Bewildered, Confused and Unislimmed

So the Unislim Food Maximising diet may be one of the most complicated I have ever come across in my whole entire life. Don't get me wrong. I can certainly understand the practicalities of it and see how, in theory, it could work and will report back any successes and failures, but so far I am kinda baffled. I suspect I'll be spending the first week or so of this in a permanent state of confusion and hunger for fear of eating something I'm not supposed to. Or else there will be many moments of throwing the hands up in the air and just eating something that's handy. But I shall do my best to avoid such indiscretions. 

Then again, at least there's exercise. The only thing that will ever keep me from turning into a full blown fattie again. Marathon training has (sort of) started. 3 miles tonight along with my long overdue return to boxing. Although the running has yet to fill me with enthusiasm, I'm quite looking forward to some punch-bag time. There are one or two faces I could easily picture while throwing some sissy punches. Fingers crossed, both Unislim and exercise will get me back on some sort of a path to svelteness. Final straw came on Saturday when I ripped my jeans trying to yank them up over a roll of fat. How depressing. Especially considering they are relatively new and how much I love them.

I wonder are my sewing skills on a par with my weight gaining abilities?

The sad case of Wheelie-Case

So I'm at the point where I'm beginning to doubt whether I'll ever see my little case again. Ten days on and the "search" continues, though I'm ultra cynical about the fervour of said search by the good folks at Aer Lingus and have no faith whatsoever in the useless shower at Gatwick airport who failed to get the case onto the plane in the first place.

For those of you who are unaware of my predicament, about ten days ago, on returning from the "hen to beat all hens" (broken ankles, hospital visits and the like) I boarded flight EI233 from Gatwick to Dublin, little wheelie case in hand and proceeded to search for a suitable spot in the overhead bins in which to store it. Space in aforementioned bins was unfortunately at a premium that day, so Air Hostess Man suggested I hand wheelie case over to him, where he would ensure it would be placed in the hold, safe and sound, for retrieval at the baggage carousel in Dublin. I duly handed wheelie case over and haven't seen the damn thing since. Grrr.

At this point I have spoken to pretty much every baggage handler that works for Aer Lingus, twice. My cause has been elevated to higher powers (David the duty manager) but with no discernible results. I have filled out a 7 page long document listing the contents and value of everything wheelie case contained and have described these contents ad nauseum to anybody in Dublin Airport who will pick up the phone. Makeup, Camera, Book, Toiletries, Shoes, a whole host of 80s dress up gear, my new denim jacket etc etc...

What makes matters worse is that the photos contained on lost camera are quite simply irreplaceable. Not only did I document pretty much every minute of the Hen festivities. I have also chronicled, in both photo and video format, poor Orna's night. From ankle break to (what turned out to be) premature release from hospital. I have it all. And let me tell you, it's bloody hilarious.

So I am sad. I am wheelie caseless and wheelie case contentsless. Apparently I'm too nice and had I spent the past week shouting and cursing relentlessly down the phone I would have been reunited with wheelie case by now. But this is not the (ahem) "case" and the wait continues.

Boo hiss to Aer Lingus and Gatwick Airport. You suck balls.

Dating - could I be arsed?

I wonder should we get fussier about who we date as we get older or simply throw caution to the wind and grant a meetup to anyone who has the conviction to go ahead and ask for our number?

This afternoon fell into column B for me. Knowing I wasn't attracted to my date, I had nevertheless given him my number last week because, well, he asked for it. I then very quickly found myself in a situation where I had a date pending that for most of the week, I was less than enthused about and after waking up with a hangover this morning, these mediocre enthusiasm levels had dropped to record lows. In fairness to my date, he was perfectly nice and normal and we had a fine time. Decent chats and the like and no awkwardness. But 2 hours of my life was enough and home I went after lunch.

So the afternoon went pretty much as I expected it to. No great surprises. No thunderbolt moment where I felt that my initial opinion of the guy was way off and that actually, he could be the love of my life. And at this point, after 33 years on this planet and lets face it, all 33 of them spent sussing out men, my initial evaluation of them tends not to change very much. Give me less than half an hour with a guy and I will have formed an opinion that, rightly or wrongly, 99% of the time is likely to stick.

