Oldilocks and the Denim Jackets

I actually hate shopping – Kate Bosworth

You wouldn’t think it would be a big thing, would you?

I just assumed that when the sun finally comes out and I can start wearing palazzo pants and flip flops, and decide that a denim jacket is the only thing that will go with this ensemble, that I can go out and buy a denim jacket from whatever shop I want.   There’s one in the window of every shop I pass, so there shouldn’t be a problem, should there?

I hate buying clothes.  I used to love it about twenty five years ago, when I was a size ten, but twenty five years ago I was a student and had no money. 

Not that I have any now, but at least now I get to waste my wages before I start thrashing myself about and lamenting my poverty.  Back then I just had no money.

So off I went, at lunchtime last Friday, to buy a denim jacket.
It’s a curse, in ways, working in the centre of town.  I often think that if I worked in some industrial estate miles from anywhere, that I would have money coming out of my ears.  Every little idea that crosses my mind ends up with a gallop out to Henry Street at lunchtime, or after work.  Or when I have it really bad for something, in the mornings before work even starts.

Anyway, the denim jacket was only a notion I took.  I am under no illusion that I am young and will wear the jacket to threads, so I had no intention of buying an expensive one. In any case, most of the jackets in the shops seem to be in threads already.  Christ alive, I sound a hundred years old.

In the first shop, the jacket looked lovely from the front.  The right colour, the right shape, your classic denim jacket.  I thought I’d hit the jackpot and was just flicking through the rail, trying to get to the big girl stuff that I imagine the shops shove at the back of the rail so they won’t be accused of being sizeist, when I noticed that the jackets had some sort of slogan printed across the back.  I think they might have been in stock for the Guns and Roses concert last weekend.  I can’t remember what it said, but it was something along the lines of “Here comes Trouble” or “I’m Trouble” or something, with angel wings and yokes all over it.

God be with the halcyon days when young lads would see me coming and think “here comes trouble”, in a good way.  I don’t honestly think they ever did.  I have a much adored younger sister who I hung around with all the time as a teenager, and still would, if she wasn’t so far away.  She was trouble.  I was the eejit going along two steps behind her trying to encourage her not to be so bold that we’d both end up locked in the house forever, when our parents heard of the latest outrage.  She’s great fun, and I really think that if it wasn’t for her I never would have gotten into any sort of trouble at all.  Too eejity.  She is brave and bold and devil may care.  And blonde. 
Nobody ever saw the pair of us approach and thought “Here comes trouble” about me.

And even if they had they wouldn’t think it now.  In fairness maybe there’s a better chance of young lads thinking I’m trouble if they saw me approaching these days.  For as I age I am developing Bitchy Resting Face.  They’d probably think I’m coming to eat the face off them (in the bad way) or tell them to keep the noise down, or worst of all, to take their grubby paws off my errant daughter. 

There are endless reasons why the jacket was not an option.

In the next shop every denim jacket looked like it was held together by hope and one last thread, which if snagged, would cause the entire garment to fall asunder.  I never wear ripped clothes.  Well, I do, but only when I’ve accidentally ripped them myself.  I don’t buy ripped clothes, because my 1980’s recession reared heart can’t accept that I should pay full price for something that looks half destroyed.   And also because I don’t have the innate style that some women have, that can make ripped clothes look cool and chic. 
My style is more hobo, I look like I’m wearing ripped clothes because I’m so thick or so lazy or so delusional that I don’t care how bad I look.
No to the ripped jackets.  They’ve gone too far.  It used to be frayed cuffs and a careful small patch above the pocket.  I’m not buying a jacket that looks like someone’s been stabbed in it.

Next was next.  They had a jacket that looked, on the hanger, like it should be okay.  They looked big, and like an eejit I thought that either I was getting smaller (I’m not.  I cannot put words to how silly that idea was) or the sizes are getting more generous.  Instead, I discovered that this jacket was referred to as “outsize”.  I don’t know what it means.  Maybe it’s what we used to call baggy in my teenage years.  But baggy never worked for denim jackets.

This one came down past my hip, and was far too wide around the waist.  It was a ridiculous looking item.  I can only assume that the eighties revival is still going on.

In Marks and Spencer the only nice jacket they had was cropped.  Seriously cropped.  It barely came to under my boobs.

What a frightful idea.  Imagine wearing a jacket that precisely highlights what’s where other people’s waist and curves and nice bits are.  Not a question of it.  It was too short.

