No more cupcakes for Clio...

I've rethought the whole 'do-it-yourself' scenario when it comes to the mechanics of my car. I may have been feeling brave and up for learning all about the anatomy of an automobile but I've decided it's just not worth it! Give me some paint to watch dry any day but ask me about any car-related problem and you may put on your little sneakers and run. Run fast!

Here I was thinking I was great, washing my car all by myself, paying all my car finances, booking clio-patra in for her health check ups and taking her for her NCT. Well, if I could turn back time! If you read my previous blog post on cupcakes and carborators, you'll know my little car failed her NCT test. Fair enough, I'd left the crack on the front bumper... half hoping it would heal itself up / half hoping the NCT man might not notice, but no such luck. I just hadn't anticipated her failing for a fist full of issues!

So off I sent my brother up to the garage (the DIY thing had already worn off) and they fixed some engine part that was listed on the NCT result form despite the mechanics thinking it was just fine. Having only a 30-day grace period to retake the test, I trailed back up once again to the Fonthill testing centre only to fail yet again! And to make matters worse, she failed on the exact same faults. My little brother (extremely handy to have - would recommend) asked the NCT tester man to point out the exact engine faults and off he went storming up to the garage to have a nice big row. But alas, the mechanics - being the knowledgeable engine types that they are trained to be - had actually fixed the right problems, the NCT centre had written the wrong name of the engine part on the original forms.

After a lengthy phone conversation between my brother and the NCT can't-help desk, where he got absolutely nowhere, I resentfully booked a third test and went back to sit in the now very familiar waiting room while I painstakingly watched Clio being poked and prodded for the seventeenth time. When she made it through the other side I marched up to the desk where a young chap said, "bad news". "Oh no", I didn't pass did I?" poor innocent me said, jokingly. "No, you failed". That man was seriously lucky he went home without a black eye!

Despite the garage having tested the emissions and passing them with flying colours, somehow the NCT centre had managed to fail the same exaust less than 24 hours later. I'll plant a bloody tree if they're really that worried! So, with one day left to my grace period, over €600 spent on tests and needless visits to the garage, I ran to my NCT-less car wondering if my face was wet from the rain or the tears for my rapidly depleting bank account...

On booking another test, I then discovered I would have to wait almost 2 months before another date would be free to take another test. I'm hoping Clio doesn't develop any symptoms in that time!

Next time my NCT is due I'm thinking I'd rather chance the points on my license thank you very much! :(

30 ways to shake up your life...

1/ I recently came across an article in an Irish magazine which gave me 30 different ways to shake up my life and I've taken it upon myself to give it a go! I'm not exactly stuck in a rut, in fact I find life a little crazy at the best of times but I'm a bit of an adventure junkie and since my sad financial situation won't allow me to throw myself out of a plane every weekend, what harm is a little extra shake in my life? It keeps me on my OPI-polished toes (koala bear-y, this weeks colour!)


This is the first of my attempts at shaking so I've taken one of the steps from the long list - 'Start a Twitter account or create your own blog.' Okay so I might be cheating a tad since technically I have already started my blog but hey, no harm in getting a bit of a head start! And this is only the beginning, I'm sure the other 29 steps should get a little bit more interesting...  

Cupcakes, Clio's and Carborators!

It's just like when someone starts talking about the offside rule, or tries to explain to me how exactly to play poker.  I can't help it, I try my utmost best and my mind STILL goes numb. There's just no way my female mind wants to torture itself with this new and horrendously boring information.

Not that I don't want to know about cars - I do, in fact I hate when I know nothing about something and I'm quite proud when someone asks me the size of my engine and I can answer straight away. Same with my number plate and the fact that she takes petrol. But that's pretty much where my knowledge of cars stops. It's why I have brothers, and the occasional man in my life!

But poor Clio-patra. I've been neglecting my little Renault lately and one day I come home to find her tax is due and her insurance is calling for a renewal. To make matters worse, I haven't given her a bath all winter. On double-checking her due dates I then realise her NCT was up too. 

