Month: August 2015

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A paler shade of pyjamas!

My PJs have long ago decided to mix and match perfectly, for ever!

Since coming home from hospital last month, it’s the funniest thing really but I’ve totally become Queen of the Pyjamas. Every shape and colour I have in the house – with a few new ones thrown in for good measure – they’re all I want to wear right now.

And – slightly to my surprise – I find wearing them, lounging around in them a seriously enjoyable change from my normal routine! Slowly pulling a nice, soft, comfy (loose!!) top from the drawer and sliding it over my head before shrugging on a wide-banded pair of loose pants that won’t bother me in any way is so relaxing!

No fuss, no bothersome mix and match skills required… just one, happy and cosy little collection of pale pink, blue or grey cottons on offer, morning after morning. Fuzzy slippers. Fluffy socks. Maybe a bed jacket? or should I go all out and wrap myself into a bath robe? Decisions, decisions. Easy little ones without a hint of pressure butting in to spoil the mood.

Take today, for instance. I woke up wearing the loose, soft grey oversized T that I wore to bed (no surprises there, aint a lot of action going down these days, thank the lord!). After breakfast and a shower, I quietly and very slowly made my way back up two flights of stairs to ‘change’.

Now, under normal circumstances, i.e. when I’m working (which I’m not right now) and my health is good (which it aint right now), this routine would see me galloping at top speed back upstairs, my morning coffee threatening a reappearance as I raced to get into an outfit suitable for the office to make it out the door by 8am.

Sometimes – it all worked perfectly, because I’d more or less decided what to wear the evening before – and the vibe was good. But there have also been days when Mother Nature played tricks on me and the anticipated warm weather turned into wet, cold, rainy skies. That’s when my careful deliberation raced straight out the window into the damp mist. That’s when a mild panic would kick in. With 12 minutes left I’d be shovelling hangers back and forth, frantically pulling skirts and blouses from the closet in a rush for the bus but also to ‘look the part’.

Not so on the good ole PJ days! Lying quietly in wait for me, my PJs have long ago befriended each other and agreed to mix and match perfectly, for EVER. So the minute I’ve chosen just one piece, the rest of the gang join in like a happy little choir and I’m greeted by a humming, muted array of items, all perfectly amenable to being worn with my first choice.

What more can I say? Happy days. Pleasurable even, which is not what I expected at the start but just what I need right now.

So yay for PJs.

Yay for a calm and relaxed start to each day.

And yay to my on-going recovery, in the palest shades of grey.

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Let’s (not) go camping in Ireland?

Last week, my sister went camping. In Ireland. Took a gamble despite grey, cloudy skies breezing overhead (= Irish summer) because I encouraged her to do so. Me and my endless enthusiasm for life. ‘Give it a go’, said I, ‘what’s there to lose?’ I oozed through the Skype screen.

She may never forgive me.

The thing is… She’s not a camper. Never was, never will be. But because I’ve camped (en famille) with quite some success these past years, I encouraged her to give it a go. Forgetting (uh oh) that by now I’m ‘dutchified’ to the extent that our family’s summer camping trips resemble complete house relocations when compared to the Irish equivalent, i.e. buy a (bit of a) tent, a sleeping bag that maybe fits, a little stove and gas cylinder and Bob is your uncle.

Holy Jaysus. Well all I can say is it sounds like Uncle Bob stayed well and truly hidden on this trip. In fact, I suspect he took one glance at the setup and did a runner, and damn right he was too.

Apparently it started out reasonably well. She, and the rest of the clan, cheerily set up their individual little pop-up tents, defying the rising wind with gusto. They bravely fried up some sausages and bacon on the tiny stove – a feat in itself – before taking a walk on the nearby beach, their woolly cardies wrapped tightly around them. I’m sure at that point they felt like true campers.

It’s the sleeping part that burnt the most. Her daughters, having nipped to the local store to secure bags on ‘special offer’, unfortunately paid most attention to the pretty shades they came in (opting for pink, of course) only to discover when the time came to snuggle in that the glitzy, padded items were in fact, child-sized. Squeezing their legs in nevertheless, they covered their upper bodies with towels, good sports that they are (but oh, to have been a fly on those little walls!).

My sister, smiling as she pulled her adult-sized bag all the way up to her chin, felt proud of their endeavours. This camping lark aint half as bad as I imagined she may even have murmured as she drifted off to sleep.

Two hours later, the rain began to fall.

Now when I say ‘rain’, I’m talking torrential rain. This was no small spattering of drops, but a full fledged Irish downpour, as can only happen when you’re stuck on the side of a hill in a tiny tent, pretending to be a girl scout. Within minutes the roof of her tent began to leak, not in one place – several. Reaching up to test the wetness, she stuck her finger into the fabric, which immediately released a new, flowing stream onto her forehead. Spluttering to sit up, she realised to her horror that the floor had turned soggy and water was seeping quietly in via the side seams.

