Saturday Night Factor

Nothing major going on, but what a weekend! I very efficiently got all my drinking and debauchery out of the way on Friday night, leaving me free to enjoy myself for the rest of the weekend. Although I was still puking on Saturday morning, and regretting my new blue earring which had gone the way of some white wine vomit on Friday night and gotten flushed down the toilet.

Anyway, happily the rest of the weekend went splendidly. There was some cruising around looking for trouble, a trip to McDonalds, an X-Factor night, some Wii-tennis, Wii Boxing and Mario Kart, half a pack of jellies, some recycling, and a pizza dinner extravaganza with my old buddy old pal L.

Also then I got my hair cut and (see above EFFICIENCY) was able to discuss X-Factor at great length with my hairdresser who then informed me that he had had to ’go toilet (wee wees) 17 times during X-Factor ‘ and that he therefore suspected he may have damaged some of his internal organs through continued and repeated excessive drinking. Also he actually said ‘wee wees’ which was nice. So I told him he was probably fine, although I was inclined to agree that it sounded like he wasn’t in such good shape.

All set for the week now. Tomorrow night will hopefully see me at my 2^nd ever pilates class. Hopefully better than last week where I squealed and cried for the full hour and then spent two days being so sore I had to pull myself out of chairs by grabbing onto passing motorbikes. Also getting out of bed was tricky. Or rather getting up off the floor afterwards. Also, sneezing and laughing were excruciating. And eating wasn’t much fun.

But it will all be worth it; I’m gonna have the most amazing abs by Christmas. I shall have to cut the middle out of all my party dresses. Or perhaps I can find a dress online with a hole for your belly. Surely there’s a place in the world that caters to the hotter, more ripped lady (me).

Awesomeness

Holiday day one:

Leapt out of bed and ran to bathroom to inspect fake tan, left to ‘take’ overnight. Disrobed infront of mirror. Cried for five minutes. Applied nail varnish remover to entire body. Washed off nail varnish remover. Opened freezer door. Grabbed suitcase and went to airport without closing freezer. Flew to Morocco. Felt threatened by men.

Holiday day two:

Wanted to marry man in souk. Man in souk already married. Went to Marrakech. Man in street offered free massage if I come back later. Marrakech hotel no record of our booking. Went to other hotel. Wanted to marry man in other hotel. Man in other hotel not so friendly. Slept well.

Day three:

Changed hotel. Two dreambabes working in new hotel. Wanted to marry. Met English lady at bus stop. Seemed to be masquerading as a French but saw through her. Ditched us to protect identity. Fucking English. Saw camels.

Day four:

Don’t remember. Suspect foiled plans.

Day five:

Watched lady cooking tajine. Ate tajine. Had naked hamaam and naked full body massage. Added three (THREE!) ladies in hamaam to List of People Who Have Touched My Funbags. Had bad-tasting tea with Moroccan boys who wanted to be added to the List. Ditched Moroccan boys.

Day six:

Fucking Moroccan tea gave me the trots. Went to Essaouira. Smelled of fish (Essaouira, not me).

Day seven:

Walked around Essaouira. Saw cats. Took photos of cats, like some kind of mental deficient. Met boys who took us to music festival and then bar with live local music. Wanted to marry Essaouira.

Day eight:

Took deathbus back to Agadir. Escaped with life, suitcase. Met nice elderlies. Got dumped middle of nowhere by deathbus. Flagged down taxi and demanded to be taken to nearest McDonalds. Had awesome cheeseburger. Got taxi back to airport, plane to Dublin. Had small cry. Feel great.

Two Words I Always Think After You're Gone

To anyone who enjoyed (500) days of Summer, I apologise for my very judgmental and kind of horrible last post. It didn't occur to me until today that the people who made this film used the music they did not for the sake of image, but because they thought it was the best music for their story, or because they really liked it. Probably because I read this. But still. I'm sorry.

To anyone in the TCD fencing club meeting this evening at 9, I apologise for my boobs. It didn't occur to me that someone would leave that door open.

And Another Thing!

A few gripes this evening. Firstly, Google Chrome I hope you're happy. You were supposed to be the future. We believed in you. You were supposed to be the browser for my generation. The generation that accepts. The generation that loves. The generation that was sent to save your stupid planet. We are stars in a black sky. We are a link to a better page. And you were our browser.

I for one believe in Google. I believe in information. I believed. I beloogled. I defended you when old people said things like 'My Google's not working' . Now I don't know what to believe.

