Some days…

Sometimes

Hormones, yes, lets talk about hormones. For those not in the know, they are the thing that women seem to have in abundance, but men, by their own admission have very few of, although we women would beg to differ.

Hormones are like a light switch, flipping you effortlessly between wanting to murder anyone within a 10 ft radius and wanting to cry your eyes out at pretty much anything, including adverts for toilet cleaner, wtf!?

Hormones also make us eat, forget Mr Will Power, he has no chance when going head to head with Mr Hor Mone, who pretty much trumps any one at any thing.

Thankfully I have a few years years yet before the lady hormones invade my body and seek world domination, that said, I am already prone to crying at random adverts, which can be pretty embarrassing when they are on billboards in the middle of a busy street. Worse still when you read on and realise that when they were telling her to ‘Be free’ and ‘be light’ they were talking about a fecking sanitary towel. Oh the shame!

My office however is a hive of hormonal activity, that would be a dream for any starter HRT company looking for guinea pigs. In my pod of 4 alone, there are two who are clutching with just fingernails to the brink and two (of which I am one) who are hanging on with everything they have got to the notion that they are still in their twenties.

There are very few men in our office workspace, which is probably just as well, because they would be eaten alive on any given day that ends with a Y! The few that there are tend to travel in packs and seem to have extremely good hormonometers that tell them when to steer clear. They have learnt the hard way that asking the question “Ooo is it your time of the month?” is just about the stupidest fecking question you can ask a woman who has just thrown her faulty stapler against the wall in a fit of temper  an attempt to make it work, and no before you ask, that was NOT me!

So to summarize, hormones are sneaky rotten little feckers…beware!

Greetings Stranger…..

You’re sitting at a café when a stranger approaches you. This person asks what your name is, and, for some reason, you reply. The stranger nods, “I’ve been looking for you.” What happens next?

Well that’s a no brainer, I’d be up the street as fast as my fake Louis Buttons could carry me. In my experience a stranger, who knows you by name and who just happens to be in the same cafe, is not going to be after anything good.

Now don’t get me wrong I know he’s not Dr Death or anything, I mean come on, everyone knows that geezer wears a big black cape, but still, it’s not going to end well.

Stranger: Are you the Indecisive Eejit?

Me: No!

Stranger: You are her, you look just like her avatar thing.

Me: Look pal I have no idea who you are, but I am May Dupp.

Stranger: I know, made up by The Indecisive Eejit.

Me: I don’t know what you mean and besides, I look nothing like her avatar, according to that guy Rob she’s all oogly boogly and shit.

Stranger: So you do know her!

Me: Ye…nope!

Stranger: You sound a little unsure.

Me: Totally sure. As sure as a big sure thing schooled at the school of sureness.

Stranger: 50/50…phone a friend….

Me: Listen here sunshine is there some part of no you’re not understanding.

Stranger: I understand perfectly Miss Dupp. Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes.

Me: It won’t work………

Stranger: and that long silky blond hair, it’s just beautiful.

Me: Really, you thi………..it won’t work. What do you want anyway?

Stranger: I was looking for your May Dupp.

Me: So why did you ask if I was the Indecisve Eejit?

Stranger: The girl at the counter said it would wind you up, she said you’re not good with your fate being in someone else’s hands.

Me: She’s right, so are you going to tell me who you are?

Stranger: I’m a tarot card reader.

Me: Ah feck aff, that’s 20 minutes of my life I’m never going to get back!

Inspired by todays Daily Prompt!

Who knew!

So it appears I have been approaching this blogging malarkey in completely the wrong way. My lack of posts while not really causing me any great concern, has been a niggle at the back of my mind.

I was chatting to Big Bertha from work about it the other day whilst having a cup of tea and a soggy jammy dodger. It took a while for it to sink in with her what I was actually referring to as for the first 15 minutes of the conversation she though I was telling her I was boggin. For those of you who have no idea what this actually means, wonder no more:

Boggin
putrid; grotesquely ugly or disturbing; vile smelling

You can understand, can you not, why I was a little bit annoyed at her believing I would ever refer to myself like this. I may not be perfection, but I spend a lot of money at the beauticians to ensure I am far from boggin..ffs! You will just have to believe me when I tell you there is not a spiders leg in sight!!

