Quality Viewing

I'm sitting in with the Leitrim Lady, the Swede and his KK watching nothing much on telly when the phone beeps.

Primordial radar! World's smallest muscleman - Discovery Channel. This one's called Romeo and he has a big audition tomorrow for Cirque du Soleil. His da's worried.

Excellent. We switch over and sit, rapt, for the final fifteen minutes of the programme. As the credits roll, the phone beeps with another text.

Paralysed rabbits on Channel 4.

With friends like mine, who needs a TV guide?

Review: Quantum Of Solace

It was very exciting. Though the Leitrim Lady didn't try to drop the hand once.

Roses For Rosie

I'm a hoarder. He's a Swede. The autumn spring clean was traumatic. But when he made to put the glass vase into one of the black sacks I had a(nother) little tantrum. "It's our only vase!" I wailed, snatching it back from him and trying to hide my grimace when my grabbing fingers became glued to its grime. It's never been used, he reminded me, and we both looked at the sticky evidence cradled in my arms. But... "Nobody is ever going to buy you flowers!" he pointed out. Or joked. Or pointed out. It's hard to know, sometimes, with his gallows humour and my thin thin skin. But he wasn't being a prick, just pragmatic. We've lived together for three years now and in that time nobody has bought me flowers. But I will not allow him to consign my hope to the bin, so the vase stays.

Then last Sunday evening, the Jaffa Cake arrived over with an armful of roses. I was overcome; charmed and pathetically embarrassed. Til we got inside and my inner four year old took over, making with the in your face!!! for the Swede's benefit and ruining the touching moment. But the truth is, apart from my dad, he's the only man ever to have bought me flowers. Chatting to ma confidante about it (and him) she confessed to feeling the same the first time someone bought flowers for her. She thought he was taking the piss, felt embarrassed. "But he just wanted to buy me flowers because he liked me. WEIRD." She is too much like me, this confidante, and I feel for her in this. Because she shouldn't be. "We need to get over this shit, don't we? I mean, we're pretty loveable birds" I say with a sigh and a giggling optimism. She agrees.

It might take a while though. My roses were wilting by Tuesday and, ever anxious to preserve the moment, I decided to dry them. They're strung up in my hot press, and I am sitting here like BlueBeard, with a cup of tea.

Renovations

"I want to borrow their zuum zuum thingy!" He shouts when he gets excited, and I have to suppress a smile. He dashes past in his plaid jammies and comes back two seconds later, victorious. His grin has an almost manic edge. He's wielding the painters' cordless drill. Before I can say a thing he's up on the kitchen chair, making a beeline for the ratty slatted blind that hangs over the window. "What's this for?" he asks, pulling at an untidy but important looking cable hanging loose from the sill, his eyes lighting on the kitchen scissors (which he presumably plans to use to "fix" the wire) as he waves the drill around, for emphasis.

I close my eyes and for the briefest of seconds savour the visions of fried Swede. Then I open them again and ask him not to cut it. "There is just no logic" he mutters disappointedly.

How right you are, thinks his Pebble.

I'd Love To Cook A Stew For You, But I Have No Pot*

I have spent my morning slaving over a hot stove. It is not yet lunchtime and there is dinner for a dozen bubbling on the hob. I don't have mouths to feed. There's just me here. The Swede will be home at some stage and will doubtless oblige me by eating a bowl of something, but it's beyond even him to polish off a pot of chilli and another of spiced beef stew. It will make me smile to watch him try.

I have spent my morning cooking because I had doubts to quell, and time to kill.

Now that the flat is rich with the smell of garlic and paprika, I can sit down, pour some tea and breathe again. I have done something simple, I have made something good, I have taken my time with it and poured my thoughts into it - the food will taste of heart and soul.

Well, the chilli will taste as it always does. My knee-jerk reaction to bubbling thoughts, it is my most familiar of foods. It will taste better on Tuesday than it does today, it will sit in the freezer until I need warming some evening after a wet walk home from work.

My stew will taste of home.

I might leave it til tomorrow. By then it will taste of onions, garlic and sweet red peppers, paprika, salt, tabasco and beef, mushrooms, red wine, sour cream and love.

And that goes much better with mashed potatoes.

*Title inspired by my current read, Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood. Emotional cooking inspired by an old favourite, Salman Rusdie's sprawling epic The Moor's Last Sigh.

Hell Freezes Over

The Swede wandered into the kitchen to find me ankle deep in puddles and tits deep in tantrum, the floor destroyed and the contents of the fridge laid out unappetisingly over every surface in the flat. It was 5pm on a Saturday evening, and I was defrosting the freezer.