Too big, too small, would I ever find the jacket?  It was getting to a time where I was very much expected back at my desk.  But I’m an instant gratification type of person.  I very rarely try to put an outfit together.  And now that I had thought about one, I wanted it immediately.  I decided to be brazen and run to one more shop.

And there it was.  The almost perfect denim jacket.  A bit darker than I would have liked, but the right shape, not torn to shreds, no motifs or statements.  Just a denim jacket. And, if you can believe it, reduced by twenty five percent.  I got the funny feeling I get when I see something I think I really want.  A sort of butterflies in the tummy carry on.  Where I take the coveted garment from its hanger and slip it on, expecting to be immediately transformed into a beauty in the mirror.  Not because denim jackets doth beauties make, but because I wanted a denim jacket.  I always think, in the shops, that if I get what I want I will automatically look a hundred times better.  I am an advertiser’s dream.  And a complete and utter gom.

It was too good to last.  I knew that.  The closest they had to my size was either two sizes too big, or two sizes too small.

I was like a divil.  This was one of those one day spectaculars, allegedly, where everything in the shop was reduced just on Friday.  Feck it anyway.  But sure, you couldn’t have luck.  You can’t find the jacket that will suffice, you’ll note I’m not even pretending it was perfect, and just buy it, reduced in price.

I must have been a bit delirious from all the clothes shops at this point.  I hate them, and every time I go to one makes me hate them more, as I feel a little more of my past self die away and a little more of my new middle aged self take over.

I bought it two sizes too big, with the notion that when they get sizes back in next week, I can just exchange it, thus still getting it for sale price. 
I brought it back to the office, and showed off my purchase, for the benefit of the group.  I try to insist on this when we all get something new after payday.  Before I even took it out of the bag I was explaining the predicament with it being size enormous.  Even though I work with these people every day, and they know what I look like, I make it my business to not mention my clothes size and act like it’s smaller than it is.  

You can imagine my horror, when I put the cursed fecking yoke on, to discover that I don’t need to change it.  It’s not a perfect fit, but it’s near enough that I know my usual size will be too snug. I’m afraid to go back for the one that’s one size too big, in case the same thing happens. I’m distraught, of course.  I don’t want to go up any more clothes sizes. 

The Boldest Dog in Ireland

What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog –Dwight D Eisenhower

I thought it was going to be a nice quiet week, without drama or adventure to give me something to write about.  I was wrong.

This is Poppy.

She is, without doubt, the boldest dog I ever met in my life.  If our three dogs were criminals, Marley would be a jaywalker, Rory would have ten points on his licence for speeding, and Poppy would be Genghis Khan.

She joined our merry band the same week as Rory.  I think His Nibs was a bit jealous that I’d bonded so well with the new puppy, and wanted a puppy of his own.  And so he sneaked off, allegedly to a hurling match, and returned with Poppy.  He alleges that she was homeless.  We were later told by the vet that she was thirteen weeks old.  I remember quite distinctly asking His Nibs why a cute little dog like her would have no home at thirteen weeks old.  I worried whether there was something wrong with her.

And I could spend my days doing my I told you so dance around this house because, God knows, I was right. 

She is deranged and demented and bonkers.  But like a pair of fools, we love her.  Especially His Nibs.  He absolutely adores her, and lets her do what she likes.  Maybe he feels sorry for her, because of my constant roars of

"Poppy, will you stop? Stop! Please, Poppy, please.  Right, that’s it.  You have to go.” 

I don’t know why I bother.  I know we can’t get rid of her.  Conversely, because she is so bold.  If we didn’t have her, she’d end up in the pound in a few days.  Sure who else would put up with her?

I’m not unprovoked in criticising her.  Being an early riser, His Nibs goes to bed early.  I don’t.  I love night time.  Especially during the weeks when we’re both working early shifts.  Because I’ve had two car naps (see last week’s blog).

So off His Nibs goes to bed.  Followed by a troop of dogs.  They hop up on the bed.  Eventually I follow them.  When I get to our room, Marley hops off the bed, and makes his own arrangements, in his own bed, which I appreciate.  Rory ignores me.

Poppy prefers not to get off the bed.  She starts growling and giving out and grabbing mouthfuls of duvet.  So I have to have another row with her, it’s all a lot of hassle at bedtime. 

And she’s constantly making bids for freedom.  She headbutts the wooden fence panels around our garden until they give way.  Maybe she has a brain injury by now, actually.  And once she cracks the fence panel she starts chewing bits out of it until she can fit out the hole.  Poor eejity Marley follows her, and the two of them gallop around the estate causing ructions until one of our fantastic neighbours takes them in. 

