a bottle of cooking rum when I wake.

It's been bugging me, though, and now that I'm shaving my legs and waxing my ladygarden in an effort to appear kempt and tempt his affections, I decided it might be time to tackle the 'tache. Depliation seemed wiser than epilation what with my delicate skin, so I came home this evening and slathered my mush in Boots' finest no-more-mo' cream. Timed the four minutes carefully, washed it off to reveal slightly reddened skin and luxurious swathes of sideburn still stubbornly clinging to my rosie cheeks.

Rinse, I did. And repeated. Four minutes later I washed it off again, this time revealing the makings of a rash. Not all over, just where the 'tache and sideys had been. A nice dead giveaway. With a bit of luck the makeup I put on to try to hide it in the morning will cake to the cankers and my glamorous new look will be complete.

It ain't easy, being this sexy.

Reader's Choice #2

On Medication

for mysterious Billy, who likes pharmacists too

I've mentioned before that I have quite a close relationship with my pharmacist. He's short of stature and bald as an egg, with a winsome demeanour and creepily small hands. I entertain his awkward flirtations, he fills my lengthy prescriptions. We make it work. So imagine his surprise and delight this morning when I hobbled into his shop and hoiked up my skirt. Did I say delight? I meant horror. He licked his eyebrows for a second or two as the hem lifted but when he saw the state of the thigh I was proffering for his inspection - puffy and swollen with a nasty red bite - there was a flicker of revulsion before he forced his solicitous face back on.

The bite in question was not from an adventurous lover, but a midge. A common-or-garden in my fucking back garden midge. I am n'allergick to the little bastards and am usually careful (that intoxicating fragrance? It's deet, darling...) but in a fit of overtiredness and hangover I shed boots and tights when I got in from Cork on Monday evening and sat bare-legged in the garden, eating my dinner. When I woke yesterday morning, my thigh had swollen to the size of a tree trunk (and okay, it wasn't that far off it to begin with, but at least it was pleasantly milky in colour). I stuffed myself with antihistamines and slathered on the cortisone before heading into work, where I divided my day between whiny complaining and narcoleptic napping.

Determined to rid myself of stumpthigh, I shambled stiff-legged into Pharmacist this morning to demand that he make it better. I showed him my grievous injury (much to the amusement of the mean lady pharmacist*) but all I got was sympathy, an ice-pack and more fucking antihistamines. Unwilling to suffer another dozy day in work, I took some Pro Plus to counteract their soporific effects and found myself wide eyed and knackered, cranky as a crack addict for the morning (and with a freezing cold, massive and still red and itchy thigh).

Good times.

My sympathetic co-workers suggested that I shut the fuck up whining about it and try a poultice when I got home. I reckoned it couldn't hurt, so I've replaced the ice-pack with some warm soggy bread, and made quite the mess in the kitchen. Honestly, I don't think I've ever looked this fetching - in my pants, covered in sog, living in squalor, wild-eyed with itchy distress, and blogging about it.

*I've just realised that that post is dedicated to Billser too. People will think we have a problem.

Chesty La Rue

Dedicated to dedicated self-medicator Billy, who dedicated a post to me this week (which made me feel flattered, even if it had fuck-all to do with me at all. Yes, folks, it's that easy).

Last night as I lay dreaming, my spirit lover stood looking down at me. He cupped my chin in his hand and raised my face to look at him. "You" he breathed "inspire carpets". Later on that same dream, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing my teeth when I felt one come loose and promptly puked the rest of them into the sink.

"You should get your dreams analyzed" said the New Daddy, helpfully, sending on a link to a website that would do just that. So I had a browse, and it told me that the compliment (I think it was a compliment, and the site had nothing about carpets) means that I... *deep breath* desire romance (!) but I may have uttered some false or foul words and those words are coming back to haunt me (could be anything, really). Dreaming that I am brushing my teeth also signifies my level of confidence (which depends on the hour, and the breakfast), my struggles (minor, at most) and my aggressiveness (which also depends on the hour, and the breakfast). Apparently I need to look out for myself and my own interest and most of all, I need to quit feeling sorry for myself.

Dream analysis, like astrology, is a load of wank.

So this afternoon on my way home from work I stopped off to see my friend the Pharmacist for something to guarantee a good night's sleep clear my awful chesty cough. "Have you ever taken Exputex before?" the new and nosy lady asked. I suppressed a guilty grin (it happens to be the base ingredient in my not-yet-patented cold remedy) and managed a sickly nod. "When did the cough start?" oh... eh... *cough* (apologetic look and some more unconvincing muttering about it keeping me awake last night). "Well, just take three spoonfuls three times daily for the first two days - " At this point I had my hands out in supplication. Just give me the fucking bottle, lady.

We're tucked up in bed now, Exputex and I. And we're going to sleep well.

Trackmarks And Tears

The new nurse smiled brightly at me and started jabbering in a pleasantly singsong Welsh accent about the weather and my hair and her shoes and the computer and the other nurse and the [I had tuned out at this point - I hadn't had breakfast and was starting to get cranky]. "So" she trilled "that'll be 5 of the orange ones, two pink, one clear and a yellow one too, I suppose" and then she looked at me for confirmation. "Great!" I beamed, not a fucking notion what she was prattling on about. It was only after she'd stuck me with the needle that I noticed the mountain of vials she had stacked at my elbow, each one with a colour coded cap. I sat there trying to look brave and trying even harder not to puke on her, horrified by the sight of the needle in my arm. "You've very deep veins!" she exclaimed, more by way of a compliment than anything else, I think. "We'll just give it a little wiggle, I know there's one here somewhere..."