After sighing away any hope of being able to buy those pretty cream and pink heels from River Island, I try and calculate (using my phone - not my head) just how much her doctors bills are going to cost me. She has been really good to me this last year, taking me across the country a few times, dodging a few crazy drivers on her way and didn't faint on the M50 once so it was the least I could do.

With my dad and my brothers being away, I decided there was no better time to try and play mechanic on my own. After sorting out her finances (wasn't so difficult actually) and booking her NCT, I decked myself out in old jeans and pink washing up gloves - you would have too if you had to use that sponge - and scrubbed the car clean. I then checked the oil and water, both seemed fine and I'm pretty sure I checked the right tanks. From what attention I did pay in the past, I remembered something about a measurement mark and something about a dipstick...

 

The day before the NCT I took Clio shopping for new wiper blades and lights. I must have looked very confused standing in front of so many wipers as it wasn't long before I was handed a set from a helpful little sales boy. 'Surely they all do the same thing?' 'No', I was told, 'different sizes different makes, different years'. Money making racket more like it.

Then the big day arrived and with all the men in my life still away, I managed to persuade one of my good male friends to assist me for the day. What they'll do for a cup of tea and a cupcake! But even with all my good intentions, my clean(ish) car, my fancy new wiper blades and the fact that I had to listen to my chum telling me my car was being violated for half an hour, she still managed to fail. Something to do with her exaust, her underbody and her steering (I think!). Which means I will still have to endure a real trip to an actual mechanics - probably be my lonesome... and that will be another story!

Blind Expectations

I've always been a bit envious and well, slightly impressed, by people who have managed to avoid the dating scene altogether; sticking with the same person after meeting them at the age of 12 and a half. Then again, I'm not sure I'd have wanted to miss out on all the fun either...

I agreed to go on a blind date once, with a guy my friend insisted I meet. And although I had visions of myself sitting alone at a bar stirring my almost-empty cocktail glass after my blind date seeing and fleeing... the date actually went much better than I thought and I ended up dating the guy for a few months. I also managed to get myself roped into a double-first-date with one of my friends. It was a first date for both of us and with us both being somewhat dillusional, we decided bowling would be a great idea! If you think four strangers on a date together sounds bad, my date brought his friend along for moral support. And this was only last year. I couldn't remember my dates name either, I was just pretty sure it began with 'S'... clearly a major success all around.

But there have been good first dates too... strolls on the beach, movies and romantic dinners. Luckily I've always found first dates to be a breeze, so they've never really been something that bothered me. Why would they? First dates are just a blank canvas and I'm the proverbial paintbrush. All you have to do is turn up, tell your lifestory and decide - usually within the first ten minutes - whether you a) fancy him, b) think he's got second date potential or c) need a friend to fake emergency call you. Although since this is real life and sadly not an episode of the hills... option C is probably never going to happen. Just one of those things I've always wanted to do!

It's the second date that's another story. They're loaded with expectations; you've decided the first date was successful enough to warrant another, but you can't help but wonder if the first date was just a fluke. What if you notice something you didn't see before like a dodgy pair of shoes?  What if you only notice on date two that his hair has a bit of a mullet shape to it? That he tucks his tshirt into his jeans or he has a dangerous habit of name-dropping? There's also the fact that you're setting your poor self esteem up for disaster. If a guy doesn't call after the first date, well fair enough, but after the second? That just hurts!

Not all second dates are disasterous, but they're the ones I dread the most. As long as there's some laughter, some flirting and some little romantic gesture, it's probably enough to seal the deal for date number three. Otherwise? Let Operation Phase-Out begin...

Smuggling Smirnoff...