I happened to mention to Bertha about my lack of posts and she asked how often I do write, to which I replied only when something momentous happens. It was then that I started to think about it and realised that if I sit around waiting for something momentous to happen then I may in fact never write again. In the grand scheme of momentous, my life is a little more mmmm and most certainly lacking in entous!

Bertha said I can write about whatever I want, whenever I want, stressing that there was bound to be some eejit on the world wide wotsit who would be willing to listen. I never thought of it that way before, that I could write about the normal day to day, I thought I had to wait for the days when I was exceptionally fabulous!

Who knew eh!

Incapacitation Insanity!

may on the bog

May, I hear you are a little indisposed?

I had to look incapacitated up. I am not prone to using big words, because more often than not I don’t understand them.

Incapacitated- lacking in or deprived of strength or power; lying ill and helpless
“helpless with laughter”

When I saw the description, it was the lying ill and helpless bit that I focused on, you see I have not been here for a while because I myself was in that situation. Something terrible happened. I broke a nail!

Now I don’t expect guys to understand the importance of having beautifully manicured digits, but ladies, come on, you get it, right?! It’s like walking out of the house with your skirt stuck in your knickers, mor-ti-fying!!

Owing to the fact that it happened on a Saturday night there was not a lot I could do until the Monday. I phoned into work sick, and unable to think of another excuse I used RSI or Repetitive Strain Injury as it’s also known. Well I mean I wasn’t really telling any lies, because my hand was in agony as a result of the furious filing required to make my poor nail look somewhat decent.

My next call brought nothing but more pain. I had completely forgotten that Monday was my beauticians day off, which left me speaking to Marina, the bitch of the brows. After the previous incident with her and the leggings, there was just no way I was going to sit down and let her work on any part of me. So I asked if there was any chance of an emergency appointment on the Tuesday.

Marina: Broken a nail or something? (said in an extremely sarcastic tone)

Me: I’ll break your face if you don’t put me in the diary for tomorrow (smiling sweetly, even though she couldn’t see me).

Appointment made, it was then back onto the phone with work. Peppering ‘ouch’ throughout the conversation had the desired effect of gaining me another day off, however I was reminded of a meeting I was to attend that afternoon. That’s why I hate Mondays! Horrified at the fact I might have to leave the house in such a state, or worse still attend a meeting in the middle of summer wearing gloves, I started to get a little flustered. My boss, who I have to say is rather good at picking up on my anxiety suggested it might be possible to complete the meeting via conference call, or Skype. Without thinking things through, I readily accepted, I was just glad I did not have to actually go into work.

I spent the rest of the day tidying up a little, I certainly didn’t want my big boss seeing the mess that had accumulated over the weekend, and could not be tidied owing to the broken nail!

I hate waiting for a Skype call, it means you have to walk everywhere with the required device at a short enough distance to ensure the call is not missed. At about 2 minutes to 3pm, the time allocated for the call, my lunch time Tuna sandwich decided to make a surprise reappearance, typical right! But it was better to pay a visit to the loo than have someone hear the gurgling and rumbling of my poor stomach.

Trying to keep myself calm I left the tablet on the dresser and headed for the toilet. I had only just sat myself down, when the bloody thing started to ring. FFS, I’ve heard of getting caught with your pants down, but this was ridiculous! Imagine a rabbit caught in headlights, hovering over a toilet…that was me!

I cannot stress how important this meeting was, and how vital it was that I make some kind of appearance. I certainly did not envisage being naked from the waist down, and was beginning to realise that I might have been safer just going into work.

The device continued to ring and was in the process of vibrating itself off the edge of the dresser onto the the tiled floor below. Holding onto my knickers which were at this point round my ankles I made an awkward dive and somehow managed to catch the kamikaze tablet mid fall.

Me: Oh thank feck!

The Big Boss: Good afternoon Miss Dupp, have we called at an inconvenient time, I hear you are a little indisposed.

Oh balls, balls, balls, I’d only gone and answered the call at the critical point of rescue.

