Did you ever...

They look so innocent...

So I went to buy a dress. I was in Miss Selfridge and they had these beautiful  body con style frocks. They didn't have my size though so I figured I could probably squeeze into the size down. I grabbed it off the rail and went to try it on.  So take off clothes, take dress off hanger and pull it over my head. It's feeling pretty tight. I reef it down over my bum. Ugh! I don't even need to look in the mirror, this thing is cutting off my circulation it's so tight.

So I take it off. Or at least I try to take it off. I pull it up and get it as far as my chest. Have to get one arm out now. I try and pull the strap down so I can get arm out. Not working. Try again and yes! One arm is out. But I am now in a funny position and cannot use my right arm to get my left arm out, if you know what I mean. I try to get other arm back in and go some other way about this but I'm stuck. I pull really hard and hit my arm off the wall. These fitting rooms are so way too cramped. I pull again, and again and again. It's going no where. So the dress is kind of half around my head, I'm pretty much blind and my arms are of no use to me. I take deep breaths. Then try really slowly to pull my arm out. But it doesn't move.

So I pull really hard, losing my temper now. I twist myself around and try and grab something but my arms just can't get around to where I need them. Ok, starting to panic now. I'm thinking I might be stuck in this dress forever. I'll have to call the girl in and she'll have to cut me out with a scissors and she'll see my grey pennys knickers and I'll be the story to tell everyone who comes in to the shop. I tug and tug, I'm sweating now. I start to cry. I'm stuck. I'm stuck, I'm never getting out. I bang my head off the mirror. Ouch! Come on, you stupid fucking, bloody, dress! AHHHH! I slide to the ground. I'll have to call the girl. Oh, the shame. No! I can't. I won't. I don't believe in God, but Jesus if you're up there get me out of this poxy dress! Please, I'll go to Mass every week for the rest of my life , I swear, please! This one favour, prove to me you exist, come on! I know there are people way more deserving of your love but they're not me! Please?

Right, I'm going again. I'm doing it this time if it kills me. I get up. I tug and tug, rrrrip, yeah, I heard it but I don't care. I yank the thing. I pull and tug and grab and swish and swirl and do the funky chicken, anything to get this bloody- Oh my god! It's over my head. It's coming off, it's coming off. It's off! Oh my god! Its off! The relief! Oh, sweet mother of divine lord! Jesus, Mary and all the saints! Hurray! I collapse in a heap in the change room.

Tales of the 41c.

Public transport, I love it. It's the people you meet, the things you see and the overheard conversations that I can't resist. Like the drunken lunatic mumbling away to himself on the 43, smelling like the local bottle bank after St Patrick's Day.  Or the junkie on the DART that pukes into a paper bag, then tries to throw it out of the window, misses, and floods the carriage with vomit.  He gets off at the next stop.  And don't forget the oul' wans on the LUAS chatting about poor Frank who's an alcoholic but allergic to beer, he breaks out in hives every time he has a drink.  Quote: "He can handle it, Josie, but his body can't."

So the other week when myself and husband boarded the 41c, I was only dying to eavesdrop on the conversations between the dodgey looking teenagers at the back of the bus. Teenage girl: "Alrigh' Dylan, did you get expelled?" Dylan: "Yeah." Teenage girl: "What d'ye get expelled for?" Dylan: (genuinely confused) "I dunno." So yeah I was leaning back in me chair picking up such gems as; "Don't burn me jacket, just melt the things hanging off it," cue smell of burning plastic and "She was screaming cos she wants to get pregnant so she doesn't have to go to school any more." All the while husband, who does not approve of my earwigging, throwing me filthy looks.

