Flirty Something

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2007-06-30T08:25:00.000Z

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Diva at Divo

2007-06-29T07:59:00.000Z

How can I explain last night? Picture four single women, of a certain age, sharing a jumbo packet of Maynard Wine Gums in the front row of an Il Divo concert and you get the idea. My sister is Il Divo’s biggest fan. She attends all their concerts and the CDs are on constant auto repeat in the house and car. As she has exhausted everyone else to drag along, including my parents, last night was my turn.

The evening began with an instrumental melody of the greatest hits by the orchestra. The conductor was rather flamboyant. His hair appeared to start half way back his head and finished somewhere just below his shoulders. Think of a masculine negative of Tina Turner in Mad Max. He was also very tall, angular and curiously awkward for someone who presumably has perfect pitch and rhythm. He moved like the novelty pencil sharpeners I had as a child, (animal held together by string on a plastic cylinder, when you pressed the base it caused the legs to collapse or head to droop). The conductor looked like someone was controlling him in a similar fashion from beneath the stage as he bounced around, rising and falling as he conducted. Thankfully, no one in the orchestra seemed to pay him any attention.

The ‘Il Divo’ boys then arrived on stage. For those of you not in the know the line up is as follows; David (tenor), Carlos (baritone), Urs (tenor), Sebastian (pop singer), which does create a Sesame Street vibe of, ‘one of these things is not like the others’. Unsurprisingly they are all extremely cute and the performances were very good. In fact the only cringe part was the verbal interaction with the audience. When they spoke you wanted to grab some Carr’s water crackers and a good glass of Port. Curiously, Urs from Switzerland was the least cheesy.

During the encore I could hear a low rumble behind me. I assumed it was the sound system, but then realised it was an avalanche of pre HRT women speed walking towards the stage. Now if this were a standard boy band with an audience of teenagers you could understand, but there is something very disturbing about granny hanging off the leg of one of the Il Divo singers.

So, if you are single and of a certain age getting serenaded with Italian and French love songs is a pretty good way to spend an evening. Gorgonzola supplied free of charge.

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What a Banker !

2007-06-26T19:30:00.000Z

Well just in case being a year older wasn’t bad enough, the bank also decided to send me my credit card statement yesterday. A testament to my ‘it’s a target not a limit’ attitude to plastic.

Consequently most of today was spent doing some serious financial management. The morning consisted of riffling through pockets, mainly my sisters, for random notes and change. In the afternoon I visited various financial establishments trying to agree the most mutually beneficial way of solving my current fiscal difficulties. Sadly I don’t have Bev Flynn’s ability to pay half my debts while mustering up 1.5m overnight. (I’m not a political blogger so read JC’s excellent post on the topic)

As I waited in line at the first banking establishment, I was struck by the various pieces of marketing literature – not physically. Although I could have been, as all the people featured were so bloody active; some were jumping, others were sky diving and a few were even white water rafting. Curiously it was similar to all those women in tampon ads, who are also always running all over the fucking place. What am I meant to believe, that all these hyper active people will cause me to forget the agonizing PMT or extortionate bank charges? Is there some marketing rule - the crapper the product the more active the people?

My mood was not improved when I eventually reached the counter and was greeted by a 7 year old. At least I think that was his age, he may have been younger. The only money he should be managing is in a pink porcelain pig with a slot at the top.

Things were to improve in bank number 2, which had similarly active people adorning all the walls. However this time the bank clerk was a bit older and very cute and I mean very cute. He was even funny. What are the chances of that? A cute funny bloke working in a bank! I stood there for an extra long time, counting my coppers into the bags, one cent at a time, while engaging in witty banter. The whole banking experience was really starting to look up. After I had dragged out the process transferring my holy communion money to my confirmation account and vice versa, it was finally time to leave.

Feeling very positive and inspired I even managed to pick up the courage to say;

“It was really nice to meet you, I never thought banking could be so much fun,” in my most flirtatious manner.

Naturally I was hoping it might lead to a, ‘let’s do it again’ comment from him. Instead I got;

“My pleasure, I don’t get to meet many attractive older women in this branch. Generally it’s all just blokes.”

Thank God for bullet proof glass, it’s the only thing that saved him from a very active beating.

Flirty Birthday

2007-06-25T07:58:00.001Z

Birthdays are curious things. When I was little they were the most exciting day of the year, after Christmas, and not just my own. Other birthdays were just as exciting. On Dad’s big day, I would run into his bedroom, around 6am, loudly singing happy birthday. He would wake, dazed and confused before checking with my mother if it was his birthday. After some consideration she would advise him it was and under no circumstances to tell me his age. I found his reaction very curious. How could you not be excited about your birthday? Every year I would anxiously count down the 365 days until I could tell people my NEW age. Even better on your birthday you got presents, fairy cakes and rice crispy buns to celebrate. Was there any better way to spend a day!

Of course as you get older the novelty starts to wear off. My 21st was abysmal. Almost everyone canceled on the day of the party. I thought this was a clever surprise tactic, so was doubly disappointed when it was just me and my boyfriend. (I didn’t even really like him, but who is going to break-up just before their birthday!)

