Day 2. I'm always so - fashion!

Got up and went to work at 9 and finished class at 11. Came home and let Gillian make me her bitch. Had a lovely shower and put on a lovely frock. Went to work where one of the other teacher's students said to me:

"You are always so - fashion!"

Success.

Day 1. Again.

Lads I'm not sure I can say I fell off the wagon when I was only halfway up on it to begin with. For my last post I did the workout, but I did it like a little whiney dickhead. Then the second day I was literally too crippled (and fat and lazy) to do it. Then the third day I did nine minutes of it and then I said to myself "Fuck this", and I had a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. Times seven.

Then I had a little think.

What the fuck like? What the hell is the problem here? I only want to get fit like, it's hardly rocket science. It's as simple as doing the workout every day and not letting my fat sausage fingers lift kebabs to my little piggy mouth.

It's not that simple though, is it? Oh no. It's a complex web of emotions and self-sabotage. And Bounty bars.

I took a step back. I took a good hard look at myself. And then I sprung into action.

I'd been working so hard and worrying so much about this that and the other thing that I'd completely forgotten about myself, so that when I finally remembered to have a look at myself I was like "Jaysus boy, some staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate". Luckily BBB was away for the weekend so I had that time to myself.

First things first, I went through the underwear drawer and threw out anything that I don't absolutely love. Then I moved onto the wardrobe and did the cull of a LIFETIME. Like I literally have barely anything left! I may actually have to go to work in my knickers like. But I'm telling you lads, my soul feels cleansed. Then I did a major facelift of the house. Which only took me a few hours, considering that we live in one room.

Then I did a manicure, pedicure, full body de-fuzz and a facial. The old Jennie was starting to come back. Then I put on me little frock and do you know what I did? Do you know what I actually did like? You won't believe it like, cos I still don't.

I went out and enjoyed myself.

Meseff and Laura went out and lay out under a tree next to the river all day. All day like. Me, relaxing like. Usually on Sundays, it's my only day off so I spend it organizing myself for the week ahead and being knackered and stressed. Not this Sunday though, cos there I was lurking under a tree reading my little book as happy as Larry.

I wasn't quite as happy when I woke up on Monday morning with the back of me legs burnt off me but shur what can you do?

Despite my red raw legs, I got up and weighed myself on my weighing scales, which I bought especially, and wrote it down on a chart I made, along with my measurements. Then I did the first day of the Shred. I think Jillian was happy with me, because she told me I was well on my way to being "Shredded". Although it's not quite clear if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Then I put on the most adorable ensemble ever in the world that I would never have put together had it not been for my wardrobe cull and skipped out the door, all pumped up and ready to teach the SHIT outta some English.

Compare that now to the last Day 1.

Bitches, I be reborn.

30 Day Shred - Day 1 - Jesus Wept.

Good Jesus. That Jillian Michaels wan ain't foolin! I got up at 7 o' clock this morning to do The Shred with BBB. Lads no joke now, it was nearly the end of me. Talk about a near death experience! I was so traumatised that later in the day I had to eat a Bounty and a Reese's Easter Egg.

I hate myself.

Mmmm Fatty Boom Boom

The last few months I have just been pissing along, working insane hours, complaining about working insane hours and just generally being a sad, sad, little lady. In fact, I was so busy being a sad loser that I didn't realise that I was going down a daaaaaaaaaaangerous road.

The road...

(Dramatic pause)

...of the fatty.

Yes it's true.

Don't look so shocked.

I was waiting in the lobby of an institute I teach at and I caught a glimpse of a thundering fatty in the reflection of the door.

"State of yer wan" I thought to myself.

But then this sinking feeling crept over me.

I had another look out of me side eye.

Music from the psycho shower scene.

"Holy fuck, that's me!"

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Good Lord. Holy Mother of the divine Lord Jesus Christ. How did this happen? How could this be? Because it obviously had nothing to do with the months and months of comfort eating to block out the supreme torture of endless teaching hours. Oh no, not a thing to do with that. Not a sausage.

Because I probably would have "et" that as well.

Now I love teaching and most of my students are delightful and I love the little bones of them, but some of them make me want to hurt myself and others.

The only blessed distraction I have comes in the form of a bebellied and boobalicious fat naked guy who enjoys an hourly cigarette hanging out of his window. Which, incidentally, is directly opposite the window of my classroom. May the Gods be praised. When I go to work tonight I'm going to try and get a high quality grainy and pixellated photo on my state of the art mobile phone from 1972.

Some thing boy.

But I digress. Back to the issue at hand. Drastic measures are called for. In a panicked frenzy, I directed my terror towards the interweb. I had heard whisperings that yer wan Gillian Michaels (who's she when she's at home?) has a DVD out that would make you rue the day you were born. 30 Day Shred. Especially for fatties like me. Sold!