Me: More than you know Sir, more than you know.

The Big Boss: Shall we begin.

My mind was going ten to the dozen with the statement ‘ah feck’ seemingly stuck on repeat. What the hell was I going to do. Here I was back on the toilet, naked from the waist down, trying to hold a tablet at a modest distance, with a broken nail and alleged repetitive strain injury. W T absolute F!!

Me: Ah Sir, I might need a few moments just to compose myself and get organised.

The Big Boss: (there was most certainly laughter in the background) Yes Miss Dupp, I think you might indeed need a few moments. I certainly hope however that you will not ‘pee’ long, umm forgive me, I do of course mean be long. (at this point hysterical laughter could be heard from the Head office of the Captain Cosmetic Company).

I finished the meeting on the toilet and I also learned a valuable lesson, find a beautician who opens on a Sunday!

Wicked Weekend Part Two

May Gets Gassed!

Previously on The Misadventures of May Dupp – Wicked Weekend Part One.

It was a good time for the firemen to show up, because I was definitely feeling hot hot hot. I’m not sure what the female version of testosterone is, but if it exists it was coursing through my veins, either that or my blood pressure was through the roof.

Onda, on seeing the starstruck look on my face had finally followed my gaze and was draped over the table practically drooling. Even Billy and Seamus had a look of awe about them.

No one seemed to know what event had brought the firemen to the Wicky Digit in the first place. Onda convinced they were strip-a-grams was at this point sidling across the bar clapping and shouting ‘off off off’. Knuckles was coming at them from a different angle, balling his fists and shouting ‘out out out’, clearly not amused that the object of his affection was diverting her attention elsewhere.

Knuckles: What are you boys here for?

Hot Fireman: We’ve had a report of a gas leak.

Knuckles: Well that’s kinda funny considering we don’t have any gas.

Hot Fireman: The smell is coming from the rear of the building.

Knuckles: That’s the toilet area. How do you know it’s gas?

Hot Fireman: A passerby reported an eggy smell coming through the open window. That could mean you have a leak.

Knuckles: But I just told you, we don’t have any gas.

It was at this point that old Joe at the bar started laughing so hard we all thought he was going to have a fit. Everyone turned their gaze in his direction waiting for him to calm down enough to be able to tell us exactly what it was that was so amusing.

Joe: That’s……no…..ahahaha…….gas leak.

Stepping forward to catch Joe just as he was about to pitch off his bar stool onto the floor Knuckles enquired what he was on about.

Joe: That’s probably Bert…..oh my sides.

Knuckles: Flat cap Bert?

Joe: The very same.

Knuckles: So yer telling me flat cap Bert is in the toilets sniffing gas?

Joe: No you dopey sod………

Joe again burst into a fit of laughing, that turned into wheezing, that turned into a fit of coughing. Too many years on the roll ups had rendered him incapable of continuing with his story.

Unsure what was going on and scared of missing something, the remaining patrons in the bar headed single file towards to toilet block. As we rounded the corner the smell hit us like a tidal wave and there was a collective “eughhh” from the gathering.

Knuckles being the first in line, basically because everyone had pushed him forward, turned to Onda who was next in line and told her to ask Sandy the bar man to turn on the toilet extractor fans. Onda, being inquisitive by nature asked why they had not already been on, and Knuckles informed her it was due to a possible fault with wiring, but to be sure not to let the firemen know that particular nugget of information.

Onda quite willingly I believe, left her place of second in line and headed towards the bar. A heated muffling could be heard and then she retraced her steps back towards Knuckles.

Knuckles: What did he say?

Onda: He’s not a bit happy about it, he asked if you knew what you were doing.

Knuckles: And how did you answer that one?

Onda: I said usually you haven’t a fecking clue but at the minute no one else has any other bright ideas.

Knuckles: Geez, thanks very much.

Onda: He also said on your own head be it. What the heck does he mean by that?

Suddenly out of nowhere came a noise like someone hacking at metal with a chainsaw. A few fizzes, bangs and pops were heard and next thing the we know, the Wicky Digit has been plunged into darkness.