My 30th was infinitely better. All my friends were there. I was super slim as I hadn’t been able to eat properly prior to the big day, due to removal of my molar teeth, plus I was dating a minor European royal. Since then things have gone downhill slightly. The European royal is back in Europe. Most of my friends are busy at weddings, hens, holidays or similar events. (I’m assuming this is not deliberate). And my weight is a subject best not discussed. All I have to look forward to is the next big celebration - 40 !

Oh well it could be worse. I could be a year older, single, unemployed and living with my sister.................

.

Bad Hair Night

2007-06-24T10:40:00.000Z

Another scoreless weekend. It’s becoming a worrying trend. Particularly disturbing as I was wearing my ultimate ‘Shoulder Shoes’. Even if they didn't score me a man at least they raised me above the rivers that flowed down every street. My hair didn’t fair as well as my feet.

At the start of the night my freshly straightened locks were so dry and straw like that I was in mortal danger of getting mowed down by a wayward combine harvester. A few hours later, due to the dampness, it had adopted a delightful ‘subjected to high voltage’ frizzy look. Which may explain why my man hunting was in vain. Damn rain.

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Sore Sight for Eyes

2007-06-22T07:51:00.000Z

A while ago there was much talk about women wearing their jim-jams during the day. I assume it was a slow news week. After all whose business is it when people choose to wear them? Last night I found out why it might be an issue.

As some of you maybe aware I car share with my sister, she pays all the expenses and I rally drive around while she is at work. Last night I went to pick her up in the usual fashion. Traffic was slow due to the highly irregular incidence of rain which seems to bring all cars to a stand still with shock. Understandable, as it’s not like we normally get much rain in Ireland. My sister needed to drive off somewhere else urgently and didn’t have time to sit in traffic while dropping me home, so I had to walk. No big deal I hear you think. ( I am the voice inside your head )

Generally it wouldn’t have been a problem except for the following. As the yard arm had passed 6pm I was in my evening wear, which is not as glamorous as it first sounds. Evening wear consists of shrunk ¾ length fleece jim-jam bottoms, perfectly revealing my un-waxed Wookiee legs, a sweatshirt nicked from an ex-boyfriend, size XXL, which was decorated with remnants of food and toothpaste from a week’s wear, sports socks that had so many holes you could legitimately refer to them as fishnets, assuming fishnets were made out of white towelling material and my personal favourite, fake Fendi loafers. The knowledgeable scammers among you will know that the soles of fake shoes are generally made from a type of paper mache, which is fine indoors, but not so great during torrential rain.

So to those of you who saw a sad and bedraggled girl shuffling her way along the Dundrum Road, with paper on the soles of her shoes - I apologise. It was a sore sight for eyes. But at least now I understand why jim-jams and associated wear should be kept for the bedroom.

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Vanishing Man

2007-06-21T08:01:00.001Z

A body was found in the fish freezer of a fast food restaurant in Galway last week (story ). Naturally this has created a lot of questions among the media and bloggers as to what happened. However, for me, it has provided the potential answer to a problem that has bothered me for some time.

Since the start of this year there has been a spate of incidents suffered by myself and friends. We meet a guy, things go well, we may even go on a few dates, and then like a willow-the-wisp they vanish. No reason or explanation is provided. You may text and call but your efforts will yield no response. Apparently we were involved with the Keyser Soze’s of the dating world.

The initial reaction is to assume that you did or said something wrong, then the more insidious questions about your looks and personality start to surface, before finally the more rational ‘all men are bastards’ solution. But now I have a new explanation, maybe just maybe, all those guys are stuck in a freezer somewhere sleeping with the fish fingers.

(with special recognition to Little Sapling for her hilarious fish jokes on this subject - very wrong, but very funny)

Snowball's Chance in.......

2007-06-19T16:35:00.000Z

I ended up in my dad’s old office last week for the first time in almost 20 years. Although the building has changed dramatically the office is still the same. When I was young I would visit every day after school as I had an extremely important job. Dad would give me 15p to purchase his daily cigar from the shop across the road, but as it only cost 14p the change was mine to spend.

Now I realise that 1p may not sound like much, but when you are only 7 years old and you can purchase 2 sweets for a penny it’s not bad. Everyday I would agonise between cola bottles, black jacks, fruit salads and chocolate mice, although generally cola bottles won out.

Sometimes on a Friday, generally at the end of the month, I would be given 20p. Well this was the equivalent of winning a 6 week rollover in 'EuroMillions', but without the kidnap risk. The whole sweet counter could be mine - almost! Decisiveness has never been my forte and I think it may stem from those agonizing choices as a child. Mainly I would opt for something that was tasty, but never lasted very long like a 'Snowball'. (for the uninitiated a Snowball is a poor girls’ Walnut Whip, think Jordan vs Erin O’Connor, cheap but still tasty).

The alternative was some Candy Pop Corn and penny sweets or I could get maximum ROI by buying a ‘Big Time Bar’? (rock hard caramel covered in chocolate with a bright yellow wrapper, which took around a week to eat). The challenge of buying a ‘Big Time Bar’ is that my dad would offer to save my teeth by taking a massive bite. I doubted the veracity of this altruistic action.

