Shiny, vibrating pebbles: one girl's story

So I was in town yesterday and suffered a truly morto moment.  Its been 24 hrs and i think my face has just about returned to its original colour.

Let me set the scene:

It was Friday, 'payday' Friday to be precise.  I was in town and feeling like my underwear drawer could do with a touch of something scarlet-y and silky.....enter Miss Ann Summers.   

Sure enough, there was plenty of silky, lovely things for the taking, but I quickly got distracted by...shall we say, 'props'.  There was the usual suspects: the furry cuffs, the whips, the penis-shaped pasta and what have you.  Then I happened upon a section devoted to Cosmopolitian products and started playing with what can only be described as a giant shiny pebble.  I quickly discovered it was a massager for every nook and cranny of the female and male form; a classy pebble-shaped vibrator; a bit of an all-rounder really.

All you had to do was push down the top part and off it went, vibrating like there was no tomorrow.  Push again and you have the slow-mo vibrate.  Give it another push and you have the rythimic pulse.  There was about 12 different modes in all, such fun!  Once I'd got bored and drained most of the batteries, I decided that I had enough of said 'shiny vibrating pebble' and searched for the off button...which was nowhere to be found by the way.  It was a shiny vibrating pebble - where the heck does the 'off' button go??! Blind panic set in and I tried to look casual as a fumbled around with it some more. "Christ!" I thought, "I only came in for some knickers".  I couldn't just shove it back on the shelf otherwise it would make that horrible sound your mobile makes when it vibrates on the bench in the middle of a lecture at university, except the pebble was on the 'steady thrust' mode at the time, and that just wouldn't do.

"Er, can I help you with anything?" was the sweet, sweet sound of rescue.  Concerned shop assistant must have spotted my pathetic self looking less than casual at the new Cosmopolitian promotional stand.  And said concerned shop assistant was a dude who looked like he had a crazy love affair with his GHDs. 

"oh yah..er..i can't seem to get this thing to stop...its going a bit crazy on me.  Heh heh...(*awkward laugh*)".  I handed it to him and he held the top of the pebble down for a few secs and that was it.  that was it reader!! All I had to do was stop madly flicking between the modes and hold the bloody thing down for 5 secs. Of cooooourse.  I quickly hot-footed it out of the shop, my silky, scarlet-y vision in tatters.

I should have just went for the pasta, at least the packet comes with instructions.

{Image: Flickr}

Movin' on out...

So after 2 years of fun, tears, laughter and even a little blood, I have decided to move to pastures new and have bagged me a cute new crib in a cooler part of Dublin town!  The big move isn't happening for a couple of weeks but I have already mentally picked out the new cushions to go with my new black 3 seater (bless you TK Maxx and your interior decorating department).

While I'm so excited I could poo rainbows, there's that niggling feeling that I won't warm to the whole scary concept of living on my own.  Yep, its me, one apartment, and a whole lotta freedom to walk about starkers.  Okay, the last bit is a bit of a cliché but one does have to wonder what it is like not to have to grab a towel/hoodie/large coverable object, and dash across the hall on tiptoes when you realise you have left your bra in the laundry room.  There's also the 'naked chef' idea, for which i'm game if it involves preparing salad or similar that won't spit hot oil onto my lady parts and result in an obvious John Wayne-style waddle for weeks afterwards.  

Naked mishaps aside, my main worry is that I will turn into one of those sad, lonely females that politely decline all social invitations in favour of crafting new hats for her cats, and becomes so obsessed with the comings and goings of her neighbours that she spins elaborate lies in her head ("That Peter from No.4 is a member of the Ku Klux Klan so he is.  Wears an awful lot of white so he does...")

I think i'll brave it.  I can stink up the place when i want some fish for dinner...I can have impromtu visits without worrying that we are in the flatmate's way...I can wash my clothes anytime knowing the washing machine is empty...and best of all, the place is mine, all mine! Plus, I'm a cat person anyway :)

{Image:Moonface}

Meanwhile in GaGa-land...

{sofapizza}

Meeting the Parents....

So last weekend was a monumental one considering i brought a boy home with me.  An actual boy reader!

I had been hiding him away for a year.  Bless my parents; they saw the pictures, they laughed at the stories, they even waved and smiled like loons when a video chat with boyfriend was interrupted over Christmas.  But alas, they hadn't met the man himself.  It didn't help either that I was practically a part of the furniture at his place - his mother and I were swapping cooking tips the weekend before no less. 

So when it turned out he had a football-free window in his calendar last weekend; I pounced.  I made sure I booked my parents in for some 'pally time' and dragged the poor fella up the road for a couple of days of smiling politely and accepting endless offers of food.

In the end, I had nothing to worry about; my father was ready to offer my hand in marriage as soon as they both sat down to watch 22 men chasing a ball, shaking their fists at the screen every now and then.  Mother was charmed when she was presented by a box of chocolates on arrival and promptly gave me a not-so-subtle thumbs up followed by a wink.  It was actually the dog that turned out to be the one he underestimated; even chicken-flavoured bribes wouldn't suffice as she kept eyeing him up, looking for the most exposed part of his body to lynch on when the opportunity arised.

At one point in the weekend we gathered around to watch an episode of 'Hands On'. This is a TV programme for the deaf, rather like those programmes that you see when you switch on the box just as you stumble in from the pub at some unreasonable hour.  I had already shamed myself on screen before Christmas with my stint on the programme but of course, they were having a 'best of' special that meant I had to relive the whole sorry thing again, with 7 extra pairs of eyes in the room with me.