The Answer To All Of My Prayers?

There is much talk these days of how difficult it is to meet someone - romantically speaking - in this, the modern era. Indeed I have done a lot of such shitetalking myself after a few drinks. It is hard (I'm still single) and though theoretically teh internehts makes even dating easy, it hasn't done much for me, I tell you. The 'net may be changing the game elsewhere but online dating still has quite a stigma attached to it in Ireland. The accepted method for acquiring a future life partner here is to (a) meet them through a friend (an excellent option as this can often mean that they come with a recommendation and/or a returns policy) or (b) to take your chances in the last chance saloon of the pub and hope that the complete stranger you've brought home will not look like the Elephant Man/your boss/his sister once you take your beer goggles off. Online dating is (somewhat bizarrely, when you consider the risks associated with option (b) above) thought to be unsafe; dating websites are presumed to be populated by psychopathically lonely losers and blind dates are considered a form of social suicide. So what are modern Irish singletons who have run out of patience with these paltry options to do? Why - return to those hallowed times! When men were men and women wore shoulder-pads. When love was a slow-dance, all left feet and hard-ons. To quote Mr. Calvin Harris, it was acceptable in the eightees.

I was shuffling and shuftying along through the city this morning when I noticed a new horror nested on the corner of Nassau St. and Kildare St. The unattractive sign outside promises pessimistically safe times: No Drugs, No Drunks, No Problems. But for the singleton who's tired of flailing around pathetically to dance tunes, trying in vain to impress the object of their tequila-fulled affections with pop-n-lock(ed) robot dancing, the sign also offers a glimmer of hope. For the club is GR80s (geddit?) and their USP* is their slow sets.

I nearly puked. I cannot imagine anything worse than revisiting the slow set horrors of my teenage years (which were in the 90s, incidentally, but we were a little behind the times. Besides, GR90s just doesn't have the same zing! to it). The way the dancefloor cleared as soon as the first bars of a Mariah Carey/Whitney Houston/Bryan Fucking Adams song kicked in, except for one drunken lunatic who'd been dancing alone and had simply not noticed. The way the floor gradually filled with groping couples, usually comprised of your friends and boys they knew you fancied. The way the drunken lunatic would ricochet off them until he was eventually expelled from the floor, at which point he'd lurch in your direction, go straight for your tits and then try to ask you to dance but be unable to pronounce "want", "to" or "dance". The way your sober, well-meaning and well-mannered but unattractive friend would step in to save you - resulting in an awkward once-around-the-floor where you try to hold him at arms' length to avoid his erection before feigning thirst and/or incontinence and rushing off to the bar and/or bathroom. It took me years of hard work and costly drugs to repair the damage that school discos and nightclub slow sets did to my teenage self-confidence. I suspect that one night in GR80s would see all of my efforts undone. I shall be avoiding that one like the plague.

*Unique Selling Point - apparently it's a dating thing?

Out Too Late, Drank Too Much

Breakfast this week has been cough syrup, Sudafed and Solpadiene. "Fuck off!" screamed this morning's hangover, banging her cutlery off my brain. "I want Panadol and orange juice!"

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.

Not Such A Bad Day Really

I was feeling a bit sorry for myself in work today. No good reason and no point posting about it because as I've mentioned before, nobody likes a whingey bird. Late this afternoon I prised my fingers from my keyboard and slouched across the road to the chemist to get a prescription filled. For some reason this always seems to take an age, so I took a seat at the back of the shop. I was only in a minute when I guy came in the door and without even approaching the counter took a seat across from me. Cleancut, good-looking, he looked a bit worn out. He sat quietly for a minute or two until the girl behind the counter called to him. She knew him by name, asked how he was, told him he looked well and then handed him his cup of Methodone. Thanking her, he knocked it back, thanked the pharmacist behind the counter and headed off, saying he'd see them again tomorrow.

I've never had a junkie break into my home. Never had a junkie steal from me. Never had a junkie harass me on the street. I'm lucky. Luckier than they are.

On one of my visits to A&E with Crash Grandadicoot I spent a few hours with him on a trolley in the inner sanctum (away from the Infernoesque waiting room). In the treatment room across from where I was stood there was a girl in her late teens, maybe early twenties. Agitated and restless, she'd been told to lie and wait for the doctor but kept getting up from her gurney to switch off the light, which was hurting her eyes. The nurses were losing patience with her, and she was getting tearful. When the doctor came in to do a preliminary exam, he asked her had she taken anything. No, she insisted. "What are these marks on your arm?" "I had an accident. It was just an accident." The doctor headed off again and she turned off the light once more. There was a guy about my own age just out of sight around the corner. I had heard the girl greet him when she was first being brought through and now he called over to her, to see how she was. They started talking about a party they'd been to the night before, about some other girl who'd been there, strung out and covered in bruises. She looked a state, they said, and he was worried for her. It was obvious from their conversation that they didn't know one another well, friends of friends, that kind of thing. A nurse came to check on him and when she left, the girl spoke up again. "I'm really glad you're here. I mean it's real bad and I'm sorry and all that you're sick like, but still I'm happy to see you here. I get scared when I'm on my own. It's nice that we're not on our own, you know?"

He knew.

Walking home by the black dark water of the Grand Canal this evening, all I could think of was what a cold night it is to be alone, helpless or homeless in Dublin.

Taxi to the airport, please!

Féile an Dóilín, jeez.

Rírá agus ruaille buaille, rap, rainneach, ragóil is ragairne, gean, grá is gal..

I'd tell you all about it, but I need to pack a bag. I've to be in Latvia in about 6 hours time.