Flat Cap Bert: What the f*ck is going on out there, what have you buggers done?

Knuckles: Keep calm Bert, the fire brigade are here, they think there might be a gas leak in the bathroom.

Flat Cap Bert: There’s a gas leak all right, my Beryl gave me duck eggs for breakfast this morning and I’d done nothing but fart ever since. You can tell your firemen there’s no danger, the only gas leaking in here is from my backside.

Everyone started to laugh, even the firemen, onto one of whom Onda was hanging for dear life citing a sudden fear of the dark.

Flat Cap Bert: I’ll be out in a jiffy, only some feckers turned the lights out so I’m going to have to light a match to see where the door is.

At this point everything seemed to go in slow motion as one of the Firemen started a run up to the toilet door, he was trying to shout something, but owing to the previously mentioned fact of the cinematic slow motion he was unable to finish his sentence. He had just spoken the words “tell him not to light a”………when there was a loud bang from the toilets……”match”.

Everything went silent, even Joe had stopped laughing. You could have heard a pin drop. No one wanted to be the first to enter the toilets to enquire after Berts wellbeing. Just as the merits of playing Rock, Paper, Scissors was being debated, the sound of shuffling footsteps could be heard approaching.

Knuckles: Bert, is that you?

Flat Cap Bert: Aye.

At that moment Bert rounded the corner, looking a little worse for wear. His normally dapper appearance had changed to disheveled and his hair was smoking and standing on end, clearly visible through the tattered remains of his flat cap. in fact he looked like he was going to break down and cry at any minute.

Knuckles: You ok Bert?

Flat Cap Bert: You know, the Mrs only gave me them eggs in an attempt to clear up  me constipation, well it worked, cos I’ve just scared the shite clean outta myself.

All we could do was laugh.

The only drink taken in the pub that night was cups of tea, but the craic was mighty. Even Bert was laughing in the end, and we even had a whip round to get him a new cap.

Wicked Weekend Part One!

Wicked Weekend

I love my weekends, two days of fun and laughter that stretch ahead of the working week to tantalise and tease us. I had high hopes of a glamorous and girly extravaganza that involved hair, nails and make up but sadly the weekend that was, turned into something completely different.

I should have known to say no when Onda asked me to go to the ‘The Wicky Digit’, the pub at the end of her street on Friday night. Myself, Onda and alcohol are never a  good mix, you’d really think I would have learned my lesson by now, but oh no, there is no show without punch!

The Wicky Digit is a funny wee pub, a fusion between ye olde worlde and the brand spanking new. The furnishings are up to date and the decor like something out of ‘My Pub’s Lush Monthly’, the old is supplied by the liberal scattering of sawdust on the floor that the elderly men spit onto, even though that particular pastime was banned in 2005.

A diverse clientèle frequent this particular establishment, a veritable mix of the good, the bad and the ugly. On the rare occasions that Onda and I attend, we are of course the good. Friday nights can be a little hit and miss for eye candy, but sure if you don’t go, you never know.

Dolled to the nines and tottering up the street on heels that would have raised than the dead, we reached the door of the bar around 9pm. ‘Knuckles’, as the doorman is affectionately known greeted us with his usual lopsided smile and a cheeky wink for Onda.

Knuckles: Have you yer big pants on the night Onda for I’ll be looking into them before the night’s out.

Onda: Feck off Knuckles, the only place you’ll be in is hospital if you keep that up.

His laugh could be heard all the way down the street, and Onda for all her bumph and bluster had a wee blush, I think she has a crush on him, but doesn’t like to admit it.

The place was packed, unusual for so early on a Friday, but we never thought anything of it. Spotting Billy and Seamus in the corner we headed over, eager to avail of the two spare seats at their table. After the cursory greetings Onda headed to the bar to get us both a drink;

Me: Seamus, what’s wrong with Billy’s face?

Seamus: What do you mean what’s wrong with it?

Me: Well it’s more limp than a week old lettuce leaf from the vegetable man.

Seamus: Ach he’s mooning over some girl on the Internet.

Me: A real life one or a computer generated one?

Seamus: Oh no real life, he met her on his bog.

Me: WTF!? His bog???