It was time to abandon ship. Scrambling out of her (now sodden) sleeping bag, she reached for her socks, to find them floating around the end of the blow up bed. Her bra was snagged on the canvas shoe she’d brought in an effort to look the part and her mobile phone was lying face down in a tiny puddle. Shit!! She shrieked, yanking at the tent’s zip on hands and knees.

Her eldest daughter’s voice from the next tent sounded equally frantic, ‘Mam!! Let’s run for the car!’. Hands over their heads, they slid and slithered towards it in the dark, tumbling into the front seats with rain running down their legs, slamming the doors shut as damp fumes began to form. It was 2.30am.

Yes, well… not quite the story I’d sold her on fresh air, total relaxation and peace of mind (based on French experiences). Something tells me her local recycle store is about to receive a mega donation of camping materials. And my next, helpful piece of advice might, just might, be taken with less than half a pinch of salt.

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Aer Lingus, more than just a logo

The thing is… I never really thought about it before, but just now it hit me – I’ve worked my way through so many emotional moments in Dublin airport since I began living abroad, that I can probably trace most of my significant ‘life changes’ back to small passages of time spent to-ing or fro-ing through it!

First were the early trips to Amsterdam (mid-80’s), my mother smilingly waving me off through held-back tears. Her large blue eyes unable to hide how much I would be missed. My father, silent, watchful, quietly pressing a sneaky roll of cash into my hand at the last moment “just in case”.

The dreadful 6am flights, leaping out of bed in the pitch dark, a race to the airport along the back roads of North Dublin, my sister careening the car along at a fast pace, her sleepy eyes barely open with the burden of two toddlers lying heavily across her shoulders. Never allowing me to take a taxi, this was ‘our thing’, she wanted to be the one to get me there and get me there she did. A last, huge hug before I wafted towards the security gate, invariably setting off the alarm before being hauled up for a body search. She’d giggle through the glass wall, watching until the last moment. I’d keep my eyes on her, imprinting her image into my memory to carry me through the next months.

Happy arrival scenes two years later when I showed up with an engagement ring. Joy, laughter, excitement. Partings less sad than usual because a return trip was already planned and celebrations were still to come.

A first visit with my baby son, then two years later, our daughter. Every bag filled to capacity, my mother ooh-ing and aah-ing at their tiny faces the minute we’d trundle into the Arrivals hall. Me, eager to show what a good mother I was with boiled water stored in a separate bottle, formula in a tiny bag, “look mam, she didn’t get any ear ache on the plane”.

Missed Christmases in Dublin, too complicated to manage with tiny children, work commitments, sickness bouts. Cherished memories of Dublin airport’s lavish festive decorations flitting in and out of my head, my mother wistfully wondering if this year they’d have the ‘Welcome Home’ sign up. She said it gave her a feeling of kinship with other mothers whose children had moved “away”.

Summer vacations, busy, bustling plans to travel around the South of Ireland. Aer Rianta’s trolleys with squeaky wheels barely containing the mega suitcases. My mother proudly telling how she’d filled the fridge with all that ‘healthy stuff’ I liked from Superquinn as we’d splash our way across the road to the parking garage, my sister trying to work out where she’d left the car.

Years later, sadder arrivals with a smaller welcome home party waiting at the rails to pick us up. My father no longer alive, my mother moving towards confusion. Heartache. Wanting to stay but knowing it wasn’t possible.

Making The Most Of It…

Duty free gifts, whether coming or going. Aer Lingus stewardesses, a chat and a smile. That first ‘touchdown’ moment or glimpse of Irish soil. Tea-bags, cheddar cheese and sausages, tucked carefully above my head. The passport checker, waving you carelessly by with a little joke. Home.

New set of cards to play with now, my children old enough to do the trip alone. My nieces/nephews already landing here every so often. The cycle of life. Dublin airport and the Aer Lingus logo will always touch a string in my heart. I wonder do they have any clue, the powers-that-be of these iconic institutions? It won’t be just me. The ‘diaspora’ they call us. A fancy name for Irish who moved abroad many moons ago, and prospered, shared their talents even but never let go of what we left behind.

Sure why would we?

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Bikini or no Bikini, that is the question

There had to be ONE good angle it would work from, right? 

The thing is... I’d been dying to buy myself a fabulous, new bikini for a few years. Kept putting it off. Last summer I finally found the courage to saunter into an elegant swimwear store in the ooh-la-la fabulous, South of France seaside town of St. Jean de Luz. Where hubby and I had been enjoying a taste of the authentic good life in our trusty old camper. Told him I was popping in ‘just to browse’ (yeah, right).