Although I struggle to remember what happened last weekend I can vividly remember my afternoon routine; the smell of cigar smoke, swinging around on the office chair while eating my sweets, telling Dad about playing Red Rover and who was my very best friend that day. In the current climate, due to a variety of health and safety concerns most of this activity wouldn't be possible.

But at least the important memories remain and some of my back molars will forever hold the imprint of those bloody 'Big Time' bars. Maybe Dad did know what he was doing after all.

Gerbil Talk

2007-06-17T21:07:00.000Z

Well it has been a good few weeks since my parents tried to match-make me at the funeral and this weekend was my first time home since. Each day I circled the phone and debated calling ‘Mac’ (the guy from the removal). I’d pick up the handset only to drop it again, the process was repeated a number of times, a bit like telephone Hokey-Cokey.

Eventually, I came up with an excuse to call so tenuous that Anne Robinson would have been forced to kick me off her show - The Weakest Link. Mac works in a Vet practice and I was going to ask him about getting a Gerbil for my nephew. Did I mention the excuse was lame?

Luckily or not I managed to get one of his co-workers as Mac was busy. Before I could offer to call back the guy started chatting away to me, asking what I’d been up to and how was life. Considering I had no idea who he was, his familiarity was a bit unusual. Potentially, I’ve been in Dublin too long and have forgotten how friendly people are down the country. The real reason for his banter was revealed when he said:

“I think he’s free now Susan, I’ll pass you over” in the background I could hear him say, “Hey, lover boy, it’s Susan for you”.

So, there I was - not Susan - ringing a bloke who obviously already had a girlfriend and was expecting to speak with her. Instead he would be getting questions about a Gerbil from a girl he met at a funeral. You’ll never read that in a Danielle fucking Steele book.

Five minutes I stayed on the phone, although it could easily have been years, so excruciating slowly did time past. My eyes were watering with humiliation as past dating disasters flashed through my mind, all while I tried to focus and rationally discuss Gerbil feed and life expectancy.

To all my dear friends who said, 'call him, what's the worst that could happen?'. Well now you have your answer. The rest of the weekend was spent Googling nunneries.

Best Thing Since.......

2007-06-14T19:02:00.000Z

My chocolate habit is starting to impact, as I’m struggling to get into my denims - any more than 4 bunny hops to wriggle-in is a warning. On the plus side, which I increasingly am, the vocabulary of the local Indian shop assistant has been extended from Please and Thank-you to Please, Thank-you and Bounty Bar.

Normally I am militant about fat moaners and unsympathetically advise people to either shut their cake hole or eat less and exercise more - South Beach Diet my arse. Instead I am implementing the West of Ireland Diet. I have come down to dial up land for a few days to de-tox. The great thing about home is that I know exactly what food will be in the house and there is no opportunity for late night sweet shopping or delivery. (Unless Dominos increase their delivery range by 100 miles, which even for a customer of my loyalty is unlikely).

My mother operates a very strict low fat policy: the fridge will have one pack of rashers (rindless) two tomatoes, half a block of low fat cheese and a variety of foul ‘I can’t believe someone thinks this tastes like butter’ spreads. The only thing close to bad food is in the old red biscuit tin - brown bread, un-sliced. (I was in my twenties before I could say with any degree of authority that an item was the best thing since sliced bread. Prior to this I suffered from a lack of reference point). Even the dreaded carb intake at home is limited, although unintentionally, by the bread knife.

My parents received the knife as a wedding gift over 40 years ago and it hasn’t been sharpened since. A sheet of A4 paper would be considered a lethal weapon in comparison. Using a combination of force and friction you try to slice the bread, this has one of two results; a selection of breadcrumbs that make nanobots appear large and cumbersome or a slice the size of aeroplane wheel wedges. Either way you are unlikely to create a gourmet sandwich and therefore carb intake is restricted - genius.

I plan to launch this Blunt Knife Diet and follow-up One Prong Fork Diet with a book, web site and local clubs. Like most of the followers, it’s going to be huge. I can feel it in my water retention.

(comments are limited due to lack of sugar rush for the next few days)

Summer of Love

2007-06-12T07:28:00.000Z

This will be the ‘Summer of Love’ and I am focused on finding some while the weather is good. Masses of people were out drinking at the weekend. God bless exam-time weather. Almost everyone looked like they were victims of sunburn stencils with triangles and squares of red and white flesh located on various parts of their anatomy.

Despite the burnt flesh, things started well on Saturday night when I spotted a hottie in the bar. Sadly he took no notice of me. I debated doing naked star-jumps in front of him, to attract his attention, but figured this may not have the desired effect. Instead I decided to visit the Odessa Club, where I have one of the most under utilised memberships in Dublin. Not sure what has happened since the smoking area shut upstairs, but the bar now looks like a relative’s wedding. A lot of dodgy older blokes dancing around, wearing their wealth around the middle. Never mind nomination for membership, what about some BMI testing?

