The non domestic goddess

It's common knowledge that I hate to clean.
Not even hate, it's just not really part of my life or vocabulary.

I tidy, and I talk, and I pour drinks, and I light candles, and I entertain guests,  and I put on tunes, and I set the table, and I course I cook lots and ( I hope) quite well.

I am a host.
I feel that all of that work in an evening leaves my share of duties fulfilled. Great no problem, the majority of people in my life are happy enough for the most part to clean if I cook or direct me while I ocasionallyclean, a not very pleasant task that usually ends up with a little assistance being given.

It's a two way street and if I've sweated over a roast loin of pork for 3 hours or whiled away an afternoon slow cooking lasagne then I am entitled to take a back seat with a glass of vino for the clean up. Someone has to entertain the guests!

So that's fine, I've lived my life that way for many a moon. Spending probably thousands of dinners with a certain hunger monster meant that I usually cooked, immediately and out of fear for my life upon entering the house at the end of the day. It was cook or be eaten. So I  rarely was on clean up, since thems the rules. If someone cooks, you clean.

However following the sudden flight of the Earls back to Eire, (I'm assuming the plane was empty since the last I heard there isn't such a push to get into Ireland from Canada, more the inverse,) I find myself running a one woman show. With no wingman or woman to play tag team with the dishes.

You can imagine my surprise when I came in this evening and yesterdays pots were still sitting there, and sunday's too. How strange I thought...... I mean I cooked after all. Surely somebody is supposed to have cleaned this up?

Nope, nothing moved an inch. The cooked rice still in the lunchbox on the counter where I forgot to put it back in the fridge. The coffee grains still stuck in the drain. And there's something I'm discovering about dishes...the longer you leave them, the worse they are.
The easy to clean rice pot is now rock solid, the noodles are stuck like glue to the smaller pot and it's all just gross.

I cheated.... I couldn't face it.

I did my best with a few of the big ones, scrubbing sporadically under a running hot water tap, until eventually fecking everything into the dishwasher, selecting heavy duty wash and heading to bed with a nice glass of apple juice and my purple laptop.
Aaaah much better.

This running your own household thing is proving to be ALOT of work.

And thats only the kitchen side of the room...you should see the living room side......

It was only halfway through a furious production line of homemade christmas card making that I realised that I don't actually have a hoover (yes, I still say hoover...I'll never sucumb to 'Vacum') so the mounds of paper clippings, snowflakes, sellotape squares and silver glitter that currently adorn  my couch, breakfast bar and entire floor surface are here to stay.

My bed is even full of glitter since apparently it adheres remarkably well to bare feet so when I get into bed, I'm bringing a few deposits of glitter and card cast-off crap with me.

Homemade cards did I say?...why yes. I'm sure I can expect an equal amount in my mailbox shortly. Ahem.

Postal address available on request!

I miss babies and elderly ladies

This blog is dedicated to 2 lovely ladies, who are at either end of the timeline of life and respresent the 2 demographs I am missing the most- babies and elderly ladies.

So here's to Niamh and Anna (Teresa).

The problem with emigration is that although you can make friends and contacts with your peers and colleagues, you get very little exposure/access to the other age groups that make up the remainder of the human race.  I happen to genuinely enjoy chatting with older people over a cup of tea and who doesn't love a cuddle from a chubby, smiling toddler.

Unsurprisingly Torontonian parents rarely appreciate it when I approach them in the supermarket and ask to smell/hug their child. Similarly my boss presumed I was joking when I asked to be introduced to his parents who are both in their nineties. I wasn't!

It is genuinely difficult to meet people outside of the work and pub scene. You seem like a weirdo. If you were to start hanging around playgrounds and parks to try and recruit some underage/oldage friends you would find yourself attracting some pretty serious scrutiny.

But I miss having family friends that don't find it suspicious if you want to spend time with them. Listening to their stories or inversely reading bedtime stories. It struck me as I walked down Yonge Street the other day on my way home from work that I haven't even seen a child in weeks never mind spoken to one. A brand new high rise condo in the heart of Downtown Toronto isn't exactly a popular family settling zone. It's all suits and students, I have seen a total of 2 children in this block since moving in almost 3 months ago.