I now wait impatiently by the postbox. It should be here by Monday. Hopefully I won't have died from a heart attack or diabetes by then. I think I might spend this time wisely, making a countdown calendar. Everyone knows that countdown calendars are the best things ever. Especially if they have glitter on them.

Note to self: buy glitter.

30 days. Let's see how that goes. I'll have to keep myself busy, because everyone knows that idle hands lift kebabs to fatty's mouths.

What else could I achieve in thirty days I wonder?

5,000 words of my thesis?

Why not shur.

I'll be keeping ye updated on this most recent undertaking.

In the meantime, keep your eyes peeled for dodgy photos of a naked fat man taken from behind a plant.

I know, I'm so good to you.

Don't look at me like that...

I did it again. I'm officially the boldest girl in Ireland. When I don't write my blog I feel like I went out drinkin and left a child at home unsupervised! Me nerves do be at me! So to catch you up on recent (and not-so recent) events, here is a handy list of bullet points:

• I got the bursary again so I have moved back to the hovel.
• I am actually delighted about it because it means meseff and himseff are living together again. Love bubble!
• I am, however, slightly disappointed that I won't have any more Skid Mark Sue stories to tell ye.
• I love BBB so much that I can't think about it for more than a nanosecond because I gets a pain.
• I'm always working and always knackered and as a result have turned into a LOSER.

I think that clears up just about everything. Now, onto our main feature. It's a new year. It's resolution time. Last year I resolved to ride a unicycle across a rope over Niagara Falls. I'm pleased to say this went off without a hitch. I took loads of photos, but sadly my camera was stolen. What were the chances of that?

I've decided to share my real resolutions here this year, so that we may all wallow in my failure together in a few month's time. Or bask in the warm glow of my awesomeness, depending on how it goes.

SO here they are:

1. Enjoy myself more. Lately I've just been working like crazy and going home after work to collapse on the chair like a zombie and I have a terrible feeling that I may have forgotten how to enjoy myself, or worse, the general concept of fun. No more! I'm going to make an effort, no matter how wrecked I am, to go out and enjoy myself at least once a week. To start. Then I'm gonna eventually spiral out of control and show up at work in various night-before ensembles until I get fired and end up working at the petrol station where that weird woman works that puts the petrol in your car with one hand and holds a lit fag in the other.
2. Save. Gonna scrimp and save even more this year so I can make my triumphant return to Trinity before the age of 47(ish).
3. Number three - and this is the big one - I'm going to get my Italian driving license. I am TERRIFIED. Just the thought of it gives me Sweaty Arse Syndrome. I have been putting off driving for so long now I mean it's just not acceptable. Time to bite the bullet. Plus if I learn to drive in Italy it basically means I will have driving super powers. I hope.

I think three will do for now. I'll chip away at those bad boys and tackle any new general life resolutions as they arise. 2010 was kind of a tough one for a lot of people, me included, but all of the shite the year has brought just pales into insignificance when I'm curled up against BBB's chest in our little bed, or when my parents call me to say hello, or when my sister emails me, or when I get a letter from one of my chums, or when I see a new picture of my little nephew Jack. I can brush off even the biggest disaster, because I know these simple things are what really matter in life. Sniff.

So a happy and healthy 2011 to all of ye lads, I hope it's a good one, full of family, friends... and really satisfying farts.

You know the ones.

Week Two - D'Job

Right lads, now it’s time to tackle the subject of d’job. After several months of working - oh sorry, did I say working? I meant slaving for Lush I decided I had improved my Italian enough and that the moment had arrived to get a proper job.

So I did.

I won’t say where I work, but I will say this – it rhymes with Shmitish Shminstitute. I don’t think that’s giving too much away.

So now I am a teacher and I have to say lads, when I am standing at that board, blackboard rubber-outer thing in hand, I truly feel at one with the universe.

I teach mostly adults, in groups and individually, then I also teach at a secondary school near my house. Lads it’s like a dream come true! I had been thinking for a while that I’d like to be a secondary school teacher over here but I also thought it might be one of those jobs where you think you might like it but then when you actually try it, it makes you want to launch yourself off the nearest tall building.

On my first day there I was shittin it. The night before I had one of my Oakwood sleeps. Me nerves were at me big time like. As I was walking down the corridor me heart was thumping in me ears – oh jaysus! The classroom was getting closer and closer…and me arse cheeks were getting clammier and clammier…

But then a magical thing happened. I walked in the door and a...a transformation came over me. I went into Teacher Mode. It was like an out of body experience. No joke now lads, I was actually in awe of my own sheer excellence.

I was in the lift then with their normal English teacher who is a lovely Italian lady and she said to me “You are brilliant! You have a gift.” My heart did a little dance. Hee hee!

The best thing about teaching though is having the privilege of hearing first hand the hilarious fuck-ups some of them do be making!

Now I of all people know that it in order to really speak another language it is necessary to make an arse of yourself regularly. Well I can see that I have passed this belief onto my students, who come out with the most fucking hilarious things I have ever heard in my life.