Needless to say we had to move on and headed to the last bastion of the desperate - Leggs. The poor rickshaw guy had to be paid danger money to transport our wine weighed frames. Leggs has the worst smoking area in Dublin; cement floor, stone clad walls and a tin roof. Where else in Ireland would you spend $50 to drink wine in a barn. Although, an appropriate setting considering the meat trading that begins once the music stops. Heads start revolving a full 360 degrees as people try to identify who is available and half decent. I ended up as wing girl to Ms B, however I was in no mood for polite chat. (due to 6 hours standing in my FMS). So I set my guy straight very early on that I had zero interest and was just talking to him until the others closed the deal.

Short of saying I was the Irish representative at the shag Olympics his interest couldn’t have been more sparked. Hence the next 30 minutes were spent fending him off and repeatedly explaining the requirements for hell to experience a sharp climate drop and porcines to become aerodynamic before anything would happen. On the plus side I have now learnt a new chat up routine, declare a complete and total lack of interest and then wait for the chase. Well it can’t be any worse than naked star jumps.

Why is a guys interest always inversely proportionate to your own ?

Best Wine in the World

2007-06-11T07:19:00.000Z

Some argue for the maturity and depth of an old world wine, while others lobby for the attention and conditions that favour the new. The only thing that everyone agrees on is that Chardonnay is passe, relegated to the lower levels of consumption, an introduction wine for the uninitiated.

In the same way I started drinking alcohol via bottles of Ritz and Satzenbrau, so Chardonnay has become the training wheels of the wine world – the Blue Nun of grapes. It’s a real shame as there are some great Chardonnays, assuming you can see beyond the ABC* mantra that is shrieked across bars and restaurants all over Dublin. As if the poor English inhibited staff don’t have enough difficulty without acronyms added to the orders. ( Anything But Chardonnay )

But back to my perfect wine. I was fortunate to meet my favourite raconteur ‘The Mavin’ on Friday. He proposed again - third time this year! ( we occasionally dress up like Brown Thomas refugees and go into Boodles to select engagement rings, so that we can avail of their fabulous Cocktail bar). What else are you going to do on an unemployed Friday afternoon? A few Kir Royals later and we decided to continue our drinking in the best beer garden in Dublin. The name of which I’m not going to reveal as it’s already far too busy. (Unless you’re male, single and funny)

Settling down, in the glorious sunshine at 3pm in the afternoon, knowing that everyone else was at work (NB), pouring from a perfectly chilled bottle, I had the best glass of white wine - ever. Technically, I had around 6 glasses of the ever increasing best white wine. Little to do with the brand or grape, instead it was all about the company and context. The old and new world haven’t figured out a way to bottle that yet.

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Flat Hunting Hell

2007-06-07T08:36:00.000Z

On the sad scale living with your sister is pretty high, not as bad as with your parents, but still pretty high. But as I am discovering it is infinitely lower than flat sharing in your mid-thirties. Due to a combination of bad luck, limited funds and not being a great person to live with, I have never had much success with getting decent accommodation in Ireland. Hence I hate flat hunting.

My first experience was getting the bus to Dublin as a country green 17 year old. Stuck beside some old farmer who had an aversion to water long before Cryptosporidium became an issue. Across the way a mother would be feeding her child sandwiches from tin foil washed down with Fanta. I would count the towns until somewhere, generally pass Mullingar, the kid would upchuck the lot. The rest of the journey would be spent between the dueling aromas of vomit and B.O.

Sometime past mid-day, shortly after the ‘Evening Herald’ went on sale, the bus would arrive at O’Connell bridge. I’d race to get my copy of the paper and then sit down in one of the many fast food joints to plan my flat hunting day; identifying possible places to view and room shares to ring - along with 100,000 other teenagers. Early afternoon I would arrive up to some hideous bed-sit in Ranelagh to discover 20 people already queuing, generally in the rain. Out of desperation or lack of anything better to do sometimes I would que as well. Although the first person in line would always take the flat, irrespective of condition.

A mad rush for the pay phones would then ensue. The ones in shopping centers and pubs were warmer but more expensive. So provided it wasn’t too wet you’d wait for the pay boxes, gripping your Herald in one hand and notebook in the other. Despite warnings not to ring until after 7pm, around 4pm you’d start calling. Nurses just off shift and trying to sleep would scream down the phone at you, which was preferable to the endless engaged tone from everyone else. If lucky you might get to visit a flat-share off some obscure road in Rathmines. I knew every urine soaked tree on Leinster Road, trudging in the rain with my ‘Blue Book’ and asking other lost flat hunters where Kennilworth Square might be.

Appearing at the door, late, slightly sodden and trying to appear friendly but not overly keen, knowing you look like the girl at parties who tries to hard. Desperately hoping they like you enough to offer you a bed immediately and put an end to the horror of flat hunting. After weeks of searching I would end up in some hideous flat with some freak and their snake collection. Vowing next year it would be different, it never was.