Then we come home and have to beg forgiveness and prostate ourselves with gratitude, which is genuine, and buy another fecking fence panel.

Poppy at our six feet high fence.

Yesterday was a new low.  I was in work, and didn’t look at my phone until around 12.  I had several messages.  All from the neighbours.  All telling me that the boldest dog ever born had made another successful escape.  She was running around the estate causing mayhem and barking at people and being a complete nuisance.

I couldn’t just leave her to cause uproar and finish up with a good belt of a passing car, could I? I took a half day.  The poor neighbours were, by all accounts, run ragged trying to save the little fecker.  I couldn’t just sit in work and let them get on with it.  I don’t have that many holidays left, as it happens.  They seem to evaporate like my money does, with no explanation.  I do not consider using them up to collect a delinquent dog a good plan.

I had to take His Nibs’ car, and leave him in work.  As I drove I visualised her lying on the road, tyre tracks on her fur.  Or some poor small child with tooth marks in its hand.  I had myself wound up to ninety by the time I got home.

I got another call en route.  She was in a neighbour’s house. Rescued again.  I went straight to that house, on my arrival in our estate.  These very kind neighbours have a dog of their own.  When I got to their house, Poppy was in their garden.  This was, it transpired, because she’d been in the house, and decided she liked the look of the chair their dog is allowed sit on.  So she went for the Labrador’s throat, in the innocent neighbour’s kitchen.

The kindly neighbour was driving her car into our estate yesterday when she saw a streak of white fly by.  And she thought to herself that it looked like our dog.  So she grabbed her own dog’s lead, and followed Boldy Arse down to the village.  Where Madam was running over and back, across the main road, as the admittedly scant traffic built up around her.  Neighbour approached, but apparently it was like that scene in Rocky where he’s trying to catch the chicken.  I’m not surprised.  I can’t get my hands on Poppy in the confines of our kitchen.  There’s no way I’d catch her out in the world.

There’s a number of volunteers who clean up our village on a Monday morning.  At least I think they’re volunteers.  To be honest, for all I know they could be a chain gang on day release from Portlaoise prison, but I very much doubt it.  They all look like nice law abiding people.  One of the group decided to assist our neighbour.  With no success.  So another member joined in.  And eventually the entire group, and our neighbour, were in the middle of the village begging this one small dog to control herself and not throw herself under the traffic.   Where she would have been perfectly safe, as it happened,  traffic being at a complete standstill for some minutes at this point.

Eventually she was corralled into a corner, hitched up to a lead, and led back to our estate, to cause murders in her rescuers kitchen.  That dog will make an old woman of me.

His Nibs came home on the bus.   One of the reasons that His Nibs was so attractive to me, when we met back in the Dark Ages, was because he was absolutely gorgeous.  Another was that he had a car.  We lived deep in the country, and young lads with cars of their own, instead of just a loan of their parents car on a Saturday night, were like hen’s teeth.  His Nibs, being the independent soul he is, worked himself into the ground when he was a teenager, to keep his car on the road.  He’s always had a car.  He is not in the habit of taking buses.  Apparently it made him sick, and gave him a pain in his belly.  He wasn’t in the best of form when he arrived home, even later than usual, tired, and a little green around the gills.

He was even less pleased when he was informed that I had booked a dog trainer who is supposed to be brilliant.  He’s been recommended to me a couple of times.  He runs obedience classes in a field in town.  There can be up to twenty dogs at one of these classes.  We can’t go, because our dogs are so bold they’d fight with every hound in the place and the whole class would fall asunder.

Happily, it transpires that this man will come to our house for three hours, and train all five of us to behave ourselves together.  He is not intimidated by my reports of Poppy’s Houdini like adventures.  I didn’t tell him about the rest of her carry on.

I decided that in order to make the most of the three hour class, I should make a list of problems we’d like to address.  I started, but it got out of hand very quickly.  I’ve had to stop.  It was just too depressing.  In any case, their behaviour is so appalling at this stage that I think the trainer will know what’s what from the second he sets eyes on the little brats.

He hasn’t got an appointment until the second week of June.  By then at least two of them might have been squashed by a car on one of their escapes.  Or they may have finally eaten each other alive.  Or His Nibs and I might be in a home for the bewildered.  But if all goes well, I’ll report further.

I could be a morning person, if morning happened around noon.

I love sleep.  My life has the tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know?

– Ernest Hemingway

I’m not sure that early birds should ever marry night owls. 