And as for you, Tesco, I'd like to know exactly what you think is so "Mexican" about the style of this beanburger. Honestly. Are you trying to tell me there's kidney beans in it? Is that what you mean? Kidney beans and sweetcorn? Just say it. Kidney beans and sweetcorn. It sounds delicious. And much easier to swallow than your TOXIC LIES!

But here is my real problem this evening: I would like to know exactly who the film (500) days of summer was supposed to be aimed at? This film made me sad for men and women. And the soundtrack was patronizing, if that's possible. I bumped into il exo on the way to the cinema and he recommended it and I figured I owed him some credit due to my complete inability to appropriately express my emotions in a non-hysterical way over the past few weeks, so I toddled off expecting this film to be shite but enjoyable (cos that's the kind of thing he's into). Enjoyable shite. Instead, while ruining my dinner on chocolate raisins I discovered that this film annoyingly thought it was much better than it was. And for that reason, it was worse than it needed to be. If only they'd asked my opinion beforehand, I thought. The problems are so easy to solve. That girl needs less quirks and more personality. And courage, a heart and a brain. And that music needs to be something completely else. Regina Spektor and Feist are fine but in this case an unbelievably lazy choice. The quickest way to get me to like your movie is to let me go away curious about your music. Don't worry if it's obscure. If it's good I'll find out what it is. I'm online. I'm the generation that was sent to save your movie.

Anyway, apart from that today was pretty good. I had the greasiest chicken sandwich ever for lunch it was so awesome I nearly died, and then when I was leaving work I had a kind of amazing experience in a lift with an older gentleman.

I mean there I was thinking about how my coat smells like a wet turd and the lift opens and he laughs and says Oh! and gestures to inside the lift and says Come on in!

And I did! Just like that! As if it was his personal enchanted kingdom! I felt like Alice in Wonderlift. Except that sounds like a type of bra.

Anyway, down we went to the ground and had the most animated conversation ever about how he hadn't brought a coat (he exclaimed, wide eyed), and until he saw me standing there in my coat (he pointed at it as if it was a magic shield), he'd forgotten that of course it was raining! Have you far to go, I asked? Not at all, he cried in disbelief! But you do forget of course when you're sitting at your desk all day. You forget there's... (he gestured to indicate the outside world, chuckling to himself). Weather? Yes! Although we haven't had much weather now for the past few weeks. It's been a good month since we've had any weather at all.

You're awesome, I thought, as we left the lift and headed out the door, him seeming to flap along hurriedly. Which is fair enough, he was after all Late! For a very important date! At which point he noted that after all that it wasn't even raining! And I looked and it was true. Although it was still grey and horrible, technically it wasn't raining. It's Summer! he exclaimed as he strode off down the damp and miserable street. And it was.

Beep Beep

My driving instructor wants to put a baby in me. Call me conceited now, but I've been around the block a few times (literally in this case as I'm only allowed drive in a circle around a particular area of Crumlin), and these foreign types stick to me like wax to a bathroom floor.

I'm more than a tad horrible when I'm driving, and nothing like my usual dry and happy self. Indeed I'm quite the sight hunched over the steering wheel, squinting and cursing and squealing with sweat gathering between my breasts and seeping right through my t-shirt in the form of a stain with a picture of a car in it.

But he loves me. Unfortunately.

At first I thought he was just kind of friendly and annoying and I was happy to treat him with unthreatened indifference. He was relatively harmless and only annoying because he had that heinous habit of telling me things about my personality that were not only presumptuous and kind of intrusive but also quite condescending.

'You're so stubborn', he said, 'You're so hard to please'. Ridiculous. Anyone who knows me knows that I am a complete pushover, and that I'm unbelievably easy to please. The other day in work for example I actually squealed with real delight when my yellow budget document wallets came in from the stationery place. And then after a couple of lessons where he repeatedly told me I was a difficult woman, he went and said 'Your boyfriend must have a really hard time with you', and then after a long pause he asked me if I had a boyfriend. And I sadly thought of all the boyfriends I don't have. Each and every one of the men that is not my boyfriend. And then I couldn't lie. I said No, I don't have a boyfriend.

I should have lied. But of course at the time I didn't know it wasn't just an innocent follow-up question to his original statement about how I am unsuitable for intimate personal relationships due to my having a shit personality.

