I’m stuck at traffic lights.
Did I ever mention my stint as a manager of a lingerie shop?
Oh my god, will this DART just hurry the fuck up so we can cross the… There’s a name for that isn’t there? Where the road and railway line intersect? And now we’re waiting on DART number two. What is it they say about men and buses (trains, in this case): wait for ages then a few come along at a time?
The light just turned red as I revved up but I went for it anyway. I’d love to have a go at rally driving. I reckon I’d be fierce.
Anyway, knickers. And bras.
Maternity bras: all those innocent first time mothers. Shapewear: all those naïve first time wives. I did that for a year and a half. I loved it. Apart from the pressure heaped upon me by my over confident, over reaching (in terms of what she expected from my alleged superhuman standards) South Dublin private-schooled boss. Towards the end, I was more tightly strung than a Maidenform body shaper.
It was nearly a relief when she fired me over a stupid, although costly, mistake I’d made when I was trying to do four things at once on the shop floor. I’d made worse and more expensive mistakes before but she let them go so I think this one was both a money saver for her (she subsequently got the JobBridge intern to work all my hours) and as a way to push me on out that damn sticky door quickly as she knew I was thinking about going back to school after my career break. I really thought that girl was my friend. I felt so naïve afterwards thinking of the relationship secrets we’d shared; how drunk we’d got many times together; how she called me Aunty Dotty when her baby boy arrived; how I brought up a bottle of gin to her mother (who used to lend me her car) when she was feeling stressed. I really felt welcomed into their little family and her circle of friends. But it all blew up in my face when I made a three hundred and twenty eight euro mistake, and offering to pay it back out if my salary didn’t contain the implosion. I didn’t mind losing the job: I’d never been sacked from anything in my life. It was losing a whole surrogate family. That particular Femme d’Affaires screwed me over. In my still-a-little-bit-hurt-about-it-all opinion. I’m sure she and her family would have a different story to tell about my non-business brain muddling things up. I really did my best and I learned a lot but bear in mind I never even took Business Studies at school: I couldn’t make sense of my own payslip even now. And as for working logically, well you see by the erratic thought patterns (or non patterns) that my intellect tends to weave intricate, often indecipherable strands rather than stitch nice little nears squares together into a whole measured chocolate box picture.
It’s now… Six twenty five in the evening. I still feel jet lagged having unslept my way through the entirety of last night. Gunky, headachy, shivery. It didn’t help that having dropped My Lady to the hospital appointment that turned out to have some disappointing news (the old bird is well and healthy, don’t worry. She’ll send me a text getting onto me about the “old bird” bit later when she reads this before bed), we got home to GarbageCarnage curtesy of Sven snd AnnaPuppy.
It’s my own fault: in my eagerness to have ALL the laundry done and dried I hung a blanket over the living room door to air it out and of course it got caught in the latch and the four leggeds thought they’d sneak in (the doorless kitchen is just off the living room – I’m seriously considering a baby gate) and just double check with their snifftastic little noses that there was nothing even remotely edible, say like a tea bag or half a mouldy lemon or the corner of a rock hard scone, in the trash.
Including a box of chalk, bottles of medicine and a whole assortment of drawing pins. Ouch.
First thing ElsaDaughter did was to advise me not to look, fearing Dotty Drama no doubt, and then she checked their paws to make sure they hadn’t cut themselves. What. A. Kid.
I feel really gross now. A dose seems to be threatening to engulf my icky throat and internally gravel my chest and our good old pal, bloody euphemistic Mother Nature, isn’t exactly helping. I’m a big blob of the antithesis of sexy. Imagine one of Hozier’s “Angels”: inflate her; bleach her by about seventeen skin shades; electrocute her hair; smear her face in a film of greyish-pink clay residue; add a couple of puss tipped spots and dust a bit of soot under her come hither eyes – yep, c’est moi ce soir.
Where are my stretchy pants?
PS I have a treat for you tomorrow! My first guest blogger. If you’ve struggled with the impact of a serious physical condition on your mental well being, you’re going to want to read this.