"Are we feeling guilty for something?" he asked with a lewd wink, presumably referring to my propensity for men and mayhem as opposed to mundane housework. "No" I snapped, all set to berate him for not noticing the cleaning I do around the place and then biting my tongue as I realised it's generally limited to my own bathroom. He laughed at my temper and reminded me that he'd done it last time (a year and a half ago) before setting down to watch The Simpsons. I recommenced hacking at the solid ice with my makeshift pick (a bottle opener) and boiled the kettle for the 47th time, huffing and muttering direly to myself. Because in truth I was feeling guilty. Not because the Swede does all the work around here (he doesn't) but because I had spent all morning and most of the rainy afternoon luxuriating in the easy company of a new beau. And I'm just not used to things being that easy. The irrational idiot in me feels undeserving and sits eating her hair, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She shouldn't. I'm prettier than I let on. I'm smarter than the evidence would suggest. I need to learn to accept good fortune with good grace, and stop peeling the silver linings off my clouds.

4 bath towels, 8 tea towels, two scalds and several floods later I gave up, and went to meet Annie for a pint. She was appalled at the idea of me spending Saturday night standing on a chair with my head in the fridge, thought it very un-Rosie. But it's very me. Swings and roundabouts, rock and roll. Tuesdays are dreary enough without housework - there's no better time to do it than on a Saturday night when you're still basking in Wednesday, Thursday and Friday's glow. I arrived home in a pleasant fuzz of wine, well-being and patatas bravas and made straight for ground zero to inspect my handiwork. The ice was melting; coming away in satisfying, weighty chunks.

When Solitaire's The Only Game In Town

Noody Nady

Originally conceived as Naked Tuesday, the muggy weather these past few weeks has encouraged me to abandon trous as soon as I fall in the door from work each evening. In the hallway. Although I find it quite liberating, I still give myself the occasional fright when I pass a mirror. I have never been comfortable in my skin but for the past few weeks I've been practicing hard, making every effort to subscribe to Jack's Nice Dream.

Rhubarb Roulette
Mother is the necessity of invention - we had a bumper crop of 'barb back on the ranch this summer and I am doing my level best to get through it. This game of chance involves finding out how much stewed rhubarb you can eat before you get the runs, and I can now conclude that it is unfortunately not as much as one would think.

Pillage & Spillage
Where I raid may flatmates cupboards because they have heartlessly abandoned me, and also because I have been too lazy and/or absent to shop. I then cook with such gusto and Gordon Ramsey-fuelled abandon that the kitchen looks like the aftermath of [something apocalyptic] as painted by Jackson Pollock. I do not clean up. I shrug, wipe the soot from my chin and the tears from my eyes and sit down to enjoy a beautifully presented meal at a table set for one; crockery, cutlery, coaster and all.

See? I'm not an animal.

On My Lonesome

The Leitrim Lady left me a week ago, she's off frolicking out foreign for the next eleven weeks. I'm not bitter; or at least I wasn't until the Swede fucked off to Kenya for a few weeks on Friday. Now I'm just scared. He left me with a fridge full of liquid sustenance and a plea not to burn the flat down in their absence - I'm trying hard, but to be honest I'm more concerned that I'll adopt a cat and start wiping my arse with my hair in the absence of human company of an evening.

Obviously they've left me unsupervised before, just never for this length of time. I worry that I will start talking to myself. Or become so accustomed to walking around naked that I'll turn feral. So in a desperate plea for some form of human company, I broke the washing machine. Saturday morning then was spent in the company of deliverymen and plumbers, and while none of them quite lived up to my bored housewife fantasies (I really must lay off the porn) they were affable and chatty. Also, one of them is a helicopter pilot in his spare time. None but the finest of hired help for Rosie! Sadly, he charges by the hour, and is very bloody expensive.

Having exhausted his patience for demonstrations of the spin cycle, I put on an overdue wash of dirty knickers and set forth into the sunshine in search of some convivial company. I met the SWF and the Vet for a stroll around the chocolate market in Temple Bar. The place was jammed with wild-eyed women in search of of a cocoa fix who, like me, just read "chocolate" and bolted for the square, neglecting to check times or dates - the chocolate market is in fact on today. We ditched in favour of a spot of accidental handbag shopping (a little brown leather mini-suitcase from Urban Outfitters) and a table in sunny Bloom's Quarter where we drank wine, talked shite and snarfed tapenade.