In my fourth lesson this past weekend just gone here now I told him I wouldn't be around next week because I was going away. Where are you going? he asked. London , I said. You're leaving me, he said. Are you going with a guy? (He was joking of course) Are you going for a date? You have another guy? (Chuckling to himself). No I said. No I'm not. There was another long silence. And then he said Sorry, I'm just flirting. I like to flirt. It doesn't mean anything. He shrugged his skinny shoulders and went pack to peering at his i-phone and thinking about spraying me with his baby drops.

Whatever. It's been putting something interesting with odd-smelling breath in my Saturdays. Despite the choco-filledness of my Saturdays of late. It takes me most of a Saturday just to perform my weekly bath. Also last Saturday I took the Luas out to a buddy's house for a party. A party!

I won't tell you about the party but I will mention that I love the red luas because no matter how much you think it's grand you still know you're going to probably be killed by a junkie or robbed by a pony or ploughed into the side of a bus or something. When I first moved to this area I didn't get the luas for ages because my ex-flatmate told me this horrific story about seeing a guy carrying a plastic bag full of his own blood pumping form a tube in his neck while expertly dodging a guy brandishing a syringe. Or something like that. But I started getting it home at the weekend because it's mostly boggers then and they're harmless enough. And it was grand this week except there was a guy standing beside me in the standing up part and he had some light stubble - maybe a couple of days', and in his stubble from lip to ear there was a perfect string of cheese.

All Fun and Games

I'll have you know I very nearly lost an eye today.

There I was, minding my own business and walking to work, striding along swinging my handbag thinking 'I'm soooooooo great; I'm outRAGEousxxx'.

Yes, it's true. I thought I was awesome before I almost lost an eye.

Then out of nowhere, a gust of wind flang a bunch of crap off the dirty ground and into my eyeball. Well I never, I thought and opened my eyes really wide in order to let the dirty shit fall out naturally like.

Unfortunately, opening my eyes really wide was the stupid way of getting anything out of my eye, as it merely forced one of the PIECES OF DIRT to become lodged under my eyelid at the back of my eye, causing my entire eye to close and become red and streamy and excruciating. And also blinded.

By ten, despite numerous eye washings, I had still not really done any work because of the pain and blindness, so I decided to leg it out of the office for some professional assistance. The first opticians told me the optician wasn't there. And also that even when he did arrive he wouldn't be able to do anything for me. I looked at my watch, even though I knew what time it was, and I said, real annoyed like 'I'm sposed to be in a meeting'. The second optician put my chin on the little chinrest and my forehead on the little forehead thing, and she said 'I'm going to peel back your eyelid now', and I made a sound like a dog giving birth to a chair, and lo and behold, my eyeball had given birth to a baby grain of streetcrap. As beautiful as the day it was eroded from a larger piece of dirt. I swear I have never in all my life of finding need and relief in turn and in equal measure, felt so relieved as I did when she took the thing out of my eye. I was a new man until around lunchtime. At which point I once again became FULL OF NEEDS.

ps. I went to yoga and it was a huge disappointment. It always is.

Lunch Fail

I was hurrying through Dunne’s children section this afternoon (shopping for bras it’s the quickest way out from the foodhall) when I heard an American woman, who was holding up a miniature shirt and beige tank-top combo (a 1960s granddad outfit for the 5 year old who doesn’t understand these kids today) say to another with a sad shake of her head “There’s only so much you can do to dress up a boy”.

It’s true! And you know what else? They all look the same!

Other things that happened today included the tuna-ing. I brought a tuna salad into work with me and in the extreme fuzziness I’ve been experiencing since Monday, I neglected to wrap it in a plastic bag or a nappy or anything so by the time I got to work there had been some leakage into my lunch bag and through my lunchbag into my handbag, in such a way that everything all day, especially around my desk smelled strongly of tuna. In fact the smell of tuna was so pervasive, and so much stronger than the actual smell inside my bag (I stuck my head right into its cavernous hugeness a few times just to check it out), that I began to think it was coming from somewhere else, ie possibly the shoes that I had brought to work this morning.

It was only when I had taken off my shoes at my desk one by one, and sniffed each of them with great interest (they smelled of feet), that I realised that the glass-walled meeting room beside me was full of people, and that my process of drawer-sniffing, wearing my bag on my head, and smelling the insides of my shoes was not going unobserved. So I died of embarrassment. And not even because I smelled of fish.

The moral of the story is, if you smell fish, just say “Oh gross, you smell of fish” to everyone you meet and they’ll just think it’s them. But make sure there's no tuna on your glasses. Dead giveaway.