Having loitered in a slightly sinister way outside similar tempting but equally intimidating boutiques many a time – without going in – I surprised myself that day. Maybe it was the clear blue sky, fresh summer breeze or sparkling waves that spurred me on. Or maybe I just had a momentary burst of confidence (not easy after two pregnancies have yanked your stomach muscles out of all recognizable shape). Whatever. All I know is I did it. And I’m still glad I did, even though the little venture made a fairly hefty dent in my purse AND my pride!

Why was I so scared you may ask? Because I knew exactly what was facing me the minute I stepped over that threshold. Reality, that’s what. And a full-length mirror to boot, both of which I’ve become marvelously adept at avoiding in recent years. The Madame of the sumptuous, air conditioned little shop was pleasant and experienced, smilingly tolerating my pigeon French response to her Bonjour greeting that I would let her know if and when I needed her assistance. Without bothering me (and I am easily bothered in stores) she gently slid a small selection of the brightly coloured little items in my direction, her soft voice barely intruding on my feverish thoughts as, trance-like, I slowly succumbed to the general a-la-plage mood of her boutique.

Then, “Quelle taille madame?” (me: frantically wondering why she needs to know my waist measurement before realizing it’s my size she’s after). With only a small measure of shame I tell her size 14. After all, I’m 52 years old, have twice given birth and I enjoy life. Food. A glass of wine with dinner most evenings. Could be worse right? Turned out it is worse. Within minutes I was stepping into the tiny changing room, three bikini tops draped across my arm, her smiling face encouraging me as her skinny little arms yanked the curtain closed. As soon as I caught sight of my pink, sweaty face in the mirror, I knew I was in trouble.

From beyond the narrow bit of fabric that shielded both of us from total embarrassment, she peppered me with questions while I struggled to remove my heavy Diesel sneakers (my husband having insisted I cycle with ‘real shoes, not flip flops!’), my socks, my baggy summer pants (which by now were moist around the waist with sweat from the hills we’d puffed up and down to get here). My tiny summer top, which I’ve told myself emphasizes my good shoulders. And there it was, staring me in the face in the long mirror: The TRUTH. Layers of fat that should be somewhere – anywhere – else, resting on my hips, my thighs, my belly and upper arms, staring me boldly in the face. Filling out everywhere except the one spot I might not find it so objectionable: my boobs. Holy Crap.

How the hell had I let things slide this far I whined in silence to my shiny face as desperately I swiveled my body in all directions, frantic to find at least one angle which looked less whale-like than the rest. There wasn’t one. Merde. Well, there was nothing for it but to try on the damn tops now I’d gone this far, I told myself. Lunging my boobs into the first one, I gained a moment of satisfaction from the sight of my good shoulders saving the day slightly. Maybe it wasn’t that bad I whispered to my mirror image, maybe there was still hope…but then the curtain swayed and there she stood, her expert eyes narrowing at the sight of me. ‘Excusez moi madame’ and before I could object she had stepped into my space, her small, capable hands yanking the damn thing higher, reaching into my bra top with more determination than any man I’ve ever known!

With nowhere to go my poor boobs tried manfully to cooperate and as the seconds ticked by even I could smell the sweat from my armpits (damn those hills!!). Finally, with a sigh, she stepped back. ‘ah oui, n’est-ce pas? C’est meilleur madame’. Well it had better be an improvement or I’ll have you for sexual harassment I mumbled under my breath but of course she was right. The mirror and I were in agreement. Who knew my boobs could reach such dizzy heights?

But now we had reached the trickiest bit of all: the lower-garment. La culotte. ’Quatorze?’ she asked with a question in her voice. ‘yes, but perhaps you can bring a bigger size as well?’ I countered, trying to sound casual about it. Glancing at my front bottom, she swiftly agreed, ‘Oui’. That said it all. Two tryouts later and an apologetic mumbling on my part to explain my sagging belly, we’d settled on a black bikini bottom. (One size larger than what I’d hoped for). I’d had enough and so had my scalding limbs.

Smiling coyly at me while I pinned a small fortune for my indulgent act, she helpfully remarked that starting a diet en vacance was never a good idea. I rambled on about the lusciousness of French patisseries as if my unwelcome chubbiness was something new, something recent which could only be blamed on my eating habits of the past ten days, ‘les gateaux en France, vous comprenez?’.

Pitiable. Vraiment. And a load of old cobblers what’s more. Still, I was pleased with the new bikini. I felt better in it once I’d left the pretty shop and could view myself in our camper’s half-length mirror. My husband even managed to squeeze out a “Nice love”, bless his heart. I allowed myself to believe him. But the bell has tolled in whatever language I chose to go for and that night I promised to shift some of those extra kilos, as soon as we got home. I did. But when your fridge has a pretty box stuffed with jammy beignets (sounds so much nicer than donuts, don’t you think?) it’s a big ask. N’est ce pas?