From there I headed off to dinner with a pretty lady, feeling all cosmopolitan now that I was full of wine and olives. My date had chosen our destination because the waiter is "one hot motherfucker" (and she figured we could both do with a little sexy distraction) but she proved to be more than ample distraction herself. We spent a pleasant few hours gossiping about boys and bloggers, comparing lies and statistics and solving the world's ills. A few drinks and a charming young man later I tottled home, slightly squiffy and chuffed at the idea of having the flat to myself. Why, I could do what I liked! ("Have lots of sex" counseled Annie. Which is great in theory, we agreed, but short of my stopping men on the street it is unlikely to transpire over the next three weeks).

In the end I had a cigarette on the balcony, with a cup of earl grey and two paracetamol to ward off this morning's hangover. I texted my date to tell her how lovely she is, while slathering my lips in the honey balm she'd so thoughtfully brought as a present for me. I somewhat ill-advisedly texted last week's date to see if he has indeed disappeared in a puff of smoke up his own hole. Quite probably - I didn't get an answer. Then, reasonably full of tea, affection, and philosophical thoughts, I went to bed happy. Saturdays on your Todd aren't so bad after all. My Rabbit may not cuddle but it gives good head, and I don't need to make it breakfast on a Sunday morning. What more could a girl want of a weekend?

Review: Sex And The City

OMFG! It, like, totally lived up to my expectations. I reckon if I was a SATC character I'd be, um, Carrie!!! Because she writes, and I'm, like, a writer. Though people are mean about her and say that she's vapid and looks like a horse and I'd be totally upset if people thought that I was vapid and looked like a horse. Maybe I'm more like Charlotte. She's pretty. I'm definitely not like Miranda (I think she might be a lesbian). And the shoes!!! OMFG!!!

*sigh*

I wouldn't know, I didn't get to see the fucking thing. When the Leitrim Lady and I arrived the foyer was swarming with distressed and damp looking budgies who had obviously showed up, like us, not expecting every single screening to be sold out. Now I'm home, she and the Swede are in their jammies watching Pirates of the Caribbean II and I'm, well, blogging about it.

I need to start drinking midweek again.

The Unwelcoming Committee

We had a visitor from Japan chez nous this weekend in the flat (perhaps I should refer to it as an aportment? It is in Dublin 2...) I was headed to the wilds of Kildare for a couple of days so being a generous but absentee hostess I picked up all of the dirty knickers off my bedroom floor and made it habitable for him. I was due back on Monday night and was warned that he'd be staying then too, but that the Swede was off to Sweden on Monday morning so he'd be fending for himself. "Don't worry!" I trilled, "I'll mind him!"

My hoop. After a weekend spent studying and trying not to murder the nextdoor neighbour's child, I was in no mood to entertain. The Swede had made more than mention of our guest's not speaking any English - which translated to my ears as "he will be hard work, very hard work". Fuck him, I'd had enough hard work for one weekend. Sometimes I truly am an arsehole, and a selfish and lazy one at that. So I timed my arrival back to the flat with when I knew he'd be out with the German, just in time to watch Lost and then scuttle off to bed. The Leitrim Lady had the same plan and my brother tagged along for the craic, so by the time the German arrived home with our guest we three were lost in Lost and they were made to feel as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit.

Grunts and nods without tearing our eyes from the screen, an absentminded shuffle over on the couch so that he might sit and enjoy the spectacle with us, staccato bursts of conversation during ad breaks and then mumbled reassurance that we'll talk to him in approximately 50 minutes when the programme had finished. Which we did, to be fair; we gave him a plot synopsis so that he might enjoy our further discussion of the episode's events and their relevance to previous episodes. The German made him (and us) some tea and we chatted for a bit, which was when we copped that actually the guy had fluent English and was pretty fucking sound. He was wrecked though so once the German had left, he excused himself and headed off to bed.

"Shite" we mused, "he was nice. We should have made an effort." His name was Naoki but in my study-addled idiocy I got Nokia stuck in my head instead, I had already forgotten it by the time we guiltily returned to the telly and our tired grouches, which was when he arrived back in with his camera to ask if he could get a photo with the three of us. Mortified, we put a shape on ourselves and said cheese. He headed off to bed happy and we sat there feeling like the miserable cunts that we are.

Calling It A Day

I had planned on writing a lovely post about underwear this evening, inspired by the nice ladies who hang out over at Annie's. Instead I went for a walk by the sea with my Nana where we ate ice cream and talked shite, and then came home and started reading Bete de Jour's blog. It's very good. I'm curled up in bed now and the laptop screen has acquired the distressing brightness of headlights at night when you're too tired to be driving. My flatmates have just arrived home and are slamming the doors of the kitchen presses with such gusto that I need to curl up under the blankets immediately lest I be tempted to get up and batter their heads in for making such an awful fucking clatter.