So hence my question. Should I just put myself out there and go on all sorts of dates with randomers when my gut tells me that after an hour I'll be looking at my watch and fabricating an excuse to leave? Or should I just be a little more discerning in my quest for Mr. Right and not waste my time with a man that can't even stir a modicum of excitement in me at the prospect of meeting up?

Any experts out there care to share a thought or 2? Because I honestly just don't know the answer.

Marathons and Baked Delights

I feel like Mr Blobby. The assumption that I won't be able to eat a bite of food for at least a week after getting the teeth out on Friday better hold true, otherwise I'm in quite the lardy pickle. 


I was in trouble from the start today. Breakfast had barely settled, then cut to me, sitting in my office staring down a box of Ferero Rocher. A slice of Lemon cake sat next to it, lovingly baked by Carolin and wrapped in tin foil. Also tin foiled was some banana bread from last week's baking endeavours and a slice of choccie cake that I brought in for Eric as he missed out on last night's food fest. Eric was AWOL and I was getting peckish. It could have all gone horribly wrong and it kinda did. Granted most of the bingeing happened when I got home and to the best of my knowledge there are still tin foil clad cakes in the office but no Fererro Rocher. It was unfortunately, one of those days. When you come home early and start watching YouTube videos instructing the viewer in the art of making Pulpo, Calamari and Tortilla de Patatas, followed by Jamie Oliver shaking a few pans containing Chorizo and other Spanish Delights, things can only go downhill. Or in my case, in the direction of the fridge. I'm so full of chocolate and cheese I may puke. The upside is that I'm ready for Spanish Night and all the cooking that it will entail. Olé!


At least by then I will have started Dublin Marathon preparation 2011! My program is typed up and ready for printing and sticking to the fridge. Am quite looking forward to ticking off the miles and getting stuck in to some proper training again. Lord knows I need it. May 23rd is D-day. I will be minus 3 wisdom teeth and (hopefully) will have made it through the 2 hens the month has on offer. Nothing for it then but to get running and think about fitting into some pretty dresses at all these upcoming weddings - and running the Marathon in October - but pretty dresses come first.

Stupid Wisdom

So, I'm just back from visiting the man charged with extracting my troublesome wisdom teeth. It's on for next week. Friday 7.30am. I don't mind revealing that I'm more than a little nervous, not least because I went in there expecting to discuss the two teeth that were coming out. But no, apparently I just have far too much wisdom and he's going in for a third. Yeiks!

The quite delightful oral surgeon enthusiastically explained, that although, to date, the tooth hadn't actually broken the gum and was therefore not yet causing me trouble, it surely would. So I would either be back in a year or two or he could  do the whole job lot next week. I can categorically confirm that I won't be inflicting a second tooth surgery on myself in the not too distant future so with a sense of resignation I told him to just take the lot.

Then came the matter of my general health. "Good" enthused I, "though I woke up with a bit of a cold this morning", I added through blocked nose and sniffles. This seems to be a problem. So now I'm on penicillin from Tuesday so I'll be in tip top condition for the horrors of the surgery. If I have a sore throat, cough or temperature, it's not happening.

I believe however, that the lovely man is less concerned about the current state of my health than he is about the fact I plan to hop on a plane to London a week after the extraction and hen it up again - roller-disco style! This worries him - to the point that he suggested whipping the teeth out on Monday instead. But then he remembered the cold and we were once again back to Friday.

Oh the trials and tribulations.  At least his lovely secretary told me I looked far younger than I am. One positive to take away from the morning.

God I'm shitting myself...

Chubster Dating

So I've just been on Fatbook, logging the mountains of food I've eaten today and all the exercise I subsequently  had to do to burn it all off and I saw an interesting question posted in the forum.

"Are any of you currently single & holding off on dating until you lose more weight? I am. Some of my friends & family keep encouraging me to go out on dates & I've had some offers from guys on online dating sites. But...I just haven't "dared" to yet because I'm just not feeling very attractive right now. I think I might continue holding off on dating until I lose at least a little more weight first. Anyone else in the same boat?"