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Wannabe a Gilmore Girl

The thing is… for some daft reason, I have always had a tendency to replay drama scenes I’ve just watched on TV, in my head, within minutes of watching them. I become so ‘caught up’ in the story it’s an easy step to lose myself (again) in the drama while vividly I re-live all the emotional highlights.

Take just now, I was watching an old episode of The Gilmore Girls. It’s a goodie, the one when Luke (Danes) mans up to the stress of Lorelai’s father getting a heart attack, so much better than her gimpy, self-indulgent husband of that moment, Christopher. (Who, by the way, has ‘run off’ to lick his wounds because he feels she still loves Luke more than she loves him and actually has the audacity to ignore her pleading calls to make his way to the hospital! As it turns out, she does actually (love Luke more), so I guess there is some justification for his seemingly paranoid fears but still – what an idiot. I’m gunning for Luke, every time again).

Making myself a cup of tea in the kitchen, with the last scenes on pause so I can savour them quietly while sipping a joyous mug of Barry’s tea, I find myself repeating the dialogue quietly to myself while the kettle boils and I pop a (precious) teabag into a mug. But because I’m lost in my own little ‘dream world’ so very marvellously – I fluff it. And end up calling Luke “Lake Dunes” in my pseudo Lorelai-role. Which puts an immediate end to the whole thing because then I just have to laugh, out loud, at myself and my silliness. And everything grinds to a happy halt.

It’s an odd habit, I’ll readily admit. But no doubt one I’ll continue to do. Why not, right? Other than making a bit of a gob of myself now and then, there’s no harm in it as my mother would have said. And sure everyone around me knows I’m a little bit odd.

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Hospital Shenanigans

“It’s not every day you’re yanked out of your life and dropped head first into Critical Care, now is it?!“

The thing is… I ended up in hospital for most of last week. One of those weird, unexpected medical emergencies that can jump at you out of the blue – the kind you think only happen to ‘other people’ – suddenly leapt at me and dragged me by the heels into a nightmare week. I got the whole shebang… strapped to a stretcher, a speedy gallop in the ambulance to Emergency Aid while my insides (seemingly) took flame. I’ll spare you the details. It’s not been pleasant.

But… as always, I couldn’t help but notice and wonder about the nicer elements that dribbled onto my path during the more ghastly hours. Moments to remember and either cherish or just plain snigger about. Like the wife of the Moroccan man who shared my room.

A complete stranger, she showed me such love that it took my breath away. Watched me carefully during every visit, as one would a child, and was faster on her feet than any nurse to gallop for a tray when my face showed danger signals… then washed it gently and sat stroking my arm until the wave passed. My “Moroccan Momma” I called her later. It made her smile.

The professionalism of the ambulance doctor/driver who calmly guided us through that first terrible hour, reaching me through the haze of pain and (like a mother tiger) successfully pushing me to top slot in A&E upon arrival. No mean feat.

The pretty, English lady who occupied the bed beside me for two nights. Sweet, clearly in a lot of discomfort, she quietly drew my curtains as needed, listened to my woes with patience as I did hers. Smiled a lot. No pressure.

The night nurse. An angel in slippers. Quietly checking I could cope with the nausea (I couldn’t) she helped me feel a little secure, a little cared for, in that hugely unfamiliar environment. It meant a lot.

And then there’s me. Bursting into tears two minutes before the entire medical team landed at my bed end on day three. A classic. Peeping out from behind a washcloth, I groaned inwardly at their fresh, youthful, sparkling white appearance and (mildly surprised) reactions to my mini melt down, for which I make no apology. I mean, it’s not every day you’re suddenly yanked out of your life and dropped head first into Critical Care, is it?! Worn out, Watered Down and Withered is how I felt looking up at them, a sad little voice yelling in my head “oh just you wait!! I’ve had many good years, I’m not always this pathetic!” and more of that ilk. When I finally reached for my list of ‘prepared questions’, drawn up at 5am that (sleepless) morning, I could swear their eyebrows lifted even higher. Hah! Made me laugh later anyway, always a good thing.

Odd though, the temporary relationships you can form with others, even with yourself in these unexpected situations. Intense, because on a physical level there can be no hiding. Intimate because there is a need for ‘connection’ to get you through the challenges, or sleepless nights. And real. It seems to me, that with all guise of our normal lives stripped away, we easily, ungrudgingly become equals again and barriers are lowered. We reach out, with greater ease. Our tolerance levels rise, our togetherness flourishes.

Might do the whole Euro Summit group some good, don’t you think, a quick spell together in the old A&E? Just one week, I’m not greedy.