In my twenties things improved slightly with mobile phones and kind friends (generally the ones trying to move me out) driving me around the various locations. But this was still basic compared to current system; visit Daft, select by location and room type, view photos and maybe even visit a few – piece of piss. I have the following tempting selection:

Bijou flat, pictured above, only 600 per month. (pic via Bloggorah/)
or
Apartment share with 42yr old man and his WWF collection, ‘I’m looking for a friend and not just a flat-mate’
Or
Double-bed to let, 800 per month, week days only.
Or
Studio apartment to share with one double bed - only 970 (don’t even want to think about how that works)
Or
Lots of rooms with ‘Owner Occupiers’, which means they will stalk every cup you put down without a coaster.
Or
‘Flat to let – 550 each for 3 people, 550 each for 2 people’ ( not sure how the maths works on that one )
Or
‘Close to Luas and excellent view of Dundrum Shopping Center’ (now I like retail as much as the next girl but.....)

Time to realise that maybe I need to buy my own place.

PS - any theories on buy now or wait much appreciated.

Boyfriend Alternatives

2007-06-06T07:29:00.000Z

As we know I haven't had a great run of luck with the guys recently, so I have decided to apply some lateral thinking to the man issue.

My first option is a Virtual Boyfriend.

“Each of the 8 virtual characters has their own personality, likes and dislikes. You can choose a variety of gifts or an array of compliments to bestow upon them.”

“Best of all, if you don’t like your date, you can bin them and date another within seconds.”

Sadly all the Virtual Boyfriends are currently sold out. What does that tell us?

The problem with the Virtual Boyfriend is that he’s a bit scientific. You can’t snuggle up to him at night. Enter the 'Boyfriend Pillow' .

Bless the Japanese does their creativity never end. A practical yet comforting solution for sleeping alone, with the added bonus of no dead arm.

But both of these solutions have limitations so I have decided to invent my own boyfriend alternative. I’m going to knit myself a man.

Knitted Man

After numerous Google attempts I still haven’t found a pattern. So I will have to improvise. No major difference to real life then. My preference is for Irish men so I'll use Aran wool. However as I am not very skilled at knitting it will be a standard knit one, purl one pattern, which creates a ribbed effect – for my pleasure !

But what use is a big stuffed lump of a man I hear you ask?

So, to make my ‘Knitted Man’ a bit more interactive I will use video i-pods for the eyes, that way I always have a reason to gaze deeply into them, as let’s face it those screens are pretty small. I could potentially then market him as ‘i-man’, which sounds a lot more impressive.

In the heart / chest area I will stuff him with one of those wheat pillows that you can microwave and then stay warm for ages – super comforting. Am sure with a bit more thought I could think of lots of other appendages and additions.

Of course the best thing about ‘Knitted Man’, is that if I get bored, I can unravel him.

Finally, if all else fails I can hold my head up high and sing.........

Thanks to the following lovely bloggers for their inspiration.

Chaucer's Bitch for the video.

Steph for the Virtual Boyfriend

Let the Public Decide!

2007-06-05T11:34:00.000Z

The charming Mr. Rick is going to throw open my 'Girl's Best Friend' dilemma to his listeners to get their opinion. Sometime between 2-5 on 2FM.

Will be interesting to see if his listeners think the same as bloggers - say nothing!

(A special word of thanks to Amanda who has to make my rambling post radio friendly)

Head Wrecking

2007-06-04T12:24:00.000Z

Bloody hell I am turning into the Ronnie Corbett of blogging; small English comedian who told long winded tales. His generally had a punch line.

Around a year ago I met a guy - ‘Headwreck’. Now he was a bit of an ARSE, so of course I fancied him. Things started out well, but fizzled within a month. We stayed ‘friends’, because there is nothing better than watching your ex’s move on while you remain single.

Staying friends with Headwreck didn't worked. We were more than friends, but never ‘friends with benefits’. The worst of both worlds. Eventually a few months ago I called time:

“What’s going on here?

“Nothing, we’re just friends.”

“But you keep giving me all these mixed signals.”

“What mixed signals?”

“It’s 4am, you spent all night texting me to meet, we’re holding hands and kissing and you’re saying we just bloody friends, those mixed signals.”
“Yes but..”

Is there any worse way to start a sentence? I hate ‘Yes but..’ people, they are professional parade-rainers.

“... I’m not looking for a relationship... blah, blah.. not you, it’s me.. blah, blah... right person, wrong time... blah, blah...”

Serendipitously, a cab came along. I hopped in and haven’t seen or heard him blahing since.

**********

Friday night I was out with the lovely Irene and she was telling me about her new man from a dating site. They were texting and calling and provisionally she had arranged to meet him that night, but had told him to bring a single guy for me. Fair enough, safety in numbers and all that. On the way to the loo, which appeared to be located 3 Luas stops away, who did I crash into but ‘Headwreck’. The curious thing about Headwreck is that during the day, while sober, I have no romantic interest in him, but 3am after much alcohol he becomes the object of my affection. If Carlsberg did magic tricks.........

We made polite, act like nothing has happened conversation, until my kidneys reminded me the purpose of my journey. Around 4 hours later, severely dehydrated and craving Bombay Mix, I returned. Irene was chatting to Headwreck! But this was just the start of the surprises. It was like playing solo pass the parcel, each line of conversation unwrapping a new layer of information;

Headwreck was Irene’s date,
Headwreck ‘I’m not looking for a relationship’ had been on-line dating for around 6 months,
Headwreck found complete strangers on the net more appealing than me,
Irene was very interested in Headwreck.
Now was not a good time to explain how I knew Headwreck.