I have to say, that question made me a little sad. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to argue that in my more porky days I had much more confidence than the elephant man, I most certainly didn't. More often than not my confidence levels still verge on the shitty, but I can't imagine that I'd postpone dating because I wasn't yet thin enough. After all, the likelihood is that I may never be.

It's like this, life is really bloody short. And the more I aimlessly wander through it with no sense of the future, the more I realise it. So why on earth would we want to be putting such a short life on hold just because we still have a few lbs to lose?

All I know is that if guys were going around asking me out I certainly wouldn't let a my wobbly bits put me off. It's hard enough to find someone without taking a little break from it all because we're feeling like a bit of a chubster. Besides, if I waited till I was 100% happy with "project Cathy" before going out and living my life, I'd find myself in a big box, being lowered into the ground wondering where it had all gone and what I missed out on. 

Hens and Cakes and a bit of Bile...

I'm actually so tired I'm practically drooling on my laptop. Not sure this will make for a great post as I'd like to touch upon my weeks worth of news with some sense of coherence...

I'm already disturbed by two words I've just written - drooling and coherence. To rehash my weekend will certainly lead to further use of such words (insert "in" before coherence) and  the disturbing fact that I have yet to wear my new blue dress out and come home with it not covered in puke. Shameful Cathy, truly shameful. Without going into too much detail, I can confirm that I love an auld hen. Seriously good times. The only problem arises when one realises that what had been threatening for a long long time finally hit. And hit with a vengeance. A full blown, toilet bowl hugging, bile retching, night long case of alcohol poisoning. God I thought I was actually going to die. At one particularly dark moment, when I thought I would never stop hurling, I genuinely contemplated calling an ambulance on myself. However, remembering my tendency towards the dramatic and knowing that there really wasn't much they could do to stem the bile tide I settled for hugging the toilet bowl some more and praying for an end, which thankfully eventually came. Now I'm simply left with the dilemma of whether or not the lessons learned preclude me from drinking this weekend or not. Surely a couple of coronas or a few glasses of red can't hurt?

On the upside, after the night spent emptying the contents of my stomach, I felt decidedly slim, a sensation I have not enjoyed since prior to my sojourn Spain. I'm still trying to get back into some sort of exercise/food routine. There seems to be an issue here however. The thing about exercise is this: It lulls you into a false sense of food security. So after a bit of a run and 20 minutes with Jillian Michaels it suddenly seems perfectly acceptable to eat the entire contents of one's fridge, reasoning that it's already been pre-exercised off the hips or belly or wherever it chooses to sit. I must constantly remind myself that this is not the case and reign myself in. Fatbook (My Fitness Pal) is supposed to help with this. And to a point it does. But then there's all the cake baking...

It's charity time in our house. Annual alzheimers cake sale/coffee morning is upon us and there is a finely tuned operation at work in the kitchen. Mum's got a crumble conveyor on the go and I'm getting busy with a banana bread, with which I plan to extort some cash out of my college peeps. I just pray it's up to scratch. I get very nervous when I bake for others, even though I know I'm perfectly well capable of throwing a few bananas and walnuts together. At least it seems to be rising so that's always a good start. Must now ensure that all this baking does not lead to a similar amount of eating. That would not be good at all.

Fingers crossed and Bon Appetit! Julia Child eat your heart out!

El Clásico

There is a chance I may have sufficiently recovered from Saturday night’s antics to remain articulate enough to get this post together. I’m not going to lie; it’s been a rough few days. The damage I took such joy inflicting upon myself over the weekend, seems to have been so great that 4 days later I still have lingering pains and a general sense of unease. I believe however, that the uneasiness may only increase over the next few days as the realisation that I may have to do it all again while cluck clucking around Clonakilty at Fay’s hen smacks me harder in the face every day. Perhaps, as I am a grown-up, I could see about taking a few lessons from “Sloshed Saturday”, applying what I’ve learned and concentrate on returning from the People’s Republic slightly less dishevelled and disgraced than last weekend...perhaps, perhaps not. We shall see.