'Pet Parents' (as they are known here) have less scruples about letting their furry clawed children grow up in the city. But then there are probably more amenities for a poodle than a toddler in this building, there is a state of the art pet spa, complete with hair dryer, jacuzzi and dog shampoo but not a waterslide in sight down at the swimming pool.

 I'm sure there are gaggles of desperate parents who would kill for a friendly soul like myself to come and mind their kids while they went out for sushi and a movie and not to mention the huge numbers of older people who at this very moment would be over the moon to share a pot of tea and a few memories with a willing ear. I would be more than happy to oblidge but value my freedom and don't want to be placed under observation by neighbour hood watch for cruising the local community for friends!

The irony is if I want to talk to children and the elderly without a restriction being placed on my passport I would be better off getting paid to do so! An hourly rate to babysit or do some home help suddenly verifies that I am not a creep but just a young person  trying to make some extra cash money.

I think we all need to come out of our boxes and start sharing our lives a bit more, but maybe I was just spoiled growing up on a street where you share eggs, bread, wine, teapots, paint, wineglasses, tables and chairs, milk, plasters, hair straighteners, toasted sandwiches, and most importantly laughs!

You lift me up

I think I've mentioned before that we live quite high up. All the way to the 28th floor.

For me, it's the first time I've ever lived somewhere with a lift.

Lift Dwelling certainly has it's drawbacks.

1. If you are running late you are bound to get in the lift that stops at every single floor from 27 down to Ground.

2. Nobody understands the word 'lift' here.

3.There are mirrors every where so when you climb in after a long day and a chilly walk home you are greeted with the unpleasant sighting of your own haggard face, doesn't do much to lift one's spirits!

4. Once you open the lines of conversation with your fellow passengers e.g. 'cold outside isn't it?' you are then obligated to continue drawing out a dull, relatively awkward conversation with your neighbour/complete stranger.

5. You become unfit due to lack of having to climb stairs.

The benefits however include;
1. Never having to climb stairs!

2. A chance to chat to your neighbours.

3. Opportunity for the observation of people at close proximity without seeming like a weirdo.
For some reason it is perfectly acceptable to stare at someone, what they are wearing, carrying in their shopping bags, whatever you like, inside the lift. I suppose you've nothing else to look at.
I certainly got a few queer looks the other morning as I finished my toast on the way down!

There was one drawback on using lifts that we hadn't given much consideration prior to last night's events.....
The possibility of getting stuck!

Well we were taking it easy enough last night. Booked the theatre room and relocated our wine and popcorn down to watch a few movies in the comfort of our own private cinema. Unfortunately, the toilets on that floor were locked so (breaking the rules) we left the movie room unattended and hopped in the lift a mere 26 storeys up to use the loo.

My friend Jerome who knows every thing about lifts, since he installs them, often likes to jump up and down inside lifts as they are moving. It freaks people out but he always advised that it could never actually do anything because they are designed to with stand a lot.

So safe in the knowledge that jumping in a lift is not hazardous I began a little bounce of my own for the descent back down. Amid Bobbi and Breff's keen calls to desist, I was just about to explain it wouldn't do anything when the lift ground to a halt and a horrifically loud emergency alarm went off.

Emmmmmm..............

So we pressed the call for help button ( a secret long life ambition fulfilled) and explained our emergency to the man on the other end of the line. Turns out it was our own concierge. So he came up and shouted through the doors to confirm we were in fact now stuck between 2 floors.

His first question...
'were you guys jumping?'

No! No! Of course not.....

'Are you sure?'

Ye we're sure......

Then Bobbi pipes up with..''Caoimhe was tickling Breffni!'

Anyway I'm sure he didn't buy it but he had a worryingly defeated tone when he said
'You guys might be waiting a while'

It was Saturday night after all.
So we took a seat, luckily Breffni had the paper so we pulled that out and amid hysterical laughter we read a few articles. We were desperately trying to; A. figure out if there was a camera and B. if there was anyway for the lift guys to discover why the lift had stopped. i.e my jumping!!