As Fiona pointed out in her piece in ‘The Times’ last week, this shared dating is inevitable – when, not if. Ireland is simply too small for it not to happen. Of course you never expect it to happen to you. So I guess this is a bit of a Ronnie Corbett story, because comedy is all about ..... timing.

.

Rest is much better than Change

2007-05-31T08:57:00.000Z

Apparently humans are the most adaptable creatures on the planet, with the possible exception of the Chameleon. Although a lot of girls I know also have the ability to change colour. Yet despite all this adaptability we are not very good at change.

Consequently an entire consultancy business has formed around ‘Change Management’ , helping staff go through the stages of unfreeze, change and freeze again. God I hate consultants they ‘steal your watch and then tell you the time’ - Martin Kihn. Charging a minimum of 2 grand per person per day to tell the CEO what the staff already know but the management are too arrogant to ask. Essentially they are business therapists, allowing middle managers to lay back in their leatherette chair and talk about how the company doesn’t understand them.

Individuals aren’t much better at change. Most of us only move job and house a few times and the majority end up living in the same area as their parents. We form routines and habits to minimise change; buying the same paper, same food, hanging out with the same people. If you don’t believe our aversion to change just look at the election results; Bush - 2 terms, Blair – 10 years, Bertie – 10 years and counting. You can make your own decision if this is a good or bad trait.

I am facing imminent change and it is scaring the ning-nangs off me. Now there are many i’s to place hearts over and t’s to get horizontal lines but chances are change is about to happen. (not forming the one woman Congo line yet) The start of something new means the end of my current routines. No more sitting for hours in front of the laptop happily typing away or making big decisions like staying in or going for lunch. The real world is about to impinge.

Of course I am thinking of all the things I could and should have done over the last few months, plus all the things I now must do, like a good Catholic I am wracked with guilt. Trapped in a regret and stress paralysis. Knowing what I should be doing but seemingly incapable of acting. The same happened during my leaving cert when I should have been studying but took up gardening as stress relief. Ended up with a beautiful herbaceous border but crap results. A few months after the exams every plant was dead from neglect.

How have I dealt with my current in-action crisis? By focusing my energies on cleaning the house. Much to the delight of my sister. My life is now made up of procrastination and polish.

Why is change so bloody difficult?

Inspired by Kav and his struggles with in/action a far more eloquent post about this topic.

"Guests, like fish, begin to stink after 3 days" - B. Franklin

2007-05-29T11:08:00.001Z

My sister’s friends have been here 5 days. (She cleverly buggered off to America and I am stuck with them). Don’t get me wrong they are really nice people, but that’s the problem, they are really nice people. Every time I appear they try to make polite conversation.

What is the etiquette? I am busy tapping at my laptop and one or both start talking to me. The implication being that my activities are less important than their conversation. So, do I stop mid-word to engage with them or do I carry on typing in the hope they will eventually shuffle away? (note this has not worked to date)

To make matters worse they both have really strong Newcastle accents. Every time their mouths start moving all I can hear is ‘fog on the Tyne is all mine all mine, fog on the Tyne is all mine’, which would actually be preferable to the fly fishing stories I am forced to endure.

But the single worse issue is the inability of the male guest to pee in the bowl without leaving a random splattering on the tiled bathroom floor for me to step in. Is there any worse sensation than dampness under foot, which you know isn’t just water? I’m not even going to start on the toilet seat up, I really don’t care, just don’t piss on the fucking floor.

If you do piss on the floor, and I realise I’m being optimistic here, get a tissue and wipe it up. Bad enough I stand in it without then having to clean it up. The bathroom floor now has so much bleach that it is more sterile than an Intel Lab.

Really boys, how hard can it be for an adult male to hit a target of 16 inch diameter? It’s not fire hoses you are handling – worse luck.

.

Drummy Mummy

2007-05-28T09:09:00.000Z

The highlight of today will be meeting Helena for coffee. The joys of being unemployed. She is one of my oldest friends, not in a Methuselah way, just since we were children. We were outrageous tom-boys, running around the fields, climbing trees then falling out of trees. Eventually her mum got tired of the rough behaviour and packed Helen off to a posh boarding school. I had to find a new best friend. She did come back some weekends, but she was much more ladylike and only answered to the name Helena.

During our twenties we met up again and shared an apartment. By this stage her dad was a major King Edward ( one time potato eating farmer who sold land, invested in property and joined Ireland’s wealthy elite ). Helena had become a full time trustifarian and uber snob. I acted as wing-girl for her attempts to ‘marry-up’. Mainly because I was unlikely to provide much competition.

Like most things Helena set her mind to she was successfully and at a relatively young age (less than 30!). We call her hubby 4-pack, although never to his face, due to his unusual torso / leg ratio. Apparently this is not the only anatomical irregularity. Proving that the early bird really does get the worm.

Now I meet Helena on a regular basis, depending on what crisis she is having at the time. Naturally she can’t confide in her new friends that she is a less than perfect ‘Drummy Mummy’ (similar to a Yummy Mummy, but spends vast quantities of time in the Dundrum Centre shopping and drinking skinny latte’s). Today is one of those days.