I should know, because I am a Lazy Daisy whereas His Nibs is one of those people who, at the first beep of the alarm, jumps out of bed, into the shower, into his clothes and out of the room in an unnervingly short time.  We’ve been living together for almost twenty years, and this difference in our personal habits is no easier to deal with now than it was the day we moved in together. 

On a Saturday or Sunday morning his early bird tendencies suit me down to the ground.  He gets up at all hours, usually around 6a.m. (allegedly.  I wouldn't know), escorts the dogs out to the garden to complete their ablutions, feeds them, and then gets on with productive things like gardening. 

I snore on into the late morning in peace.

Then, when I finally wake up, I roar out the good news that I am now conscious, and would like a nice coffee, please.  As soon as possible.  Immediately, in fact.

Because he is a good man who loves me, and he enjoys a quiet life, he brings me a coffee.  Rory, delighted to see me finally awake and available to give him endless attention, jumps onto the bed and I lounge there, like a queen, drinking coffee and petting the dog or reading a book, until I take the notion to get out of my pit and get on with the day.  But that’s only on the weekends.             

Every second week, His Nibs and I travel to work together.  His Nibs, because he is bonkers, insists that we’re both in the car ridiculously early.  He considers himself late if he’s not in the vicinity of his workplace an hour before his shift starts.  He spends the time drinking coffee, and standing outside the building smoking and greeting early arrivals in an insanely cheerful manner. 

I, on the other hand, consider things a roaring success if I arrive anywhere, including work, within twenty minutes of the latest agreed time.  I spend the spare time before work on these early mornings sighing and cursing my ill fortune in being landed with such a punctual spouse, and generally being difficult.

On the mornings when we commute together, His Nibs wakes me by giving a good few shouts at me to get up.  I refuse.  He insists.  I refuse again.  He takes the duvet and runs to the spare room with it.  I explain why it is unfair that I have to work for a living and try to make it clear that I cannot be expected to go to the office yet again, he tells me to stop blathering on and get up, and I go back to sleep.  Then he shouts furiously that I’m to get up and get ready, and that I can sleep in the car.

This is to remind me of the fantastic system he set up to make the commute easier.  He drives.  Every day.  And while I could just sit in the passenger seat with my head bobbing about like a deflated football on a stick, we go one step further.  He makes me a car bed.  His Nibs prepares, in the morning, by leaning the passenger seat back quite far, and putting my car pillow and car blanket on the seat, in a bed like fashion.  And in the winter a pair of slippers for my added comfort.  In summer there is a sleep mask for my use in the glove compartment.

I eventually stagger out the front door, stumble around the garden, and finally fall into the car, where I instantly, and I mean instantly, go back to sleep, only to be shaken awake when we get to the Big Smoke. 

The arrangement is, that since His Nibs does all this driving, I park the car in the mornings, because by the time he through the traffic he is desperate to get out of the car, and into the coffee.  And in the evenings, I finish before him, so I go and get the car and have it at the door when he finishes.  Then I jump back into the car bed and go to sleep again.

There’s been a couple of hairy moments.  I wasn’t happy the morning I was greeted  by a laughing colleague, who had been in a service station buying milk on the way home the day before, and had met His Nibs.  Who invited him, invited him if you don’t mind, to have a look in our car window on the way out, to see what a fine life I have with him.  I was so deeply asleep at the time that I didn’t even know we’d stopped for petrol.  Not only had we stopped, but His Nibs and this man who I know personally, had spent a few happy moments laughing in the window at me snoring.

Another day the sun was too bright, despite my wearing my sunglasses, so I pulled my summer car blanket up over my eyes (yes, I have seasonal car blankets), lest my sleep be disturbed.  When His Nibs was stopped at a Garda checkpoint he was asked to wake me up, to prove to the Garda that he hadn’t killed me, I am just a very deep sleeper.  That was when we equipped the car with the sleep mask.

As I write this, I realise that His Nibs sounds like a saint. It’s worth noting that if I didn’t have my car bed, I’d moan and whinge and thrash myself about in the car all the way to work.  So not all his actions are for my sake.  Better a sleeping peaceful wife than a tempery fishwife, I suppose.

But neither weekends nor commuting together are the real problem.

No, the real trouble is the mornings when I’m supposed to go to work early, and he isn’t.  So I have to get up and drive my own sorry carcass all the way to Dublin.

And on those mornings chaos reigns in this house.  As usual, His Nibs gets up ridiculously early, and deals with our pets.  Because he is on late nights for the week, he wants to go back to bed.  But I’m doing my usual refusing to get up and begging for “five more minutes”.