The best bit about the whole event was that we had all just used the bathroom so the age-old debate on what would you do if you were stuck in a lift and needed to pee was not a pressing issue for us.

The most disappointing bit was the lack of burly firemen, we just had a solitary technician (boo!) who we never even met since once it got moving we went straight down and never got to thank our rescuer! Who did at one point enquire if we interested in climbing out the top, we declined!

We were actually only waiting a little under half an hour, but the piercing emergency alarm added the equivalent of 3 days in my mind. When we were finally rescued the concierge told us we were really lucky, since people have been stuck for up to 3 hours!! He also cheerfully informed us that the lifts can drop, but we would have been nicely compensated if we had been injured. I'll take my chances with a salary and a 9-5 thanks as my means of living!

Well, what can I say...lesson learnt.
And Mr J O'B can expect a phone call very shortly to discuss his lift installation qualifications in greater detail.

You spin me right round baby

Spinning....

Sounds like a fun hobby. Maybe involving a group of elderly women, a pot of tea and some balls of wool.

Apparently it is quite far removed from anything remotely related to such a pleasant event.

As I recently discovered.

A new work friend kindly invited me along to try out her spin class.
Always up for a new opportunity I said sure why not.
Maybe I should have enquired a bit more about what it entailed but nothing ventured nothing gained.

Despite having a gym downstairs, I actually don't own any workout gear here in Toronto so on the rare occasion I darken the Gym's door I am in somekind of 'Outfit' compiled of my Pjs and Bobbi's cast offs.

So there I was the night before my Spin date in a wild panic running up and down Yonge St trying to find some shorts/leggings.
I ended up in a Asian Tourist Souvenir shop where, without trying them on, I hurriedly purchased what I assumed were normal, basic black sports leggings.

My delightful friends came round for dinner later that evening and as I slaved over a hot stove cooking them a tasty dinner I heard peals of uncontrollable laughter as they mocked my new trousers.

'Hey Caoim...

Ha ha ah...

wher..ah.e did you buy those leggings?!'


Now I'm not sure how one can make a plain pair of black leggings so hilarious looking but they could barely breath. They begged me not to wear them in public or ever again for that matter. So I ended up having to go in my normal under dress leggings.

I needn't have worried nobody could see me anyway. As we approached the SpinStudio I could hear thumping tunes and presumed we were walking by some undergroup hard core club, but no this was it.

On first impressions I thought we had entered a sadists' torture lair. In the near pitch dark basement I could just about make out the forms of what looked like assembly line workers trying to generate electricity on a dynamo bike.

Their supervisor was bellowing at the steaming, sweating pouring oxen who were belting away on their machines like there was no tomorrow.

Gulp is all that went through my mind.

Glasping my water bottle and towel in the hopes it would boost my spin street cred we queued with the masses to get a bike. I had butterflies and a feeling of imminent regret.
So we hopped on, after some minor adjustments and encouragement from my spin buddy our master took to his stage. The flashing coloured light began and the tunes started blaring.
His head piece mic amplified his ordersPUSH IT, DO IT, give it everything you got, FINISH IT!

Well approxiamately 3 mins in I realised there had been a terrible mistake and my new friend had mistaken me for someone who was not only incredibly fit but got a kick out of corporal punishment.
After 3 and half minutes my knees started to buckle as we pushed our way through the 'FIRST EVEREST'. Good Lord, I had to pretend I was 'hydrating' and took a seat back on the saddle to try and help my trembling and spasming legs recoup to push on through the entire Himalayas.

Sweating profusely in the roasting dark underground with a dark silhouette shouting orders at you I got a pretty clear indication of what hell is like!

Despite my initial falter, I actually picked up enough to finish the whole class and was gratefully rewarded with a glass of Chilean Red and some chicken Nachos. So on the upside it balanced itself out!

I'm sure it is no coincidence that hell is shaped like a bicycle wheel!!