We are due to meet in Starbucks AKA the Dundrum Coffee Creche. Managing to get from the counter to a table without falling over a buggy, stroller or baby bag is a trial. Even when you sit down it’s not relaxing as you have to listen to the screams, as Drummy Mummys greet each other and the tantrums, as they try and convince the IVF twins, Hugo and Sorcha, to eat their organic bran muffins and fair trade chocolate soya milkshakes. It makes growing up in the depression seem like a bonus.

So why do I still meet her? I’m not really sure. Maybe I see a lot of myself in her, or what I might be like in similar circumstances. Perhaps it’s because Dublin is so very cliquey and if you’re not in the gang then you’re outside. But mainly because sometimes she goes back to being just Helen and I get to laugh and act like a 10 year old again, just without the trees.

Good Food in Dublin

2007-05-27T08:47:00.000Z

La Stampa was once ‘the’ restaurant in Dublin. Not due to the food or service, which was at best average, but because you might get to see the back of Anne Doyle’s* head or Chris DeBurgh's** left elbow. The establishment has gone through a few transformations since and is now operating as Balzac.

Stepping over the threshold my suspicions of another bad meal in Dublin were enforced by appallingly bland decor in the reception area; think suburban semi-detached show house, all pale wood and pictures of trees. Maybe it was to make the clientele feel at home. Also the menu was heavily biased towards fish. Not that I had seen the menu but I could tell from the overpowering smell of fish. ( fresh fish should never smell ).

Things didn’t improve in the main dining room, all the Knuttel pictures were gone, not a bad thing, but they were replaced my a two for one special on Magnolia paint from B&Q. I literally sank into my seat. Looking over the menu, as suspected, fish featured strongly but I did manage to get a starter and main I liked. In a moment of perfect zen harmony my guest, the divine Vintner, managed to select the other two items that I was craving.

The starters arrived VERY quickly which always makes me suspicious. The Vintner’s starter was a source of some amusement as it consisted of only 4 pieces of asparagus. I’m guessing the mark up is pretty substantial, but they were delicious. Unusually, I wasn’t completely full after the starters, so was really looking forward to mains, which again arrived at record speed.

My main was a rump of lamb, which was perfectly pink and so tender that it reminded me of melting snow on my tongue as a child. The ratatouille was a bit strange, but actually worked really well with the lamb. In fact the only issue were the two boiled potatoes that sat on the edge of my plate like Mr. Tayto’s testicles. I didn’t eat them.

The Vintner selected some amazing wine to compliment the food, which is why he is my favourite dinner companion. Desert was a bit strange as we ordered a lemon meringue but got something resembling an Ice Cream Sunday crossed with Eton Mess. Not one for diabetics.

The bill was a week’s dole, but I wouldn’t complain as it was a really fabulous meal and has restored my faith in Dublin restaurants. Although I didn’t get to see the back of Anne Doyle’s head.

*Anne Doyle - local newsreader
**Chris deburgh - sang Lady in Red and shagged the nanny

Flirty Times !

2007-05-26T09:27:00.000Z

Well there I was this morning, cup of tea in one hand, Irish Times in the other, strenuously avoiding all of the election articles, when I came across a piece on Dating. As I nodded sagely at the shared experiences all of a sudden I saw myself - literally. Well not me exactly, but my URL. Flirty was in The Irish Times !

Apparently I am a ‘dating aficionado’ as opposed to dating disaster. So, a big shout out to the talented Fiona for her excellent article (sub req) and very kind mention.

Since starting the blog I have been consistently amazed by the attention and readers; Bloggorah were the first, then a host of established and very talented Bloggers including The Blog Oracle Damien, the lovely ladies at Beaut, radio guru Rick O’Shea and now The Times . Can Oprah be far away?

So a big thanks to anyone who takes the time to visit and comment, plus a gracious welcome to any new readers. It really does make my day. Time to get out more I guess.

(post quoted)

The Usual Suspect

2007-05-25T08:49:00.000Z

I have decided to rename Sherman. He shall now be known as Keyser Soze because:

I know I met him.
I know I spoke to him.
I know he rang me.
I know he text’d me.
I know we were meant to meet up.

But I am now beginning to suspect that he doesn’t fucking exist.

So here ends the story we will never mention him again.

A.R.S.E.

2007-05-24T07:56:00.000Z

Single guys in Ireland can be broken down into a few key categories. The most common is an A.R.S.E – A Rugby School Eejit. Think Ross O’Carroll Kelly in 10 years time. Key identifiers of an A.R.S.E are as follows:

A large dense mass, in more ways than one. Except what was muscle has now turned into soft doughy fat. Rugby jerseys are de-rigeur going out clothes. Mainly because there is little danger of the buttons popping after multiple pints.

Of course an ARSE doesn’t recognise he is fat. He thinks he is temporarily out of shape. Temporary meaning a time period in excess of ten years. He will regale you of tales of how fit he used to be, but sadly can’t play rugby anymore because of his knee (as opposed to the fact he’d drop with a coronary the second he had to run anywhere) but he is definitely going to the gym – next week.