He knows perfectly well that if he goes back to sleep I will also go back to sleep.  I will snore and snooze the minutes away until well past the latest time I can leave at to reach the office on time.   His Nibs doesn’t like trouble, and he is very well aware that we need both salaries to keep a roof over our heads. 

So he starts shouting and roaring and giving out and insisting I get straight out of bed and go about my workday.  And I lie there moaning and groaning and once again lamenting my ill luck, and saying how unfair it is that he can stay in bed and I can’t.  And then he points out that I’ll be home at least three hours before him in the evening.  And I say that that’s no good to me now, when I want to sleep.  Then the argument gets sillier and sillier until we find ourselves both wide awake, roaring at each other.

 

It's a miserable time.  Even though His Nibs likes the late shift, as he gets to avoid the traffic on both journeys, I hate that week.  Because it costs a fortune in double petrol and parking.  And because I get exhausted from all the driving and the loss of my car sleeps before Monday is even over.

This week is one of those weeks when His Nibs is on late shift.  I had no problem getting up this morning.  This is because as soon as I opened one eye and saw him, I nearly fell out of the bed with fright. 

As I said, I’m a night owl.  I love night-time.  Even when I’m getting up early and His Nibs isn’t, I usually go to bed well after him, and well after I should already be asleep.

Last night I decided to be grown up and mature and well behaved, and I went to bed at a reasonable time.  I’d say it was the first time this year I had the sense to go to bed early.

And how did my husband spend this time he had alone?

Did he do the ironing?  No. 

Did he write me a love poem? No. 

He fecking well shaved his beard off.

He has had his beard for twenty years.  He was in his twenties when he first grew it.  And being but a slip of a lad he had no focus and was forever messing it up when he shaved.  So he’d shave the whole thing off and start again.  It was an unpredictable time.

But ever since he learned how to trim it, he never shaved it off again.  Neither of us can remember his being clean shaven in at least fifteen years.

I think he should have woken me up with a shout of “I shaved off my beard, look, look!”

But he didn’t.  Instead he stood by the bed, leaned over so he was too near me, and started shouting at me to get up.  He put the fecking heart across me.  I thought we had a handsome burglar,  that some ridey stranger was so overcome by my feminine wiles that he’d broken into our house in the early hours to declare undying love. 

To be clear, this is highly unlikely to happen, and I wouldn’t want it to.  I’m happy with the ridey non-stranger I live with, thank you.

He frightened the life out of me. 

 I wasn’t pleased this morning, I like his beard.  But I’m already getting used to it.  He looks grand.  Of course, being the contrary pair of goms that we are, he’s now decided he misses his beard and is growing it again.

Putting the Ass in Embar-Ass-Ment!

I do love to cry.  I’ll cry at the drop of a hat. -Miranda Hart.

-And me.

I do not flatter myself that I am a gracious type of person.   I almost always say the wrong thing on any social occasion.  I tend to hang around with His Nibs as much as possible, because he’s in the same boat and we rely on each other to deliver a sharp puck in the ribs when one of us takes a wrong turn in a conversation with normal people.

But in a lifetime of faux pas, and making a holy show of myself and talking too much, I‘ve rarely been as horrified and mortified as I was the other day.

His Nibs and I have three dogs.  They have destroyed our house and rule our lives, but we love them dearly.  You know the way child free people are often a bit odd about their pets? It’s as if they have more time and energy to give to a pet, and go too far.
I don’t mean we dress them up in little outfits and push them around in prams.  We’re odd, not bonkers.  But we are so soft on them that they have no manners or training at all.
The smallest one is a Westie.  His name is Rory.  And I can say this, because they’re not children, and I'm not their mother, but he's my favourite.
I don’t know if any readers have ever owned a West Highland Terrier.  They’re described, by www.hillpet.com, as “smart, independent, and a little stubborn…they are tough, determined little dogs…a handful to train.  They do not always feel the need for human direction."
Rory absolutely never feels the need for human direction.  I don’t think he sees any reason why he should do anything he is told.  Nor does he understand why he is expected to eat dog food rather than human food.  Even though he’s eating the best dog food money can buy, and we're usually having toast.
He is also very clever.  Clever enough to know that if I ask him to behave himself, and he refuses, that I am big and he is small and I can pick him up and stop his boldness.  His most effective method of getting his own way is to be affectionate and waggy tailed and follow me around looking delighted to be with me, and I’m an eejit I'll let him do what he likes.