I'm really enjoying myself until something comes flying through the air and nearly hits a passenger across from me.  The group of teens explode with laughter and everyone else on the bus shifts uncomfortably in their chairs, staring dead ahead. So it happens again and this time it lands in the aisle. I look on the ground and see it's some plastic keyring thing with an elastic on it. Next thing an empty bottle of Yop whizzes past and hits the girl across from me on the shoulder. She flinches and people shift in the seats again but no one even looks back at these little scumbags.  I can't take it any more. I turn around and tell them to give it a rest and stop throwing things. They start screaming at me; "fuck you, ye bleedin' cunt. Mind yer own fucking business." "I'll come there and fucking kill ye." I turn around again and tell her to come right up, I'm not afraid of her. She's this tiny little scrawny thing that given the chance I could snap in two. "I fucking will, I'll put ye back in yer chair, bitch!" I ignore her.  They keep screaming. Husband turns round in his chair and stares them out of it. Silence. He stares for about ten seconds and there is total silence the whole time. He turns back and they burst out laughing. "Big, hairy man" one of them shouts.

Lovely, just lovely.

Before we know it, I'm being repeatedly targeted with their arsenal of empty Coke, Lucozade and Club Rock Shandy bottles. They piss themselves laughing all the way through the air raid. All the time my heart is beating faster and I am losing my cool.  Should I go down there and rip them out of it?  Should I keep ignoring them? Should I get the bus driver involved? A bottle hits me in the back of the head and I jump up out of my chair, march down the stairs and up to the bus driver. I tell him about the teens, he listens intently before pulling the bus in at the next stop and turning off the engine.  He gets out of his seat and jogs upstairs. I can hear him tell them to get off.  They scream and shout objections: "We didn't do ant'in" "It was all dem, dey did it, we said nutin'" before finally capitulating. But not without one last dig at my big hairy husband: "I'll fuckin kill you, ye bleedin' prick." He laughs back at them: "Enjoy the walk home."  They stand at the bus stop, yelling at the windows, giving the fingers to the whole bus. The driver pulls off while radioing the other buses telling them not to pick up the kids at that bus stop. I walk back upstairs to my husband. He smiles at me. Outside it has started to rain, it's really heavy, torrential; the kids will be drenched. We look at one another and howl with the laughter.

My take on tights.

Nutin' sexier than a burd with tights half way downs 'er legs, wha?

I can't wait for Spring so I can throw all my tights away and go bare legged again. Right now, it's bloody freezing so tights are a staple but I have so many issues with them. The crotch never stays put, it's always slowly slipping down as you walk to wherever so you have to do a quick scan for passersby before reefing them back up. The waist always rolls down on them so if you're wearing anything remotely figure hugging you look like you're carrying a baby sized hula hoop around your waist. They are nearly always too tight so they dig into your stomach causing all sorts of mad stuff to happen to your insides - anyone else get tights related indigestion?  Tights are singularly the most unsexy item of clothing ever invented, nothing gets me out of the mood quicker than the word gusset.  But the most annoying thing I have found about tights is how they make your arse itch like mad! Seriously, what's that about? My Jesus, it is so irritating. You're sitting there in your class, office, whatever and feel it coming on. You so desperately want to stick your hand down the back of your knickers and rummage around like a pre-school kid with a bad dose of thread worms. Instead you squirm inconspicuously in your chair, shifting from one arse cheek to the other, letting a bit of cool air at your bum in the hope that the urge will leave you. Usually I end up excusing myself and legging it to the toilets for a good oul scratch. I could spend five minutes scratching before I'm satisfied. Ahhhh, the relief! Once I even  pulled the feckers off and stuffed them in the bin. I couldn't deal with that itchy sensation any more. Maybe that's what we should all do - shove the offending articles in the bin! Ditch the tights! Free the itchy arses! Anyone else with me?

The Gym.