So I’m currently settled on the couch, clad in PJs, cuppa in hand, watching football and wondering whether the headache that had plagued me for the past two days has finally gone away. I haven’t been able to figure out whether I was still hungover (aka dehydrated), had some business going on with my sinuses or simply just “stressed” (not likely). Whatever the cause, I’ve been bothered and I don’t like being bothered. The good news is that two days of a dull thud finally spurred me to get up off my ass and head out for a run. I haven’t been out since I got back from Espana and that’s pretty disgraceful considering I recently agreed to do the marathon again.  I reasoned that whatever the cause, a few miles pounding the pavement was likely to improve matters and so far so good. I have to say, even though I was suffering with a serious case of the belly-wobbles, I very much enjoyed my run in the sunshine. It seemed as though the whole of Dublin was out, smiles on faces, making the most of the weather and the various goings on also had me grinning from ear to ear - the family in the convertible, singing along to the radio at the top of their lungs; the guy, perched on his bike, who’d stopped for a big dirty ’99 on his way home;  schoolkids on their holls making the most of their days off and of course all the happy smiley dogs, overjoyed just to be in the park chasing balls, sticks and one another.

On my return home, I finally got stuck back into the “30 Day Shred”. Owtch. About a week late, but better now than never I suppose. The very intimidating Ms. Michaels had been working miracles on me prior to my sojourn in La Coruna, but 3 weeks away from shredding and all the good work was very rapidly reversing itself.  I decided to just go back to level 1, start there and see how I went. This was a bit sickening to be honest,  as I'd pretty much just finished level 2 three weeks ago before going away and eating and drinking my way around Spain. Funny thing is, I only put on about 3lbs on my epicurean (gluttonous) “holiday” , but I feel like it's so much more. Everything seems to be jiggling again. This leads me to understand that even when I do finally complete level 3, I can't simply stop. It really doesn't take much for all those inches lost and the tightness gained to turn to flab again.  Woe is me – it really is a never ending struggle.

Speaking of never ending struggles, I’m beginning to tire of watching Barcelona play Real Madrid. Ooh, maybe I take that back. As the “Special One” so often predicts, one of his boys, Pepe, has just been sent off. And now Mourinho himself seems to have been sent to the stands for good measure. Actually, tonight has been nothing short of thunderous from the start. The third of the El Clásico tetralogy (thank you The Guardian from teaching me a new word today) has been an exhibition of frayed tempers and pretty dyer football from the outset. This series of 4 matches promised so much and yet is delivering so little. Perhaps these two great teams are saving themselves for the finale next Tuesday. I think boxing may have to be rearranged just in case the fourth El Clásico actually becomes a classic. Still, I can sit here imagining I’m back in Spain, beer in hand and Tapas in front of me with shouts of “joder” echoing  around the bar with wild gesticulating to match. Vamos Barca! Time to squish Los Blancos.

Whoop whoop 1-0. Messi you beauty, el guapo! It's like you were listening to me.

And now it's 2. Messi again. Little genius.

3 Little Words...

"Copper Faced Jacks"

Just typing those three little words is turning my stomach yet again. There is puke on my new blue dress, a cigarette burn on my knee, unexplained cuts on my "décolletage" and I awoke with remnants of baby Guinness dried into my skin. Today has been a complete blur, never mind last night. Am debating (with little lucidity) the merits of texting back the randomer who procured my number in the Bleeding Horse. Merits are proving to be few so looks as though Paddy will not be the love of my life, or even date of the week.

Piecing together the night is proving difficult. Oh it all started off with such promise. Met the girls in Portabello for a lovely dinner in Seagrass, though the BYOB with no charge for corkage should have set the alarm bells ringing days ago. That, and the fact that I skipped off to dinner with 2 bottles of wine in the bag was bound lead to nothing but the drunkest of debaucheries.

Perhaps if I'd gone home post Bleeding Horse, when everybody else did,  instead of going to meet the brother and his mates in effin' Coppers (of all places) I might have come out of the night unscathed. I however, was very determined that at 1.30 am, the night was still young and I was only getting started. Coppers is quite simply a blur of double vodkas. I vaguely remember brother doling out some stern words and dirty looks to one of his mates who may have been trying to chat me up. I do not remember which mate but it's a nice little ego boost all the same. I barely remember leaving Coppers and have hazy memories of getting a taxi back to the lads house. The rest of the night is a mystery. I awoke on a couch in the wee small hours in desperate need of a puke but have no idea how I got there or how long I'd been comatose on said couch. Some kind soul had however put a blanket over me - one of the girls i suspect.