Mercy!

Don't get me wrong,  'Hands On' is great, but me? I'm still learning how to sign. If you saw me talk to one of my fellow deafies you would most likely see my hands flapping about madly in every which direction; think 'directing-traffic-in-central-Mumbai-rush-hour-traffic' style and you're pretty much there.  You can see for yourself at 7:38 mins below, but Lord knows the vid itself may disappear in order to help my face go back to its original colour.

Sounds all too familiar...

Nom Nom Nom

So we had the final of 'Come Dine with Me' last night. I was limbering up for a smug new post about how I managed to get them drunk enough by the time it came to scoring my winning menu when I realised that I neglected to blog about the day I actually cooked. Tsk.  The reason it fell off my blogging radar is probably due to the fact that it was one of those days that it interrupts your train of thought, you feel a wave of exhaustion come over you, and need a good sit down with a cuppa tea (and a hobnob, if you're feeling extravagant) to get your bearings again.

In a nutshell, we've taken the concept of the TV show, added a few Irish accents and got rid of the camera crew. So myself and 4 other budding masterchefs in my social circle take it it turns to cook a three course meal every other Sunday (ah, four free meals to help keep the 'end of weekend' blues away) and score each other afterwards.  Add the scores up at the end and the winner is declared.

I woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the morning of my 'night', skipped off to town with my Eco-Warrior Tesco Bags (EWTBs). Checkout workers always give me that 'everytime-i-hand-you-a-plastic-bag-a-baby-polar-bear-dies' look when I forget to bring EWTBs.  Since the only pictures of polar bears I have stored in the cranium are akin to the below, the EWTBs are coming with me dammit.

Run along little bears, run along!

When I arrived back at the apartment several hours later minus a months wages and an estimated 4 stone, my kitchen was fully kitted out with a new baking dish, a baking tray, a measuring jug and a 'revolutionary' pastry roller that I didn't need in the end as the pastry was already prepared and rolled out.  But it is revolutionary, it will have its chance to shine when i finally purchase my '101 Ways with Pastry' book (read: when I make some homemade playdoh).

I started cooking all at once - I figured I'd just go with the flow and wrap the whole feast in a blanket of clingfilm and tinfoil if worse comes to worse and its all done 2 hrs early.  I had things boiling, baking, frying, steaming, melting, simmering, roasting and relaxing all at once. Not sure what that last bit was but it was something edible sitting in the fridge...relaxing. Any questions ask Mr Ramsey yourself.

The dinner itself passed a in haze of paranoia; did i overcook the beef? Did i forget someone's allergy and they are about to drop to the floor clutching their throat and looking at me accusingly any minute now? Why is she only eating 4 spoonfuls of the soup? Is Colm drunk?  The answers; No, not a rash in sight, turns out the poor sod was hungover and yes, yes he was.

I bet you're wondering what the menu was aren't you?  Ah reader, I know thee too well. So here it is, drumroll please:
Starter: Broccoli and Stilton Soup
Main: Beef Wellington with a side of Potatoes Dauphinoise
Dessert: Apple Crumble with Custurd

In fairness, my fellow contestants did put up a good fight and showcased their culinary prowess with burger surprises, special edition chocolate cakes and alcoholic melons (yep, that was Colm again).   Give it a go yourself readers - even if you serve up a burnt mess that would have you hauled up in front of a judge for animal cruelty if you served it to your dog, at least you will have a solid night's craic!

Ah January...

Did you know that January 24th was the most depressing day folks? Its a mix of failed New Years resolutions (we're all back on the full-fat mayo now apparently), the painfully long wait til you get your hands on that first paycheck after Xmas and well, its January ('nuff said). Thankfully that sombre little nugget of information just passed me right by as I was too busy yelping at a sewing machine on the day itself.  See below for the fruits of my labour:

Yesyes, its just a bit of fabric masquerading as some pathetic cushion cover at best (or at worse, some kind of towel to dry your springer spaniel off after a long walk in the countryside, in the rain).  Nonetheless reader, this little patch is just the beginning of my furore into dressmaking.  And next week we get to make a skirt! A skirt reader! I'm so excited i'm using italics!!

We spent the start of the class paired up and measuring each other.  I happened to be paired with a pregnant woman (6 months gone) who helpfully decided to compare our measurements as we went along:

"I guess the bust measurement should be good for the ego, but it will all head south of the border as soon as I pop this little one out!"
"Wow, what a tiny waist you have.."
"Yeah i know, i've such such fat ankles now with all the water i'm retaining (sigh!)"

Mercifully, all was well in the end when it turns out she was a bit of a dab hand with the awl sewing machine and lamented on the little cute outfits she was going to make to kit out the new addition to the family (it was at this point in the evening where my ovaries started quivering at the thought of the little one in a matching cardie and beanie hat!)

In other news, the boyfriend did his bit for his country over the weekend and attempted to get a few in the back of the net, all in the name of futsal.  The evenings were largely dominated by helpful reminders from my fellow spectator Lisa to 'breathe!!' when Joe got the ball and was dribbling in the manner of {insert famous futsal player's name here}. I managed to watch 3 games without falling into a hyperventilative state and congratulated him in the end:

In a totally unrelated note, I discovered the most luciously decorated bar in Dublin last weekend when out for a glass of Orange juice (*ahem* hi mum!!).  If Urban Outfitters was a bar/restaurant, this would be it: http://www.shebeenchic.ie/.  If you're in Dubbers this weekend go see, if only for the photo booth and to take style inspiration from the staff!