New Years, ugh!  Lucky it's nearly over. I reckon those resolutions have lost their novelty by now for most of you. The daily hours jog you promised yourself you'd do has turned into a quick stroll around the block and back home. I mean, who'd want to spend more than twenty minutes out in those freezing temperatures? It's bleedin' Baltic out there! And the healthy lunch that you'd get up every morning to prepare has become nothing more than an inconvenience, ten more minutes you could have spent lying in bed listening to Ian Dempsey shite on about how much he loves David Bowie before he plays "Heroes" for the trillionth time.  And that session in the gym you swore you'd commit to at least three times a week has dwindled down to your reluctant attendance of the odd step class, consisting of you standing at the back shuffling from one foot to the other while cursing the instructor for her amazing figure and boundless energy.  Ah yes, the gym. The one place in the world where I feel significantly fatter, uglier and dumber than everyone around me.  So here's my list of reasons for hating the gym. Feel free to add to it with a comment below!

Sweet Jesus.  God, help us all.

1. Not knowing how to use the equipment but being too intimidated by the muscled bound oafs who work there to ask for help. Seriously, why don't they get some normal looking people working at the gym? Someone who doesn't look like a steroidal Honey Monster after a body waxing session. 

2. If you exert yourself in any way you will end up looking like Waynetta Slob after a quick one down the alley way with some randomer. This is completely unavoidable.

3. The fact that the last statement is only unavoidable for you! Others will end an hours treadmill session looking refreshed and positively blooming. 

3. The mirrors stuck to the walls everywhere you look will make sure you are constantly reminded of the above facts.

4. Not knowing where to look. When you look in the mirror and watch yourself exercising you will feel like a complete tool/tit. This is especially true when completing squats, probably the most embarrassing exercise ever invented. However, if you chose not to look in the mirrors then where do you look? At the other people doing their exercises? And risk being thought of as a gawping idiot, verging on lewd stalker? Or maybe you could just look into space, look no where and end up smacking some lad in the head with your bar bell. Well done, Nutty.

Me and me husband before we head out for a jog

5. The constant feeling that others are looking at you, judging you and laughing at you. Even though you have no proof of this and it is clearly paranoia of epic proportions due to lack of self worth brought on by exposure to impossibly perfect bodies parading themselves about the place.  

6. Men standing around watching one another bench press. Yeah, they'll say they're spotting but we all know it's all about competition brought on by their feelings of inadequacy. Losers.

7. There is always one weirdo who strolls about the place, picking up this weight and that weight, standing just that bit too close and staring for just that second too long. This guy never actually seems to do any weights, exercises or machines and he is always at the gym. Always. Even when you get up at half seven in the morning in a desperate attempt to avoid him. He will be there.

Model doing a poo, I mean squat. Attractive, eh?

8. It ruins your whole week. If I go to the gym I always feel great after a session, so glad I pushed myself and went and did what I had to do.  But how long does that feeling last? Maybe an hour or two, until you realise you have to go to the gym again tomorrow. Until you remind yourself this isn't a one off thing. You have to keep going to the gym to maintain any kind of fitness level and/or slim figure. How depressing is that? I literally spend hours dreading the gym. It's there in the back of my mind the whole day. Contemplating going, contemplating just legging it home and getting into my pyjamas and watching "Tallifornia" repeats on TV 3. It drives me crazy. Takes any pleasure out of the day. This year, I reckon you should add up all the time you spend feeling good after going to the gym and then add up all the time you spend dreading going to the gym. Maybe after a glance at the results you'll do the same thing I did, not bother your arse going at all.

Crying.

I just finished watching "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" there. Had a good cry. It made me want to roll around in the snow with my husband, and fall in love all over again. So I cried. Cause he's not here and I am. Jesus, it's crap being away from home. Being away from him. Being away from everyone I know and love. I'm a right little whinger, aren't I?

Seriously, what did you expect?

It made me think of other films that make me cry. I reckon "American Beauty" is a full on snivelling, snot fest. I think I sobbed for about two weeks after I first saw it. I just couldn't get it out of my head. I cried all the way home from the cinema. On the 41C, no bother to me. I wasn't always so comfortable with my public displays of emotion. When I was a kid I fought them tears hard. A lump would build in my throat as I looked around me to see if anyone was watching me, it actually really fucking hurt! I'd be sitting there and I'd feel them coming. The lump in my throat starts to build, eyes sting as I held the tears back, then the chin would go. Shaking like I'd just come in from an Arctic expedition. Eventually I had to give in and let the tears spour down my face.