Finally, you ought to know that Rory can’t bear being groomed.  And this is where our real story begins.

His Nibs usually brings Rory to the groomers because he creates such an almighty fuss.  Rory goes so loopy that he has to be sedated.  For a haircut.  Now in fairness, is that reasonable?
Anyway, because he needs to be sedated, he goes to the grooming salon attached to the vets practice, so a qualified person can administer the necessary drugs for him to have his hair cut and his ears cleaned.

I tend to fall for the dog’s nonsense.  He cries and begs to be brought straight home.  He barks and whines and generally carries on as if he’s going to be killed and served on a platter.  And I always feel absolutely awful, and stupidly offer to stay with him, or to just take him home, or do whatever it is that the dog wants me to do.
And then the groomer has to send me away in disgrace, because the dog is in no danger and is being bold and spoiled, and I’m falling for it.

So His Nibs brings him in.  Because he’s a more rational person than me.  When Rory starts carrying on, His Nibs just tells him to behave himself and to “man up”.  I think His Nibs might think that I'm making the dog into a bit of a diva.
Rory was due to go to the groomer’s on Monday.  Due to a series of unfortunate events, His Nibs wasn’t in our house on Monday morning, and it was left to me to escort Rory to his appointment.
As I’ve said, he knows when he’s dealing with an eejit.

He jumped into the car with glee, delighted to be singled out from the others for a jaunt out into the world.  He was waggy tailed and happy all the way to town.  He even jumped out of the car quite happily.

Not like me.  It was Monday morning, and I’d sort of missed His Nibs, and my hormones must have been at me or something, because I’d woken up feeling a bit dramatic, and only got worse.

When we got to the door of the vet’s, Rory suddenly realised where he was going and sat flat on his bottom, refusing to move another inch.
I dragged and hauled him in to the reception area, where he started jumping up at me, and scratching at the leg of my jeans as he does when he wants to be picked up.  (Yes.  In the same way as children hold their arms out to their mothers when they want to be picked up, my dog puts his front paws on my legs and scratches me until I pick him up and carry him around for a bit.)         

When the groomer came out to get him, Rory started to whine and cry.  He started reaching his front paws toward me, in a begging way, to be picked up.  And when she finally dragged him away, his little claws were dragging along the floor in his effort not to be left behind by me,
As he went through the door, he barked pathetically for my help.  From behind the door I could hear him crying.  He really was very upset. I was having visions of him being distraught and terrified for the next two hours. 

Now, as I’ve said, my hormones must have been playing me up that day.  I felt sorry for the dog, but in my heart I knew he was perfectly safe. 
I was definitely tired, because in His Nibs’ absence, I was the one awoken at all hours of the morning, when the dogs decided to begin their day.   To be completely honest, I may or may not have had a quick bottle of wine to help me nod off on the Sunday night.  And it was a Monday morning.
His Nibs wasn’t around, so there was no need for me to make any effort to control or behave myself. 

But still, there was no need for me to start crying.  Not roaring now, but sort of sniffing and squeezing out a tear, maybe.  I felt sorry for Rory, but this was pure self-indulgence and nonsense.  I knew that. 

But sure, if you can’t indulge yourself on a Monday morning, when can you?

As I made my way to my car, I met a woman outside the vets.  She was also in tears.  I was unhappy to see that she was holding a teacup Chihuahua in her arms.  The dogs eyes were rolling in her head, and she seemed to be struggling to breathe.

Jesus Christ, I thought.  Her dog is dying.  The poor woman. One of our dogs died a couple of years ago, I knew how sad she must be.
I stopped to make sure the woman was okay.  Well I couldn’t just march past her and pretend it wasn’t happening, could I?  I was just offering support.  She told me the awful tale.  Her little dog wasn’t going to make it, all hope was lost.  The tears were dropping off this woman’s face as she told me.  I was horrified, obviously.
She accepted my condolences graciously.
“And how about you?  How’s your dog?"
Jesus Christ Almighty. Has there ever, in the history of the world, been anyone who could such a total mess of a simple errand like dropping the dog in to be groomed?  This woman, when she saw my miserable face, obviously thought we were in the same boat.  What could I say?  Honestly now, what would you do?  I could hardly tell this poor woman, whose dog wouldn’t last the day, that I was crying because my dog was having a haircut, could I?
But I certainly couldn’t lie and pretend I was in the same situation as her.
"Oh, ahm, well,  he’ll be ok.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s staying her for a while.”  This was technically true, but I could feel my face burning with shame at what I was implying.
“I’m sorry.  I hope he’ll be ok.”
How kind this woman was, in the height of her sadness about her own dog.
And what a low down scurrilous lying fiend I was, taking her sympathy because the fecking dog was having a fecking haircut.
But can you imagine the look on her face if I’d told her?  If I’d said “Oh, he’s grand, he’s only here for a pampering session.”  How awkward would that have been?  She was waiting for an answer.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine, thanks.  They’re not too worried about him.”
Well, they wouldn’t be, would they?  I literally ran away from her.  I was ashamed and mortified. 

