The Importance of Being Kissed

Is there anything sweeter that the uncomfortable unfeeling you get on a first date? When you’re so nervous you can’t stop rubbing your arms and keep glancing at everyone but the person sitting in front of you, only for you to work up the courage to glance across – shly- and realise he’s actually smiling back at you. And you think, oh, I wouldn’t mind getting my face closer to his…

But my new friend is the friend-of-another-friend and therefore I’ve been slapped with a gagging order hard enough to leave me reeling. No blog talk, I have been warned..

But that kiss…it wiped out my 6am start, the army of dwarves hoping to break me and the long week again.

I love it at the the start when it’s perfect, before you discover his wooden leg or the possible shrine to Dana in is bedroom. Until then, more kissing please...

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Oh, I Could While Away the Hours

‘Banking online banking online banking online’ It’s as good a mantra as any. I spend my entire LUAS journey home repeating this over and over, trying to not focus on the non-nationals and nackers speaking at the top of their voices, scratching their heads, picking their noses or – even better – pulling out a styrofoam tub with RED-SAUCE-PASTA stamped across the lid. Dinner, on the tram. I squash my body as close to the window as I can and kiss my thumb. Thumb kissing equals extremely stressed out self.

I neeed to reset my banking online password because I’ve forgotten the password I’ve had since the dawn of time. On three occassions this week I’ve had to request a new password, reset it to my own, and then promptly forgot it again. Maybe it’s time for a new password. I’ve also forgotten how to make chicken curry, where my passport and drivers licence are, and that I was supposed to be in college this weekend…

I’ve noticed recently -however – that I haven’t lost the ability to flirt. Full on, reel-him-in packed with inuendo flirting. The type that produces dilated pupils, flushed cheeks and even warmer dreams. The flirting spectrum is as wide as I want it to be: from safe, fun, innocent and uninentional to cheeky, food-for-thought, very intentional and downright salacious.

In a similar fashion to the push-up bra, the internet has a lot to answer for.

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Into the Blue Again, After the Money’s Gone

“You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack, You may find yourself in another part of the world, You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile, You may find yourself in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife, You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?”

How did I work myself into a job where I’m wearing a tracksuit and being told the appropriate way to answer the phone by someone who was born in the late 1980s? Well, knowing their exact age is easy, actually. I saw an upside down employee file on a table and scanned it for the relevant info. Fifteen years of proof reading magazines for a living has got to be useful for something. I rarely miss something on a page… And being told how to use the phone well, maybe I look a bit blonde today. What with the hairband, and all. Hairbands – the bigger the better – are a major factor in my life right now. When you work in a pre-school and spend a good bit of the day crawling along the floor prentending you’re a frog, wearing a tracksuit to work is a given. Bling will always creep out though, even if it’s just in a sparkly hairband.

So anyhow, pretending you’re a frog for a living is a slightly different world to anywhere I’ve been before. The hours are long, the pay is shocking and there are no men in the building. Three, four and five year olds all tend to speak at once – in really loud voices – and the hormones in the staff room can be slightly shocking. But it’s fun, and when the kid with Downs Syndrome in my class pressed his tiny red-painted hand to my much larger, red-painted hand so we could add our ‘signatures’ to our family and friends tree, well, that was fairly brilliant.

Apparently, you can have a great home, a great career or a great relationship, but not all three together. The new yellow post-it on my fridge is undeterred however. It’s screaming ‘find a man!’ at me and if I’ve written something down, I have to do it. But where to start? Dublin awaits…

So life: same as it ever was.

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Like a Pop Up Tent, Only Better

I’m taking a rest between the three stages of changing my bed linen when I realise what an odd thing this is to do. My bed isn’t particularly large or the duvet particularly heavy, yet every time I change the linen I take little ‘breaks’. Once after the sheet, once when the pillows are done and once half way through putting on the duvet. Bizarre? Maybe a little. If I had time – and money – I’d invent pop-up bed linen. Or get a cleaning lady.

Then again, I know someone who irons the bed linen AFTER it’s on the beds. And someone else who makes the bed in the morning with a sleeping child still in it. To save time, like. Getting off the subject of beds, I know someone who toasts herself when she’s having a drink. Not overly bad, I agree. But answering yourself – which she does – is a bit dodgy. (“Cheers Big Ears!” “Fuck you Noddy…”)

All females, granted. Then again, I know a man who owns multiple toothbrushes. “How many?” “…Maybe five or six.” “But for what??” “At home, my gym bag, the car, walking around…” He also gives them names. Like Colin, and Fred, and Dave. He can’t announce he has a new toothbrush (how much the people-from-space must love us) without it reminding me of pre-Celtic Tiger Dublin. A place without bed linen-changing cleaning ladies or – more importantly – eyebrow brushes. I’ve always been slightly obsessed with eyebrow shapes and feel real empathy for anyone with crap eyebrows. From maybe the age of 15 I’d recycle my toothbrushes into home-made eyebrow brushes, and I’d ‘shape’ my eyebrows with my trusty tub of vaseline…

Walking into the Quays pub in Temple Bar one evening hastily fixing my eyebrows – as you do – one of the bouncers asked me would I not invest in a toothbrush ‘just for yer eyebrows.’ Then MAC arrived in Dublin with their brow kit and that was the end of my money-making eyebrow-shaping idea.

Pop up bed linen however, now that could work…

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Never Relax, and never mind Frankie

The Law of Averages is the belief that a rare occurrence will happen given enough time. For example, if I date enough guys the law of averages says that I’ll eventually like one of them enough to stay with him. I do the Lotto each week even though there’s no statistical basis for believing that my numbers will one day come up. Why should they? It’s a gambler’s falacy to believe that a rare occurrence will happen given enough time, yet I continue to play.