Seamus: Yeah you know, one of those things you write on and people read it.

Me: Oh you mean a blog? What the hell does Seamus keep a blog about?

Seamus: Ferrets, he puts up pictures and everything.

Me: Heaven help us. So if he’s met someone what’s he so sad about.

Seamus: She’s from Belgium.

Me: Is that where they make chocolate?

Seamus: I don’t fecking know.

Me: Right sorry, what else?

Seamus: She has red eyes.

Me: Umm ok, and what else?

Seamus: That’s all he knows, but it’s love for sure, I’ve never seen him this way before.

Me: Billy, are you ok sunshine?

Billy: Aye.

Me: You sure now Billy?

Billy: Aye.

Me: That’s dead on then. Seamus, there’s feck all wrong with him.

At that moment Onda returned with the drinks and I was just filling her in with the gen surrounding Billy and the red eyed love of his life, when a crowd of firemen walked into the bar. I stopped mid sentence, and if it hadn’t been for Seamus putting his hand under my chin and closing my mouth I swear I would have forgotten to breathe. I kid you not, these dudes looked like they just walked straight out of a calendar and into my life.

To be continued………

Speaking Litter-aly!

May Prison

I thought it was bad enough the other day when the drunk gentleman swindled me out of the most gorgeous salad ever in my favourite lunch box, but today I find out he has also got me into trouble with the law.

There I was sitting at my desk minding my own business, flicking through a magazine, working, when I glance up and see a Police Constable talking to my boss, who was rather alarmingly pointing in my direction.  I work in a little pod of four people. A quick glance under the desk confirmed there was nowhere to hide. If only I had brought my biggest handbag with me, everything fits in it, including the kitchen sink.

As he’s sauntering towards me I’m wracking my brains trying to think of anything that I could have done that would lead me to be in trouble with the law. Remembering I was out on Saturday night with Onda makes my blood run cold, as I realise there could be any number of things. Fear sets in and I am on the verge of jumping up and screaming ‘It was me’ while holding my wrists out to be cuffed, when I catch myself on and quickly sit on my hands, adopting a look of pure innocence. Batting my eyelids just makes me look like I have an annoying tic so I decided on this occasion to refrain.

Policeman: Good Morning Miss, would it be possible to have a word?

Me: It wasn’t me.

Policeman: What wasn’t you?

Me: Whatever it is you think I did, I didn’t, it wasn’t me.

Policeman: I see. So it wasn’t you who kindly donated your salad to a gentleman in the park the other day.

At his use of the word kindly my ears pricked up and my imagination went into overdrive. Perhaps I had been on one of those hidden camera shows and I was now in line for 20% of the old drunks hidden fortunes.

The quest for fame is a dangerous one.

Me: Oh aye, that, well yes that was me.

Policeman: Ah ha, so it was you?

Me: What was me?

Policeman: That thing I thought you did, that you said you didn’t, it was you.

I felt like I had been slapped repeatedly about the face so confusing was the conversation.

Me: Eh, yes, it’s a fair cop.

Policeman: Your name please?

Me: May

Policeman: May what?

Me: May Dupp

Policeman: Are you trying to be funny?

Me: No, why?

Policeman: I’m expected to believe your name is May Dupp?

Me: You can believe what you wish, but it’s May Dupp not made up. It was given to me by my Mammy.

Policeman: I see.

Me: You seem to see at lot of things.

Policeman: Well I certainly see your name going on a ticket for littering.

Me: But I didn’t litter.

Policeman: You left remains of your lunch in the park. Is this your lunch box?

Me: It might be.

Policeman: This lunch box with the sticker on the back that says ‘Mays Big Box?’

Oh bollox!

Me: But I left it with the elderly gentleman, I shared my salad with him. I can’t be blamed for him leaving it behind.

Policeman: (Raises eyebrow)

Me: Yep, that’s my lunch box.

Policeman: And this Miss Dupp is your ticket.

Me: Thank you PC….?

Policeman: Plod.

Me: I’m glad you find this funny, just give me the damn ticket!

So the moral of this story is, never give your big box to a stranger without removing the sticker first.

 

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