It's been a good day though.

3 Haircuts, 1 Weekend

#1
Saturday afternoon in my bedroom, with the kitchen scissors. Not a raging success. It's more difficult than I imagined to cut your own hair.

#2
In the sitting room where the Leitrim Lady tried to repair the damage done by yours truly. A marginally more successful failure, but a much more stressful one (she being less snip-happy than myself). A smaller scissors is apparently key to the operation, as is a steady hand. And a comb, if you want to be fancy and have an even fringe.

#3
In my aunt's kitchen, after a host of concerned aunties have "admired" my Mary Quant look and asked me in front of my by now very embarrassed mother if I had, in fact, cut it myself. "It doesn't look that crooked til you look at your eyebrows" offers my sister, helpfully. Mam fixes it, I blame the entire mess on the Leitrim Lady, nobody buys it.

Love Is...

My spam filter relented this morning and delivered my Valentine's e-card from the Swede. It read:

Valentine's day isn't just about
hearts, cupid, red roses and little heart shaped boxes.
It's also about friendship and togetherness
and one time of the year
I can really
mush and gush and say
how much our friendship
means to me.
Happy Valentine's Day!

Sorry, I just vomited a little.

He tacked his own message on to the end - sentimental and heartfelt. Should you ever need someone to lean on, I will be here for you. He means it, and I love him for it. Last weekend marked my two year anniversary in the flat, the cosy little corner of Dublin 2 that I share with himself and the Leitrim Lady. I hadn't met either of them before I moved in, I was in a hurry to find somewhere to live as I had just started in my first ever grown-up full-time job and didn't want to ruin it with a 47 hour long commute every day. The landlady gave me her seal of approval as I had the double advantage of being the only person to view the room that day who had (a) Irish citizenship and (b) a vagina - two things she seemed to feel very strongly about. One phonecall to the Leitrim Lady later and I was in.

Unfortunately the Leitrim Lady was out when I actually moved in a week later, leaving the baffled but affable Swede to show me the ropes and tiptoe around me while I nested. By the time she came back from her week's holiday I was treating the place as if it were my own, which must have been disconcerting. If she was put out by it she never let on, and to this day she remains one of the most gracious and equinanimous characters I have ever met. Which helps, when you live with me.

I feel very fortunate to live with them both. They make me feel secure and looked out for. They tell me I look nice when I'm going out on dates. They let me leave Christmas decorations up all year round. They clean up after my occasional late night midweek parties and bollock me for the noise but love me again eventually. The laugh both with me and at me. They make this place home.

Sorry, I just vomited a little more.

Review: Lost

Episode III, Series IV - The Economist

Leitrim Lady: What the fuck was all that, hai?
Me: ?

[long and confused pause]

Me: It was good though, wasn't it?

In other news: The upstairs neighbours are having a party. A stilettos and hammers party, by the sounds of things. I hate them.

Reasons To Keep A Man In The House #1

Beans Means I'm Really Hungry And Haven't Bothered To Go Shopping. Again.

It's just taken me 25 minutes to open a tin of beans. And even then I managed to spill some. Where the fuck is the Swede when you need him?

Run Wild, Run Free

I hate Tuesday night telly. Come hell or high water, the Leitrim Lady makes it home in time for Prison Break (which is admittedly chock full of ridey tattooed men, but is so risible and convoluted plot-wise that it could star Adrien Brody and I wouldn't watch it*). How can something with so many "plot" "twists" be so fucking dull?

I watch Hollyoaks. I'm not hard to please.

Then it's followed by Desperate Horseshit, with that abomination Teri Hatcher doing a very convincing impression of someone I'd have to kick in the shins if I ever met her in real life. The only character in it that I felt any modicum of affection for (Lynette) got cancer.

So what to do instead? I decided I'd tire myself out so that I could retire early to bed and not feel that I was missing anything by... going for a run. Well, a jog. Jog #3 of my secret (not anymore) New Year's Resolution To Start Running Jogging. I think my curves are very attractive but it seems that many would beg to differ, so motivated by that and by FatMammyCat's making it sound so bloody easy, I decided I'd give it a go. Besides, I'd given my little bedroom telly to Crash Grandadicoot when he started failing a while back and my room is a complete fucking tip at the moment, so were I to retire there to, I dunno, read a book or something, I'd feel I had to make some effort to tidy it. Going for a jog just seemed easier. It would have been too, had I not the lung capacity of an asthmatic midget smoker. Runs #1 and #2 were miserable, snotty, cold affairs. Run #3 was, well, more of the same.