When the groomer rang, two hours later, to say that His Majesty had had his wash cut and blow-dry, and his pedicure, and was now refreshed and fragrant and ready for collection, I almost asked her whether the Chihuahua woman was still outside.
Because His Nibs still wasn’t home.  What on earth was I going to do if the Chihuahua had rallied, and the woman was still there, and I had to stroll past with a perfectly healthy, freshly groomed dog?

She wasn’t there.  But it would have served me right if she had been, and if she’d given me a good belt for myself.

I’m serious this time.  I’m never dropping a dog to a groomer again. 

Beauty is pain - but how much pain??

"If you retain nothing else, always remember the most important rule of beauty, which is:

who cares ? - Tina Fey

I wasn’t going to share this story on the blog.  Because it makes me sound like the stupidest woman in Ireland.
But two weeks ago, I took it upon myself to comment on the relationship status of a teenager who is a complete stranger to me. 
Last week I blathered on at some length about how other people deal with their children. 

Maybe it’s time that I put myself in for a bit of judgement, I'm feeling brave today.
Here goes.... 

I almost never leave my house wearing makeup.  I go through short phases of putting it on at some stage of the day, but there’s no true commitment there.

I’m no better about my hair.  I wait for the perfect storm before attending the hairdresser.
The perfect storm involves a number of factors.  My hair has to be snow white at the roots, at least one inch at each side of the parting, I need to have been paid that week, and I need to have a Saturday free. 
When all these things are in place, I ring for an appointment. By then it’s too late to book in for the Saturday.  By the following week I’ve spent all my money, and the whole caper starts again.

Now for the worst confession of all.  Once my hair is horrible enough,  I start not caring about my eyebrows. I have mental eyebrows.  Very Ernie-esque, when left to their own devices.

But I decide, sure feck it, things are so bad now, that nothing will improve things.  I’m not proud of it.  But it’s the truth, and I’ve learned to live with it.
Happily, I have a colleague who hasn’t learn to live with it.  She’s the only person in my life who says things like “your hair is ridiculous, sort it out” or “your eyebrows are horrific, have you no shame?”.  Lately, she made a comment on the eyebrows.  I made up some excuse, but she wasn’t having it.
She told me there was a great place around the corner, good beauticians and inexpensive, and to get myself over there before the day was out.
I went over at lunchtime.  It’s a hair salon on the ground floor.  Absolutely tiny, and shabby enough to be called grotty.  Or horrible.  As I walked in, one of the young stylists turned to me, and shouted that he hoped I was there about my eyebrows.  Which caused everyone in the place to spin around and look at them. I went red and shuffled my feet and nodded, and he called a girl who looked young enough to be making her Confirmation to see to me.
She looked sorrowfully at me, and I asked for a 5pm appointment.  She said that would be fine, but made no attempt at all to record our conversation or even pretend she had an appointment book.

I went back at five, and the tiny girl arrived up the stairs, followed by a woman who had perfectly lovely eyebrows.  It crossed my mind that she’d probably been having her legs waxed or something, and had come in with the nice brows.  Because this salon was giving me a funny feeling.  A bad funny feeling.  My brain was telling me to leave immediately. But I knew I looked a holy show, and in fairness, the place had been recommended to me. 

I followed the girl down a very narrow stairs, to the “beauty salon” in the basement.
More bad feelings.  The room was divided in two by a flimsy partition wall.  To the left was a storage area, holding two large hairdressers chairs, presumably being saved up for when they get a premises big enough to house them. 
To the right was what looked like the kind of bunker that kidnap victims are usually hidden in.
There was a beauticians bed, where the waxing was to take place.  Beside this was a cheap self standing shelving unit.  At the end of the tiny room was a washing machine.  Between the end of the bed and the washing machine was a pink plastic shower curtain.  I don’t know what the curtain was in aid of.
When I got onto the bed, my head touched the partition wall on one end, and my feet the plastic curtain on the other.

