Man, I feel like a woman

Not one to wallow in happy mediums I often dabble in extremes. And I’m not talking about useful talents or gifts but more mundane things like emotions, sense of smell and nerves. The slightest unexpected noise can have me jumping half a metre off the ground and shrieking like a cat being raped. Actually, it doesn’t even necessarily need to be unexpected: toasters are a frequent source of worry as I get a horrendous shock each time the bread pops up – even if I’m waiting for it! I also have a ridiculously overdeveloped sense of smell which has me fleeing in disgust from certain restaurants and cheese shops or anywhere with a strong odour.

My Occasionally Sober Friend has never understood these issues and always accused me of overreacting – attention grabbing if you will. One nice surprise I had recently however was the news that she is pregnant! As you might gather from her name this is proving quite the challenge and so I find myself glossing over any references to alcohol in the stories I tell her. My weekend tales now involve pretend pints of Ribena for fear she’d have me describe in minute details the taste and sensation of ever sip of wine or beer I have.

More entertaining though is the multitude of changes she is going through. She can rocket from deliriously happy that the supermarket has 10 cents off her favourite bread to miserably weepy that there are three people in the queue before her. She was always quite positive about a good bargain but her reaction now involves anything from dancing, singing and jumping to slouching, crying and sighing – all reactions I empathise fully with. Her sense of smell has also sharpened to a degree that brings her in line with mine. She now spends a good 30% of the time moaning about the smells around her. Making the list even longer she seems to have developed my jumpyitis and frequently gets frightened by honking cars or loud supermarket announcements.

I love how your pregnancy has helped you understand me better I informed her (yes it is all about me). She pondered this for a few moments before adequately clarifying the situation. Basically this just means that you always act like a pregnant woman – you must be ever so proud!

Six foot four and full of muscles

Have you been working out? my Occasionally Sleeping Friend asked me recently. Of course not I replied indignantly. Gyms scare me in many, many ways, all those people jumping and flailing about on sweaty machines indoors before getting back into their cars to drive home – it’s too… weird.

It’s just that your arm muscles look really big he explained with a slight hint of awe in his voice.

Really? I shrieked in an excited pitch only audible to canines as I jumped up and raced to the mirror to check out the situation. My OSF followed me and watched in amusement as I attempted to flex my milky white chicken arms while peering with anxious concentration to see if there was any visible bump.

Hmmm he said gravely actually I think it was just the way you were lying on your arm – sorry.

When I’m sixty-four

I had an entire week of training at work recently. Usually it’s a welcome opportunity to get out of the office and do something a little different. This time however they wanted me to do work. Actual work! I mean really – haven’t they met me?

It was a programme to become a certified IT trainer (a concept I’d have been struggling not to laugh at if I wasn’t too busy struggling with learning how to use basic applications). It turned out to be a week of never ending assignments to prove my credentials. The whole thing culminated in an observed training session on an IT topic chosen by the instructor.

Now I find the whole IT world dull to say the very least so the week was hardly one peppered with laughter and amusement. I kept myself awake and alert by perfecting my doodling and sharpening my imagination until Day 3 when the instructor announced that she had chosen the topic on which I was to demonstrate my teaching abilities. She had also come up with an appropriate pretend target group of students. I sat nervously hoping it would be a remotely interest group so I could spice things up and make the whole charade more fun – perhaps a group of inmates from a high security prison? a bunch of luscious one-armed lesbians with tourette’s? – hey I could even make do with an Alcoholics Anonymous group - anything that would remotely raise a smirk would suffice thank you.

You will be teaching an old age pensioners club she dryly announced as my eager face fell with discontent. My mind drifted out the door on a wave of disappointment but was instantly snapped back when I heard the topic I would have to present- you will be teaching them how to insert objects! she explained.

Insert what now? I chirped in disbelief. Objects! she repeated, puzzled at my delighted reaction.

I’m teaching OAPs how to insert objects? I gushed with laughter How fabulous! - whoever said IT was boring?