So today I am a shadow of my former self. Easter lunch out with the family was painful. I did OK to a point, largely because I was still drunk. But as the soberness set in it all just became that much more difficult. When I finally did make it home, there was nothing for it but to take to the bed for the afternoon.

Tomorrow will be a very different story altogether. There will be warm water with lemon to start the day, porridge, salads galore, yoga, running and a spot of 30 day shred. The time has come to call a halt to the food savaging I've been indulging in for the past 3 weeks and to return to Fatbook and my quest for the skinny.

As for my list ticking - it's been going ok. Apart from the PhD (surprise surprise) so tomorrow will also be a day of serious work on my part.

God, I just hope the hangover is gone by then. I couldn't handle another day of this. My brother, on the other hand, is, according to Facebook, on his way back to Coppers. Excuse me while I retch a little...

A Poem and a Plan

So I wrote a poem today. I'm not sure what I think about this. I never considered myself much of a poet but I actually don't think it's half bad (for a first timer!). All I know is that I had a heap of stuff in my head that simply had to come out and 20 minutes later I had some words resembling poetry on a page in front of me. There's a lot to be said for waxing poetical, brevity for one. I could write and write in this blog for hours on end and still probably not quite hit the right note, but in a few lines this avo, I had pretty much splurged my soul onto a bit of paper. Pretty cool me thinks. Unfortunately, said poem will not be seeing the light of day anytime soon, the light of this blog in any case. It's just a little too personal and raw, and lets face it, even though I seem to think I'm the next Seamus Heaney, it's probably crap.

Speaking of splurging one's thoughts on paper, I finally made use of that diary I bought back in January and have actually made a plan for the next few days. Go me!  I've a few bits to do that can be long-fingered no more. There's also the matter of some PhD work that I simply have to get finished, primarily because I'm sick to death looking at it and also because my supervisor is about to disown me. Materialism, a topic which I had once found interesting, now just gives me headaches and fills me with urges to hide under the duvet for a very very long time. These urges must be circumvented at all costs and pretty quickly too. If I succumb, I may not emerge for an age, except to eat the contents of the fridge and that's just bad to the very core of all that is bad.

So there are lists. Things I could potentially tick off. Did I mention I'm very bad at list-ticking? I'm just not one of those people who goes to sleep at night content in the knowledge that they did all their little jobs earmarked for that day. I tend to veer more towards the "nothing on list accomplished" gang. Which ultimately drove me to dispense with lists altogether. Yet here I am again, rearmed and ready to tick. Lets see how I do over the next few days. I'm here to sort out my life after all, perhaps list-making and list-ticking are the first few simple steps I need to take on my quest to journey out of the rut.

And sleeping. Shut-eye is also of vital importance. This is me after all.
Oíche mhaith ether.

The Lotto Win...

I was once asked, by a rather kooky recruitment consultant, what I would do if I won the lotto. I answered, in all naivety "a PhD". Well here I am, three years, no, nearly four years in and it's not exactly proving to be the ultimate dream catcher that I once envisioned of it. I'm sure it could be. And I'm sure when floppy hat day eventually arrives it will be one of the happiest and proudest days of my life (my father's too), but holy jesus, I'm going to need some serious motivation and inspiration to get there.

I guess I always knew this would be an issue. To say I have a lazy streak is a gross understatement of the facts. Motivation is also seriously lacking in my world. Coupled together, these two major flaws of mine could spell disaster for my academic adventure. I also have another problem, in that I'm quite happy where I am, thank you very much and as long as I don't bankrupt myself, could be quite content pottering around college for the foreseeable future. I assume this has something to do with the fact that I have absolutely no clue what to do with myself when I do eventually hand the precious Thesis in. The thought of actually applying for jobs, interviewing and making big life-changing decisions pretty much fills me with dread. Possibly because I worry that my efforts over the past few years, which have been mediocre at best, just aren't good enough and that I'll get found out again. Oh god, I think I feel a little bit sick. Time to hide under the covers and dream about massive lottery wins.