I'm back in my room now, burrowing into the mess with my laptop and my book (Michael Collins' The Keepers of Truth) and if I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth slowly for the next few hours I'm hoping that my face might return to some semblance of a normal colour by morning.

*Lie

Suzy Homewrecker

The Swede and I took down the Christmas decorations this evening. I wanted to leave the snowflakes on the windows - they hide the fact that I haven't washed them, um, ever. "But we have a squeedgie!" Okay... While he was at it he ran a finger over the telly, it came back coated in grime. He started dusting. "Hey, did you see that there is a big crack in the front of the telly here?" Yes. Yes I did. "Any idea how it happened?" Yes. Yes I do. And you do too, you shite. You know, because I shamefacedly told you exactly how it happened.

It was one of those hangovers that you think will never ever go away. I was in the flat on my own, talking to myself and rattling around like a dispossessed zombie, unable to eat, sleep or hold a conversation. There's only one cure for a hangover like that - Elf. All I needed to do to save my soul was to plug the DVD's scart lead into the telly. No big deal. Except that my coordination was fucked. I shuffled over to the telly, hunkered down, picked up the lead, scrabbled ineffectually at the back of the telly and then realised I couldn't quite reach the port. So I tilted it.

And dropped it flat on its face.

I nearly died. I was fragile as is, and this was just enough to tip me over the edge. Teary eyed, I heaved it back up off the floor, sat cross-legged in front of it and frantically stabbed at the buttons on the remote. No joy. Panic... til I realised that the main switch on the front needed pressing. You've never seen someone more relieved to see Midsomer Murders.

"You know I dropped it. I told you that. When I had a hangover. I tried to tilt it and..." (trails off in embarrassment). He laughed. "I was just checking! It's times like these I'm glad I'm a man." "Why?" I asked, "because you wouldn't have started crying?"

"No. Because I wouldn't have tilted the fucking television".

Me And My Big Mouth

I had Christmas dinner with the flatmates last night, in the Millstone on Dame St. Lovely place, nice food, delicious French waiter. I also had a bottle of wine with dinner and yet again let something slip that I really shouldn't have.

The Leitrim Lady was warning the Swede that there'd be trouble if he hadn't gotten us another Dublin Fire Brigade calendar this year, as she has a bit of a thing for firemen. "Nah, firemen don't really do it for me" I prattled, rolling like a steam train into the rest of the sentence while my inner voice screamed for me to shut the fuck up, as she knows from past experience what to expect. "There is one profession I've always had a thing for, but it's a bit weird..." As soon as I had that much said, I knew I'd regret it. I declined to say any more so they started guessing, loudly, waiting to see me turn pink. They guessed it and I'm not sure whose face was more of a picture, the Leitrim Lady's or mine.

They know too much.

Diplomatic Incident Narrowly Avoided

Do NOT Want

"I got her that thing I was telling you about" said the Swede in a stage whisper, nodding emphatically in my direction. "I got it in a different colour though". He left the room and the Leitrim Lady turned to me with an uncomfortable, apologetic look. "Your Christmas present... I really hope he hasn't. I told him not to. Fuck..."

The three of us were in the sitting room later when I got a text on my phone, from the Leitrim Lady (all of 3 feet away).

So the good news is he didn't buy you what he was originally thinking of, in fact he got you a nice present. His original thought was an inflatable man and when he told me he got what he was looking for only in a different colour I thought it was a black inflatable doll...

He's a lucky man to have such a sage advisor. Last year we had a Christmas dinner with a few friends and he insisted that I open my present first. I tore back the paper to reveal a gift box from La Senza and everybody held their breath while I lifted the lid (me thinking if this is a lace teddy and suspenders, this cunt is moving out) only to reveal a cuddly pink hot water bottle that say Huggable across the front.

Reminding me of my single status via a large wind-filled man effigy would not have gone down well. He skates on thin ice, does the Swede.

A Quiet Sunday Night In

I was sitting in last night watching Welcome to the Jungle with my flatmate (I know, Red, Beowulf was bad, but this was worse... indulge me) when an ad came on for the Durex Ring. "Oh!" exclaims the Swede "I wonder what you do with it?" I looked at him, aghast. If a 32 year old Swedish man doesn't know what to do with a vibrating cock ring, then who does? Not knowing if he was taking the piss out of me or not, I kept quiet. Until he piped up again.

"Would you like one for Christmas?"