In my imagination there is no complication

To enter the building where I work we have to go through a security check just like at the airport – but without any promise of an exotic destination. We have to pass through a metal detector which limits what type of belts we can wear and how much loose change we can smuggle inside. We also have to ensure we’re not carrying anything remotely embarrassing in our bags as they’re all sent through an x-ray machine too. When you do this day in day out, every morning and lunch it becomes so tiresome and tedious that anything to divert boredom and entertain is grasped with startling enthusiasm. This usually involves a healthy dose of imagination and whichever security officer happens to be working at that time.

Also distracting was the announcement made at work last week that ‘The Swine Flu has hit The Hague’. And I must admit they seem to know about these things – remember this from just a few days before anyone had ever even heard of the thing? Now that there are two confirmed cases in the area they’ve made their advice more specific and published a list of what to do and what to avoid, including;

- Use paper tissues when coughing or sneezing, use paper tissues once only
- Wash hands after coughing, sneezing and blowing your nose
- Clean doorknobs, kitchen appliances, keyboards and your desk frequently with antibacterial substances
- Avoid routine kissing, shaking hands and touching.
- Wash hands after every contact with a person displaying flu like symptoms
- Call your GP and stay at home if your symptoms persist or worsen

I took all this in and found my mind drifting through the x-ray machine following my bag to the other side. As I glanced at the security officer I began piecing together the defence case I’d establish. How could the officer possibly mind if I was to  grab him suddenly and bend him backwards with a flourish in order to slap an enormous kiss on his terrified face?

I’m only trying to avoid the flu! I’d plead – I’m bringing my kissing up to guideline levels and making it as un-routine as possible – I didn’t even want to kiss  you, honestly, I’m only trying to stay healthy!

You don’t have to put on the red light

My Occasionally Sleeping Friend joined me in Sarajevo after a few days which made enjoying the city even easier than before.  Making the party more fun was a friend of his who is working in Bosnia and happened to be in Sarajevo at the same time as us.

As I had to work for a few days they explored the city together during the day, taking photos in the sun and catching up on news from home. Having made her ridiculously jealous about the view we had from our hotel room we agreed one day to all meet there when I was done with work.

I was more than a little puzzled to see both of them waiting at a table in the lobby instead of sunning themselves on the balcony absorbing the spectacular scenery. As I walked towards them I noticed that they both had bright red faces and looked particularly uncomfortable as they sat in stony silence.

When questioned why they were hanging out in the dark smoky reception area my OSF replied slowly and gravely the receptionist stopped us going upstairs and informed me that I could only bring my ‘friend’ up with me if I was to pay an extra hourly rate.

It was all I could do to not erupt in laughter as I gazed on the unfortunate two who couldn’t have looked any less like a prostitute and a John if they’d tried. Stifling my laughter I approached the receptionist who after a short discussion agreed we could bring our ‘guest’ upstairs to quickly show her the view if we came right back down again – five minutes max! she sternly warned. As we quickly and nervously shuffled up the stairs I was amazed that I was able to resist the urge to turn my head back towards the lobby and whisper five minutes is all I need anyways!

Surreal in her crown

I had only just shovelled up the last batch of broken glass from the tasteless extravaganza when I had to pack my bag and head off to Sarajevo. Sarajevo is a city unusually close to my heart so it was with an extra dramatic hop I pulled my case to the airport despite my post party exhaustion.

There is just something about the spirit of that city that is impossible not to soak up. A tremendous positivity that is spiced with an exotic eastern atmosphere. The scent of Turkish coffee, baklava and shisha follow you as you wander down each narrow lane while the magnificent mosques act as your elegant orientation points.

What a shame that when people hear the name Bosnia and Sarajevo the first thing they think of is not how stunningly beautiful it is. Surely this will change with time. Personally I can’t help but feel comforted and energised as every evening the houses light up the green hills sourrounding the city acting as a twinkling background to the countless illuminated minarets.

There is a legend about a fountain in the old town that if you drink from it means you will return again one day to the city. I drank greedily until I was pushed aside by the impatient growing queue. It has worked three times before. It had better not let me down this time either.

More photos from my trip can be found here

What do you see when you turn out the light?

If the success of a party can be measured by the mess made then mine was a greedy triumph. All bottles of beer, wine, vodka, gin and lord knows what else were emptied, at least six glasses were broken throughout various locations, there was cake, garlands, candles, spilled wine, Christmas Tree needles (!) and wrapping paper strewn about the place making a fuzzy grey carpet-like sticky mess across the entire floor. It was as if 60 people had been partying instead of 30.