The girl had very limited English, but it was a lot better than my Chinese.
“What you have done?”
“Ah, well, remember I asked at lunchtime?  Eyebrows, underarm, legs?”
“No.  I no wax leg.  Take too long.  I very tired.”
Jesus.  “What time are you closed at?”
“Seven.”
“We have plenty of time, don’t we?”
I was going on a little spa break the following day with a beloved friend who I have never seen looking less than fabulous.  I needed a leg wax.
“No.  I too tired.  No wax legs.”
I hoped to talk her around as we went along, and I had no time to make an appointment anywhere else, so I suggested we get started and see how we get along.
“OK.  Eyebrow first.  Close eyes please.”
I closed my eyes, but nothing happened.  I opened them again to make sure all was well.
Just in time to see a stick hanging over my left eye, the wax just dropping off the end.
Thank God blinking is so natural.  If it had been any other part of my body in peril, I wouldn’t have been quick enough to get out of the way.  As it was, I closed my eye, just as the large blob of hot wax landed on my eyelid.

She’d fecking well waxed my eye shut. 

There was a brief, horror filled silence.  Then the girl started shrieking.
“Oh no! Oh no!  I sorry.  I so sorry.”
I like to pity myself at times like this (not that there’d ever been times like this before, but you know what I mean).  I would have preferred to lie back and be taken care of, by a capable and intelligent person.
There was absolutely no chance of that happening.  My beautician (and I use the term oh so loosely) was panicking. 
In fact, she’d lost the run of herself completely.
“Please no shout, please not shouting, I have baby in China, I want bring baby here, if lose job, no baby!”
Now.  I really want this girl to get her baby.  But my eye was glued shut by hot wax.  I tried just rubbing it off.  Big mistake.  It took quite a few seconds to unstick my hand from my eye.
“Calm down.  How do you remove wax?”
“Yes, yes, I wax off!” she responded as if I’d made a brilliant suggestion.  She moved to get more wax from her bubbling pot.
“No, no more wax!”  Christ Almighty.  “Breathe, take a deep breath” Why was I calming her down?  “How do you remove wax?  How would you get the extra spots of wax off someone’s leg when you’re finished?”
“I get a strip, I wax it off."
“No, I don’t want my eyelashes waxed off.  Seriously, how are you going to get the wax off my eye?”
She stared at me wildly.  “Cold water?”
“No.  Cold water will only cool the wax, and set it like cement.  Come on now, there must be something you can use to remove wax, think!”
After a few seconds she came to a bit and removed the wax with some sort of cream.  It really stung, and my eye felt raw and sore for ages afterward.
Now I know anyone with a brain would have gotten off that bed and gone straight home, not stopping to discuss payment.  But she’d gotten so upset, and I was still thinking about the poor baby in China, waiting for its mother to return.  She’d panicked, but sure, these things happen, don’t they?  I lay down again, and she carried on and waxed my eyebrows.

She worked in silence.  The atmosphere was tense.  I wished for the soft lighting and plinky music that nicer establishments usually provide. 
Eventually she finished, and turned to the rickety shelf to take down her mirror, so that I could approve the work.  As soon as she moved the mirror, a scissors fell from the shelf and landed, point down, mind you, in the middle of my breast bone.
It didn’t really hurt actually.  But there was a lot more drama.  In all the fuss I didn’t even notice, when she showed me the mirror, that my eyebrows were absolutely awful, messy and barely smaller than when we’d started.

I still didn’t leave.  She wanted to make time to do my legs, just to make sure that I knew how sorry she was.  But even I'm not that stupid.  I'd probably end up in a wheelchair.  We were just going through the “are you sure?”, "It’s fine” conversation when she, for absolutely no explicable reason, rubbed my exposed belly.  (I’d let her do my underarms.  I wasn’t just lying there in the nip).
“You have lovely skin”.

A belly rub.

I jumped from the little bed and flung my top back on as quickly as I could.  I was just leaving when she threw her arms around me, and hugged me.
I had finally, at long last, become terrified of the place.  I paid her of course.  I think I even tipped her.
The following day, when I met my friend in the hotel, one of the first things she did was to take a tweezers from her handbag and tell me I couldn’t go around in the state I was in.  I shaped my eyebrows in the hotel bathroom.
So now I’m doing my own eyebrows.  I’m traumatised, I can’t face another salon yet.  I’m not great at it. In fact, my right eyebrow currently has a bald patch in the middle, and what I can only describe as a combover.