For the record, if I did win the lotto tomorrow, the revised list of things to do is as follows:

1. Pay someone to finish the PhD. Ok, so not exactly true. But I may have to employ someone to stand over me with a whip and make use of fear tactics and intimidation to bully and abuse me into working.
2. Buy the bungalow 2 doors down and get the builders in to transform it into a super cosy Cathy house complete with a kitchen Jamie Oliver himself would be jealous of. Oh to have an island in my kitchen and to cook with gas....
3. Do that creative writing course I've always wanted to do. Considering, at this point, how much of my PhD I may have to fabricate, I feel it's important to be able to tap into the inventive and imaginative side of my brain.
4. Haul ass down to Ballymaloe for a few months and have Darina et al teach me how to chef it up and really tickle the taste-buds. What's the point of the gas and the island if they're underutilised?
5. Hola! Finally learn Spanish. "La copa está bajo del autobus...". With phrases such as these I might see about finally bagging me a Spanish Senor. 
6. Get me a personal trainer. Actually, I probably wouldn't. I'd just go to boxing and yoga more often & use that killer combination of Zen and aggression to get rid of the belly wobbles.
7. Volunteer in the Dogs & Cats home and spend my days with some tail-wagging flea-bags. This however, is on the condition that I don't go crazy and adopt every dog I see. How many is too many I wonder? Anything over 4 I suspect.
8. And if I won big, donate some cash to the good folks at Barratstown. Either way I'd have to dessert the dogs for a few weeks and go have fun with the kids.
9. Travel and all that Jazz. First stops, Vietnam and Cambodia.

Best go buy me that winning ticket...

Here we go...

So, it seems I'm back to the world of blogging. Evidently, having a presence on Facebook, Twitter and Fatbook (times 2) is not sufficient internet exposure for me, so here I am.

Since I can't afford to pay for therapy, and lets face it, who'd want to listen to my very average and banal problems over and over again anyway, I thought perhaps I'd send them out into the ether and see if "putting pen to paper" or whatever they call the click click of online soul bearing these days could somehow

1. Furnish me with a degree of mental stability - just a little bit of sanity - please...
2. Trigger me into actually doing some work on my Phd or ultimately, even finishing the damn thing
3. Motivate me to get that last stone off my belly...ooh how it wobbles...
4. Figure out the love life - or lack thereof. No doubt I've made some ill judged choices in my time but surely karma can't have it in for me that much.
5. Think through life in general and try to determine what's next

Essentially, this is the place where I will be coming to sort myself out. How often I turn up and how much I have to say has obviously yet to be determined.

Yogi Berra once said "when you come to a fork in the road, take it". I feel I'm approaching that fork again and it's time to plough on through but there's a huge part of me that wants to turn around and run back. I'm 33 and have no idea where my life is going and that scares the bejaysus out of me. All I know is, one day I'll wake up and I'll be old, like proper "needs a nappie" old and I want to be able to look back and know that I achieved things, that I took chances, that I should be proud of who I am.

Don't get me wrong, I've done things I'm proud of. I just feel like I'm floundering at the moment. At a time when some friends are making life changing decisions, getting married, having babies, jetting off out of this bankrupt country, I wonder what's my destiny? What should I be doing?

The getting married and having babies option, is (unfortunately?) closed to me at the moment. Perhaps I've closed that option off to myself through some of the choices I've made. Perhaps it's not the most important thing in the world to me anyway. When I imagine my future, for some reason, husbands and kids don't really feature. My little bungalow with its fabulous kitchen is what stands out. Who knows, maybe I've been alone and cooking for one for so long that that's all my limited brain can conjour up. Where that little bungalow will be is also a mystery. Do I really have the balls (or the financial freedom) to just hop on a plane and move my life to some other country or am simply all talk?

So basically, heaps of decisions to be made. I'll try to get to them one at a time but I feel that this could be more like a big old cauldron of thoughts, musings and wonderings. As long as it doesn't boil over I should be fine.

I may even get inspiration for that book I seem to believe I have in me....