Sod’s Law, of course, means ‘anything that can go wrong, will.’ Any attempts to control our destiny will be thwarted by fate so there’s absolutely no point in trying to contrive a situation where you’re the perfect person, living in the perfect moment. It doesn’t exist. On a broader scale is Murphy’s law – meaning whatever can go wrong, will. A particular favourite of mine, Murphy’s Law always visits in threes.

1) If you ever try to avoid an ex-friend and his wife at a party, never run in the opposite direction. They’ll turn unexpectedly and ‘bump’ into you when you’re quite obviously running away. When the history of the story is written, it won’t matter that he drunkenly told everyone that you made a pass at him (untrue!) ten years ago which got him into a whole heap of trouble – all that anyone will remember is that you were caught throwing kids out of your way to escape talking to them.

2) False eyelashes are only for gorgeous girls who remain unflappable in all sorts of situations. They’re not for chicks who get blind drunk yet insist on wearing their eye mask (and nothing else) to bed at 5am, who then wake up find one eyelash missing and the other crawling down their cheek like a spider. Screaming and banging your head off the bathroom door hurts, and certainly isn’t worth the ‘wide eyed’ effect of the lashes.

3) If you live 5 minutes from O’Connell Street and can make it to Easons and back at a brisk trot in 8, you are actually saving on time. You’re ahead of the game and – therefore – it’s your duty to yourself to ensure you’re game ready. Running slap-bang into someone you definitely at sometime want to kiss in your Frankie Says Relax t-shirt isn’t good for the soul, even if the guy – and all his work mates – thought it was fairly funny. Bras were invented for a reason. Wear one.

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Never Relax, and never mind Frankie

The Law of Averages is the belief that a rare occurrence will happen given enough time. For example, if I date enough guys the law of averages says that I’ll eventually like one of them enough to stay with him. I do the Lotto each week even though there’s no statistical basis for believing that my numbers will one day come up. Why should they? It’s a gambler’s falacy to believe that a rare occurrence will happen given enough time, yet I continue to play.

Sod’s Law, of course, means ‘anything that can go wrong, will.’ Any attempts to control our destiny will be thwarted by fate so there’s absolutely no point in trying to contrive a situation where you’re the perfect person, living in the perfect moment. It doesn’t exist. On a broader scale is Murphy’s law – meaning whatever can go wrong, will. A particular favourite of mine, Murphy’s Law always visits in threes.

1) If you ever try to avoid an ex-friend and his wife at a party, never run in the opposite direction. They’ll turn unexpectedly and ‘bump’ into you when you’re quite obviously running away. When the history of the story is written, it won’t matter that he drunkenly told everyone that you made a pass at him (untrue!) ten years ago which got him into a whole heap of trouble – all that anyone will remember is that you were caught throwing kids out of your way to escape talking to them.

2) False eyelashes are only for gorgeous girls who remain unflappable in all sorts of situations. They’re not for chicks who get blind drunk yet insist on wearing their eye mask (and nothing else) to bed at 5am, who then wake up find one eyelash missing and the other crawling down their cheek like a spider. Screaming and banging your head off the bathroom door hurts, and certainly isn’t worth the ‘wide eyed’ effect of the lashes.

3) If you live 5 minutes from O’Connell Street and can make it to Easons and back at a brisk trot in 8, you are actually saving on time. You’re ahead of the game and – therefore – it’s your duty to yourself to ensure you’re game ready. Running slap-bang into someone you definitely at sometime want to kiss in your Frankie Says Relax t-shirt isn’t good for the soul, even if the guy – and all his work mates – thought it was fairly funny. Bras were invented for a reason. Wear one.

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Ladies Night

“What’s the story with your man Gary?”

Saturday night in Dublin city and all the ladies are out to celebrate my birthday. We’re dressed to the nines, we’re giddy and there’s a smell of mischief in the air so strong you could almost touch it. I’ve been batting my eyelashes at a man across the room when one of the girls – who’s just arrived – clocks my flirting before she’s taken off her coat. I roll my eyes. “His name wasn’t Gary.” Everyone laughs at this. My innocently optimistic and eternal search for a ‘good’ man is well documented. The list is long and distinguished.

The girls are eager to hear what was ‘wrong’ with the last one, but we get sidetracked on Gary. “Which one was Gary again?” I sigh. “The one who couldn’t get it up…” More laughter while I remind them about poor Gary who tried so hard but never really got the wind in his sails. Or whatever.

We get progressively giddy as bottles of pop are bought and just as quickly emptied. The conversation never really moves from my love life: after Gary we take a trip down memory lane and discuss the Stage 5 Clinger (gorgeous maniac) the Fumbler (self explanatory) the Younger Man (yummy…) and the Playboy (the great-in-bed benchmark). We even wind back the years to my ‘significant ex’ who has been reduced in our collective memories to the “miserable midget with the bald patch.”

We bump into an ex of mine who decides to stay with us, so we go dancing and move onto a lethal mix of shots and dodgy dance floor moves. The ex is dancing in front of us and we’re all momentarily quietened by his god-awful dancing. He’s switches from John Travolta hip shaking to slapping his own backside…“What was wrong with him then?”

“He couldn’t dance for shit….”

I remind them of my theory that bad dancers make for bad lovers. We crack up laughing when my sister screams that I’m a bad dancer. “I might be a bad dancer but I’m sexy at it!” “You’re not…you’re just sticking your bum out.” I’m still sticking with my theory.

By 2am, we’ve covered sex from every angle, good lovers, bad kissers and obsessive hand washing. And our Mother’s Day plans. A typical girls night out!

Ladies, I salute you 🙂

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