Thank god I don't have to go through that crap any more. These days I'm a happy and open, emotional wreck. I can go at any time. Today I was in local café, having a coffee, reading the paper; a sad story about a local girl and I started to cry. The man across from me noticed and remarked on how he wished the papers would print something happy for a change. I sniffed and nodded back at him in agreement.

So, I was thinking of making a list of films that are guaranteed to make you bawl. Please add any as you see fit but keep in mind I will slag your choices if I don't agree. And I am very picky in my film choices. For example; "The Notebook" just don't cut it. Sorry girls, but it's shit. But "It's a Wonderful Life", now that's a classic tearjerker.  So here goes anyway, let me know if you agree or not and like I said add on the ones you won't watch without a box of Kleenex at the ready.

Captain's Courageous: If nothing else, see this film.

E.T. - I love it cause it makes me cry happy tears as well as sad ones.

Garage - You'll want to take the same route as Josie after watching this little Irish gem.

Love Actually - Emma Thompson after she opens that Joni Mitchell CD, your heart breaks with hers.

Awakenings - Don't let De Niro go back to sleep!

Goodbye Mr. Chips - If only teachers were really like this.

Empire of the Sun - Christian Bale as a child actor just blows me away.

Brokeback Mountain - Beautiful love story, rips your heart out and serves it to ya on a skewer.

Erin Brockovich - When she visits the families at the end I just couldn't hold it in.

Captains Courageous - Just see it, please. If you are going to watch just one of these films make it this one!

It's on to you now!

The green mile.

She's asking for them boots to be nicked

I love coming home to Dublin.  I love getting off the 41 and strolling down to my house.  I love looking around, taking in the surroundings and feeling comfortable and safe.  But what I don't love about the trip back is getting up at 3.30 am and walking through Derby City to get to the bus station.  My flight this morning was at half six.  So to get to the airport on time I had to get the Skylink bus at 4.20 am. Now, I don't have a problem with getting up early, that's easy peasy.  My problem is that Wednesday night in Derby is student night. So on Thursday morning the place is scattered with half cut teenagers, falling out of bars, trying to find their way home. When you're glaringly sober and have to zig zag your way through drunken mobs at four in the morning you tend to feel quite nervous and intimidated by it all. I try my best to avoid big crowds of people; cross the road when they're approaching or just keep my head down and walk as fast as I can.
This morning I legged it to the other side of the road when I saw a group of lads shouting and pushing each other around.  One of them had a dog and was threatening to set him on one of the blokes: "Get yer dog off me" " 'es not on ya mate, not yet."  Ah Derby, where being stabbed in the belly is all part of the student night experience.  Then I turned the corner to see two policemen struggle with a middle aged man who was shouting: "I've done nowt, get yer 'ands off me, I've done nowt." They pushed him against the wall and handcuffed him.  His friend stood by the whole time, trying to convince the cops that he had indeed: "done nowt." Then there's all these girls, dressed up like extras from TOWIE, looking preened and primped to page three perfection. I'm in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, head like Wurzel Gummidge on speed, thin layer of cheap makeup that's failing miserably in it's attempt to cover the splattering of acne on my chin. I stick out like a sore and slightly scabby thumb. Which brings me onto my last experience on the 4 am walk.