Idioms always provide the best laughs; this morning I was doing a conversation class with a fella and he was chatting away and then he said

“…and I mean I didn’t want him putting his leg in my mouth”,

and as usual my brain went through all the files of things he could possibly mean.

“You didn’t want him to kick you in the face you mean?”

“No, no! I meant I didn’t want him pushing my foot!”

“Wh…?”

“No, wait! I didn’t want him putting his finger in my…”

“Ok I’m going to stop you there, just open the book and find the idiom you want to say.”

Pulling my leg was the one he was after.

Then there’s the joy of correcting tests. The tests are the ones where you have a sentence and there’s a space in the sentence and you have to choose a, b or c to go into the space. This has had some hilarious results:

“I had to go to hospital when I sneezed my ankle”

“My back vomits when I spend too long sitting at the computer”

“I had a blister and then I fainted”

“At the end of the concert, everyone clapped their nose”

And then, my personal favourite: I was doing some weather vocabulary with a lovely lady and I told her what thunder was.

"Oh yeah, like the Elvis song!”

“Which one is that?”

“Love me Thunder!”

I love my job.

Week One - featuring Skid Mark Sue

Jaysus lads I have so much to tell ye I don't know where to start, so I thought I would start from the very beginning as I have heard from more than one source that it is a very good place to start.

Well, another year is unfolding in Pavia; the fog has already rolled in for the winter, the birdies have flown south to warmer climes, oul wans are getting out their fur coats again. After work the icy wind reddens my cheeks and the dense fog envelops me as I trudge home, but I don't mind, because I know that after I turn my key in that familiar lock, I will be warmly welcomed by my flatmate's skid marks smiling up at me from the toilet bowl.

Ah yes, Skid Mark Sue. The messiest shitter in the west.

When I moved into this apartment it was just myself and The Flatmate and The Dog, who are both scrumptious. Just to be clear, The Dog is actually a dog. Here she is:

We were getting along swimmingly in our lovely little house, just as happy as can be, until Skid Mark Sue came along and shat all over everything. In a manner of speaking.

I just don't know where to begin. I simply do not know. Perhaps if I show you a picture of something you can begin to understand. For example, here is a picture of an item that belongs to her:

Were Skid Mark an eighty four year old crone bent ninety with arthritis, this would be an acceptable item to own. Skid Mark, however, is not eighty four. She is, in fact, nineteen. And at the rate she is going in awakening the inner murdresses in myself and The Flatmate, she may never live to see twenty.

I won't go into too much detail here, lest I explode in rabid fury, but I will tell you this much: in her nineteen years of existence I can tell you that a toilet brush has never crossed her path. Domestos? She probably thinks it's an island in the Caribbean. Toilet Duck? The national sport of Turkmenistan.

We had a very polite word in her ear though; something along the lines of "Would you mind not leaving your big streals of shite all down the toilet bowl, please and thanks?" And she said "Grand". Grand like. She didn't even have the common decency to throw herself off the balcony in mortification. Anyway that seemed to solve the problem. Until...

The other morning, I went innocently into the bathroom to do my morning tinkle. A gut feeling told me to look into the watery depths - and lo! There it lay. Skid Mark Sue had struck again - but this time it was personal.

Yes people, not only had she marked her territory in the manner that is customary for her, but there, lurking quietly under the surface of the water, was a giant poo. A large turd. A Cleveland Steamer. A log. Whatever you want to call it - there it was. Waiting. In silence. For some poor unsuspecting person to go along and have a wee, only to launch itself from the water and purse its squelchy lips together to kiss the previously unmarred arse of the tinkler.

Horrified, I turned the handle of the flusher. Our flusher is such that, when you turn it the toilet starts to flush, and it doesn't stop flushing until you turn it back to the start position. I left it run for a good thirty seconds and then turned it off. The bowl was clear. Or so I thought...

Within seconds, with all the glory of Christ rising from the tomb, it resurrected. My natural reaction was to turn the flusher again, this time for a good minute.

That should do it, I thought.

I thought wrong.

And then I thought wrong another two times.

Clearly I was dealing with the Chuck Norris of excrement.

I threw down three litres of Domestos and flushed it for a good five minutes.

Nowt.

Drain unblocker.

Diddly squat.

In the end I had to enlist the help of Flatmate.

We boiled up a saucepan or two of the kitchen tap's finest water and threw it down there with gusto.

It worked.

But by then we had both been reduced to peeing in the bidet, which only reinforced my love for it even more. Oh bidet, always there in my hour of need.

Ok lads, that's all I care to divulge for the moment, mainly because Skid Mark just came in. I will fill you in on the other details of my dramatically changed life in subsequent posts. Sorry I went AWOL for so long, I'm starting afresh from Week One of year three of my Italian adventure, and this time I'm back for realsies.

That's right, I just said "realsies".