I have to admit, I was never one to follow the teenage herd and sneak my 'water bottle' on to a bus, or go drinking in some field for the hell of it. In fact, the closest I ever got was my friend telling me she did (there may have been some judging...). I was a bit of a goody-two-shoes but I preferred it that way. Sneaking past the ticket man in the cinema with my pre-purchased bottle of Fanta stuffed in my pockets was enough to make my guilty heart beat a little too fast!

Recently however, I decided to brave it and be recruited into the beer bandits - just for one night. At the risk of sounding like a cheapskate; it was all in the name of work, I swear! So I settled myself between two of my closest friends, with the hope that being sandwiched would make me a little less conspicuous. One of these girls was already a pro, with her little pink hipflask snug in a neat sock which conveniently matched the inner lining of her handbag, the other - a newcomer like me. We saunter casually up to the counter and ask for four baby smirnoffs. (I decided I preferred this size; a 'naggin' makes me think of fields and girls in dodgy tracksuits). These baby bottles have about 5cls of alcohol in them which makes me wonder; other than being handbag friendly, for what other reason would these bottles be made so small? This makes me feel better.

We somehow slip by the bouncers at the door of the (unnamed) club, without a handbag search, something I realised for the first time hasn't actually happened since the age of 19. We make our way up to the bar and pretened to ponder on whether we want to drink tonight or not, finally settling on two cokes and one vodka. No point in drawing too much attention too early. Since the pro has already taken off with her hipflask and experienced sneakiness, we saunter towards the ladies toilets where we stuff ourselves into a claustrophobic cubicle and I pour what I imagine to be one 'measure' into each of our glasses. Between the lack of elbow room in the cubicle and my inability to know what I'm doing, I find myself holding the two over-diluted cokes whilst my partner in crime fights her way to the bar to buy yet another coke.

Armed with two many glasses and way too much coke, we realise our already diluted glasses are too small to hold any more liquid so are forced to distract yet another barman so we can steal two pint glasses from the end of the bar. How we managed to even get this far without arousing suspicion is still beyond me, perhaps we had natural talents hidden somewhere after all! Two hours later and we've become brazen and braver, swiping the baby bottles from our bags in the middle of the dancefloor without as much as a glance around us, and pouring (more controlled) amounts into our glasses.

Although I came home with an unusually happy bank balance, a purse free of change and a want for my very own pink hipflask, my guilty clutch bag thinks it may be too old for all this teenage drama after all. Hmm... we'll see how I feel the next weekend before pay day...

Proceed with Caution

I've had an epiphany. Ok so I'm always having these, I'm just sane enough to keep these thoughts to myself on most occasions... I was stuck in some early morning traffic when this latest one hit me, watching the traffic lights turn from orange to red, and skipping the green signal despite the fact that I was already running late.

Wouldn't it be so much easier if all men had to wear warning signals somewhere on their body, clear for every woman to see? This way, when an innocent young single lady is walking down the street and passes a man who looks like he may have some potential, she's got a clear view of the warning sign draped around his neck. "Warning: Has a tendency to wear socks and sandals during warmer months", this way, if the tragic combo is a hell no, you can save the disappointment, turn on your heels and scarper!

Ok so the warning words might be too much to ask for. What about traffic light colours? That way, if a man is off limits, he would be a red. Wedding ring or not; a no-go area (despite what he and his past seven beers may tell you). He's probably got a girlfriend at home watching the baby. Or else he could be green; fully free and single and ready to go on an actual date... the type of signal every car waits for, but lets face it, is the very last light to come around.

And then there’s the orange – the ones I attract above all others. They’re not taken but although they appear single, they’re not in that state either. The orange coloured men are the ones with ‘issues’; the ones who just aren't ready for a relationship right now. Surely, if we could see these orange warning lights in time, we could slam our foot down and get ahead of them in time!

If only life was that simple! This lovelife here however has met plenty of warning road signs and is still an M50 work in progress; It's pretty much always in construction, has it's fair share of setbacks but hopefully one day will finally be completed! ;)

Oh hello!

Well, this is new! Give me a few moments whilst I try and figure this thing out...