Me this morning; at least I put some eyeliner on

I was bombing it down the road, thinking I was gonna miss the bus cos I'd left the house a bit later than usual, and I pass this girl in a black mini, lace top and long, perfectly straightened hair. Fag in her mouth, no coat on (coats don't exist in England past 10.00 pm) The girl looks at me as I pass and says to her friend: "That's hideous."  I flinched, ouch! THAT'S hideous. As in, not SHE'S hideous, no cos that would imply that I am a woman or a girl or in the very least, human.  But, THAT, like I was some sort of animal; a mangy dog escaped from the pound, sniffing out discarded kebabs and chewing on unwanted pizza crusts .  I didn't say anything back to her, just kept walking. Cause let's face it, I was looking pretty rough. I couldn't blame her for thinking it and then it probably just slipped out, a case of: " Did I just say that out load?"  Still, I felt a bit down about it.  It was still on my mind when I reached the bus stop. I walked over to sit on the bench and took my bag off my back, plonked it beside me and that's when I realised my mistake.  She wasn't talking about me!  Well not my face or me as a person.  She was referring to my schoolbag. My old reliable, purple and not quite mint green, straps hanging down all over the shop, gigantic, Sporthouse schoolbag.  It belongs to my Mam and by jesus does it looks like it belongs to my Mam. This thing is monstrous; big, ugly and unashamedly proud of it. And on my back, clashing with my long red coat it looked even worse than usual.  I calmed down after that. Note to husband - buy me a new bag for Christmas, please!

Am getting husband to take a pic of it on my back with red coat and all for the full effect so will add it later to the post!

I think he means trousers

On another note - Fair play to the Irish students.  15,000 of them protested outside The Dail yesterday.  (They'd do anything to get out of a lecture, the lazy bastards!)  Not congratulating them on the protest mind; it's the clever banners and posters that I'm celebrating.  They ranged from the very serious and boring: "Stop fees and save the grant", to the mildly amusing: "Drug dealer or student; it's your choice", and the putting it bluntly: "Fuck the Fees", to the hilariously funny: "If we had €3000 we'd have decent signs" and my personal favourite: "Less Fees, More Gees."  Brilliant.

Cellulite me arse!

Rihanna's arse is the spit of mine.

I have cellulite.  It's horrible.  It's on my arse and my thighs and I hate it. Well, I hate it when I think about it but luckily my days of wearing bum skimming skirts and tiny hotpants are over so I don't have to think about it too much.  But then there's always the bikini or the swim suit, whichever's your fancy, both of them are pretty unforgiving for those of us with arses that would make Neil Armstrong feel homesick.  So I was looking at my derrier there today and decided I am going to try and do something about it.  I have done this before I might add, one of my many missions for perfection. It might involve a dedicated skincare routine or vowing to use strengthening polish on my nails every day for a month. I usually give up after two days. Said cosmetic product ends up tossed in the bathroom basket with every other transforming  face mask, protein enriched hair repair oil or snake venom wrinkle busting eye cream that THIS time I was REALLY going to finish. It's not that the products don't work, sure I never use them long enough to know.  I just get bored doing it, I suppose, or I completely forget, or I realise that if it does actually work that I am going to have to go through this bullshit routine for the rest of my life. And that's a huge commitment. If I actually went through with all the tiny little promises I make to myself I'd end up spending three hours getting ready every morning and another three in the evening. Would ya be bothered? Anyways, I digress, back to the cellulite.  I looked up a few cures, treatments that sort of thing for the oul' jaffa jelly.  It seems body brushing comes out on top. Much better than all the exfoliating scrubs, firming creams and micro massage knickers out there. It's also very cheap which is always good. And even better again I actually have a body brush (never used) to hand having bought one for the exact same reason about six or seven years ago.  Now don't worry, I'm not going to stick pictures of my cottage cheese thighs up here for all to see. I'd be too afraid me Dad would stumble upon this site and die of shame.  Instead I'll just give you updates and you'll have to take my word for it.  I am hoping that if I make this promise on the blog then I'll keep doing it.  It'll definitely help me remember and more than that, will motivate me to get the brush out and go to war on that cellulite once and for all.  So  here goes; I promise here on my blog, to all of about 3 witnesses, (but hopefully more to come) that I will body brush every day for the next thirty days. I will also publish the results of my body brushing on the blog and let you know if it really does the magic. Wish me luck!