Sometimes socialises in big gangs for the matches, when his married friends get 'passes'. Firmly believes that he will never be ‘captured’ like his mates. Would probably like to meet someone, but just can’t imagine giving up ‘the crack’ that is Cafe en Seine, 3 times a week. Generally hangs out with one poor lonely gimp wing man, who has little chance of finding anyone. Particularly if he continues to hang out with ARSE.

ARSE goes out a few times a week, with the gimp, downing pints and trying out his lines on the ‘chicks’. Due to extensive practice he is generally pretty good at the chat-up, but then it’s hard not to be in the meat markets of Renards or Coppers.

However his track record is starting to decline as there seems to be less ‘chicks’ he fancies or they seem more interested in the chiseled Polish guys. If unsuccessful at scoring he can generally be found in a fast food establishment at the end of the night. Abrakebra is full of ARSE’s at 3am.

If he is a rich ARSE he will be living in a place that his dad bought for him in his 20’s. It won’t have been done up since then and the sofa is so beer soaked that Guinness think they may have discovered a new form of yeast. A working ARSE will still be renting ( can’t waste valuable beer money on a mortgage ), generally with guys that are around 10 years younger than him. He will try and score their female friends, who are horrified by the fat older guy hitting on them. Both types of ARSE will have flat screen TV’s, a very expensive stereo, and bed clothes with cartoon characters.

The only thing worse than being an ARSE, is being someone who fancies an ARSE.

P.S. Thanks for all the comments and advice yesterday. No update on Sherman yet.

My Very Big Boy

2007-05-23T08:10:00.001Z

As mentioned yesterday the Feng Shui has had an impact on my man hunt. Normally when socialising I have a quick scan to establish if there is anything of interest before I set about destroying my liver. But Friday was different. For the first time in months I actually spotted someone I liked.

Now I have very curious taste in men. During my early 20’s I was drawn to small fat bald guys – don’t ask. Generally because they are always the funniest people you can meet. Well God had to give them something! The problem with good looking guys is that they can be exceedingly dull and vain. Plus you spend most of your time beating off other women. How many drop dead gorgeous, hilarious and faithful fellas do you know?

Over the years my taste has changed to tall, some hair but still a big strap of a lad. Hence I set my heart on Sherman. I was on an almost military mission to show my interest. ( as per my scoring guide)

Each time he looked over I smiled broadly, but he kept averting his eyes. This happened a few times, which of course only made me more determined. I was on the verge of walking over to the bar, removing my eyeballs and dropping them in his pint to get his attention.

Before I had built up the courage he had gone. Feeling a little deflated myself and the lovely ladies finished our drinks and decided to go for food. Just as we were leaving, guess who was outside having a fag but Sherman.

He did look genuinely shocked that I was leaving and demanded to know where I was going and if I’d be back. As no one knew what we were doing my clever friend suggested swapping numbers. After we had walked a few hundred feet from the pub my phone rang – it was Sherman.

‘Just wanted to check it was the right number before you were out of chasing distance’

I thought this was ridiculously cute, because that’s how easily impressed I am. As it happened I retired early and didn’t meet him that night but there was much texting over the weekend. He asked what I was doing this weekend, to which I replied Bar B Que. When I asked the same question, he responded, waiting for you to ask me to the Bar-B-Que. Even more cute. Although the problem with big lads and Bar-B-Que’s is that they maybe more interested in the prospect of dead meat rather than live.

In theory we are due to go for drinks before then. The problem is that he was due to ring early in the week, which to me means Monday or Tuesday and now it’s Wednesday.

TBC – I hope.........

Feng Shui Man

2007-05-22T09:38:00.000Z

Great news in the household. My sister has departed for a few days. So, I am busy leaving dirty dishes on every available surface. More importantly I got to Feng Shui the house. It is an energy flow disaster; plants where there should be water and mirrors instead of ceramics. I ran around putting everything in its rightful place like a demented Mary Poppins. Cunningly I focused on the relationship and work areas. The relationship zone has a bloody toilet in it so options are limited, but I did my best. (any wonder she is the 40 year old born again virgin)

Now I know most of you are sitting there mocking such new age hippy crap but don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Most of the principles are based on sound logic like , 'don’t have your front door facing north'. And as it doesn’t take too much time or cost to apply. What have you got to loose?

Sure enough, shortly after I had finished what did I see but a man down the bottom of my garden. Bloody hell I thought to myself, why the hell didn’t I do this sooner. 'I Dream of Genie', couldn’t turn things around this quickly. He was a fine strap of a lad, big muscles and a massive chopper, that was clearly visible even without my glasses.

Unsurprisingly I was a bit lost what to do next. Not every day the Asian love Gods deliver a man directly into your back garden. As the kettle was freshly boiled I decided offering tea was my best approach. We chatted casually for a while, ignoring the obvious question of what the hell he was doing up my tree. A difficult question to slip into polite conversation.

Thankfully he explained that he needed to move a bird nest from the tree he was cutting down next door. Not exactly a Mills and Boon story but the woodcutter (tree surgeon) was certainly an impressive diversion to my day, so I had no axe to grind.

To make matters even better he’s not the only guy the Love Gods have delivered this week !

TBC