But as I crawled up to bed, feet sticking to the floor, gingerly avoiding shards of glass as the first light of dawn was sneaking in I looked about at the mayhem, with my Occasionally Pole-Dancing Friend and his Certain Someone asleep on the sofa-bed in the midst – I was as happy as I have ever felt before.

Time after time during the evening people had come to me to tell me how wonderful my other friends were, how great my Occasionally Glamorous Sister is and how much they liked my Occasionally Sleeping Friend.

It turns out that despite all my best efforts my bad taste party was, in the end, the very best taste possible.

Decked Out Like a Christmas Tree

Normally I tend to hide under rocks as my birthday approaches. I go into denial overdrive for fear that someone will discover my true age (26 if you really must know). However this year I feel like celebrating…

I have finally finished that dreadful thesis (or faeces as I took to calling it) and for better or worse sent it off. My love life has taken a ridiculously wonderful and bizarre turn for the better and it’s all I can do to stop myself getting down on one knee. And my plans to go travelling, while moving back and forth in my head, are getting more and more real by the day.

So after deciding I’d throw a party on the day (Friday) to honour my eternal youth my next decision was what kind of party would it be. After much soul searching I decided the theme would be Bad Taste and along with the invitations sent a demand that everyone must dress up in the most horrible clothes they can find (anything from the current H & M collection would easily suffice).

Now the wonderful bonus is that everyone thinks I decided on this theme because I’m ridiculously fun - when the truth is that I’m simply planning on taking countless photographs which I can then use as ammunition against my friends if ever needed.

I have also announced that there will be a prize for the worst dressed person there so I am expecting some truly hideous outfits. And in case anyone suspects that I am being selfish and mean to my friends let me just reveal that at least I didn’t go with the first option which was to tell everyone that there’d be a prize for the most expensive present given to me on the night.

I hate you so much right now

Just slow the hell down I roared at the world. Can we not just pause for a moment to give me a chance to look and see what’s going on around me?  But life rudely ignored all my pleas and for the past few weeks I’ve been drowning in intensive training courses, organising work trips and holidays alike, entertaining guests and planning for others. And submitting dissertations. Well actually just the one. I finally got it done and sent it for the final nod from my schizophrenic supervisor. That was a few weeks ago and I had all but forgotten about it when a dark gloomy e mail arrived for me this week listing, in encyclopedic proportions, all the shortcomings of the paper and what NEEDED more work. Much more work!

I had a little scream. I had three big screams. Then I had a series of about a hundred smaller ones again which have only just finally slowed down long enough for me to remember I have a blog.

I now have a serious choice to make as the deadline for the dissertation is only a few days away. I could spend this weekend making an extremely detailed voodoo doll of this woman while sipping Amaretto Sours on my sunny balcony or I can reluctantly (and reluctantly is an gigantic, enormous, colossal understatement) open up the books again and pour over every comment she made and perform the miracle on the document that she seems to be requesting.

So, does anyone know how many pins are needed for an average voodoo doll? I’ll be needing double!

Trying not to listen but they shout so loud

I felt ridiculously multicultural and fabulously integrated (while nodding proudly to my roots) when I went to see a production of The Beauty Queen of Leenane in The Hague this week. I simply couldn’t imagine how such an Irish play could be performed in Dutch and my curiosity was in overdrive by the time I took my seat.

The performance itself turned out to be sadly rather underwhelming although I did enjoy the actors struggle to pronounce the word Leenane itself. Their attempt at Riordan also made me chuckle.

By far and away the funniest moments came from the two lovely little old ladies sitting at the end of our row. Bless their cottons but they must have been 90 going on dead and were clearly over-stimulated at being allowed out for the night. During one particularly somber scene the only thing anyone could hear in the theater, totally drowning out the actors, was one yelling to the other Can you hear what they’re saying? - Can you follow what’s going on?. She went on to repeat this deafening query every five minutes throughout the play to the bemusement of the audience (and no doubt actors).

The crowning moment however came when one of the two leading actresses entered the stage and was greeted with one of my old ladies announcing in a booming voice to the whole hall My god she’s got fat!. It was worth the price of the theatre ticket just for that.