I guess he liked it so he went and put a ring on it.

Just incase you've missed the breaking news on Facebook and Twitter... that amazing boyfriend of mine is now my fiancé.

(I can't believe I just typed that.)

OH. MY. GOD.

If I told you that I have the most ridiculously amazing boyfriend ever... 

... and that our 10 year anniversary is coming up...

... and then showed you these...

... could you guess what we're doing to mark the occasion?

Yeah. I was just going to make him a card, but this ups the ante slightly.


{image sources: 1. Telegraph; 2. Old Tom Foolery; 3. 4. 5. Orient Express}

Domestic bliss.

One of the best - and worst - things about being at home for large tracts of the day is that I keep noticing things around the house that need to be done.

This is good because there's a chance the gaff will start to feel a bit more like home. We've now been living here for over three years but have yet to hang a picture. People who don't know us ask us how we're settling in when they visit, assuming that we've just unpacked.

It's bad because every time I turn around I see something else to put on the ever-lengthening to do list. And decorating is something that Himself and myself do not see eye to eye on, so it's leading to rows.

While I don't particularly enjoy painting - ooooh yay, can I do the cutting in?!?! - it's not like it's difficult. Same goes for sweeping and hoovering and making the bed and loading and unloading the washing machine - Himself doesn't see this as a two-step job and prefers to leave damp clothes to moulder and stink in the drum - and drying clothes and putting them in the hot press or ironing them or folding them and putting them away.

Himself would like to get in a housekeeper in for these things. And get someone in to do the painting/decorating.

There are two of us, and a dog. In a two-bedroom fun-size house.

It sounds stupidly extravagant, I think. And smacks of being the lazy way out. However, I am told, it would free us up to do other things. Fun things.

Like what?

Spending entire weekends watching Malcolm in the Middle marathons on Sky1?

Chop chop!

I think Himself would appreciate this set of four colour-coded food-type indexed chopping boards - if only in the hope that I might use them appropriately.

Don't see seperate tabs for raw and cooked chicken, though, so sure it'd really be no use to me...

via Swiss Miss

The Monart Experience & Other Stories

Well, Monart was a-maaaazing. I'd go back in a heartbeat. I was so chilled out after our sojourn that I didn't do any of the house-y things I'd planned to get sorted - and didn't stress about not getting them done [unheard of]. That zen-like calmness last until, oh, about 9.10am on the Monday I came back to work but I was lovely and floaty until then.

There's actually a little review-type post about our experience here on Beaut.ie... just don't let on to Himself how you know he likes facials ;)

And if you click here, you'll see that there is now have a very valid excuse reason for the sporadic posting on this Lickle Pink Blog - I'm also blogging for le Big Pink Blog that is my favourite website of all time, Beaut.ie!

*Blushes furiously at the shameless blowing-own-trumpet-ness of it all*

Mmmmm, Monart

Apologies if my last post looks a bit untidy; IE has decided to play up and won't let me view my own blog [hmph] so I can't check how things are going up. Lucky I am not some obsessive control freak who has been totally freaking out for the last six hours about the possibility that my pics are misaligned, wha'?

Anyways. I have news! Himself and His boxers are whisking me away to Monart for three days for our Annimaversary. I was so shocked and so totally thrilled when He told me that I actually cried. I was also a little bit relieved - I was petrified He was going to tell me that He'd booked a couple of days in Noo Yoik [I have been banging on quite a bit recently about how much I want to go back.] Ordinarily such a trip would be a most wonderful prospect, but I am brokety broke broke broke at the mo and the idea of being in NY with no spending money when the Euro is at such a high is too depressing to fully contemplate.

Not a bit depressing, however, is the prospect of a three day stay in one of Monart's two suites [a suite!!! I so fanceee] next week. It's is a luxury destination spa [ooooohhh yes] and an adults-only facility [ooooohhh yes!] set amongst 100 acres of private mature woodland just outside Enniscorthy, and I have been craving a trip there since it opened in 2005.

Go on, have a nosey of the pics on their website. It's totally ok to be jealous of me. I nearly am!

Blind terror

Himself was off gallivanting working in Edinburgh on Wednesday and Thursday last, so me and The Bor were home alone on Wednesday night.

Usually this wouldn't really bother me; Himself's now fairly infrequent jaunts abroad work trips represent ideal opportunities for getting in a bit of uninterrupted waxing, or tanning, or nail varnishing, or pottering around in my jammies with a face mask on. On Wednesday night, though, it was pitch black by the time I got home from work [bloody Daylight Savings Time, pah] and I could hear The Bor barking his head off from the train station. My initial reaction was "That little fecker!" but as I got nearer to the house it struck me that the racket he was making wasn't comprised of any of his usual barks. Yes, he has a load of different, totally distinguishable barks - there's the "Look at meeee!" bark, the "OMG I think I just heard a cat four miles away" bark, the "Next door are putting their bins out" bark, the "I just feel like it, alright?" bark... Well, I can tell them apart.

Anyways, he was barking really wierdly and didn't let up when I turned the key in the front door [highly unusual] or come racing headlong at me when I went into the kitchen [unheard of]. I flipped the switch for the outside light to see what the hell he was at and - nothing. Flipped it back the other way. Nada.

Most people would probably conclude at this stage that the bulb had blown and that a cat was tormenting The Bor and go off about their business. I, however, was convinced that there must be a prowler about. As I double checked that all the doors and windows were locked and started to break out in a cold sweat, I cursed the absence of blinds or curtains of any description from the patio door and kitchen window. Suddenly I was very, very aware that Himself's car was absent from its usual spot and sure that any half decent burglar/rapist/crazed serial killer would have scoped the place out for a while and would surely cop what the missing vehicle signified. And then they'd just have to have a peep at the back of the house to confirm that Himself wasn't about.

So I busied myself draping Himself's boxers and mismatched [and therefore boy] socks over the backs of the dining room chairs, the logic being that any would-be wrongdoers looking in over the back fence would say "Hmmm, if she's drying his smalls he must surely be returning home tonight. Retreat!" Or similar.

I also called Himself who was half-cut in a pub in Edinburgh [working, you see] and laughed at me. Then I rang my Mammy, safe in the knowledge that she would take me very seriously indeed [30 minutes after my call, she arrived at the front door with my sister in tow to make sure I was alright.]

The whole episode brought a few things home to me with great clarity.
1. I heart my Mammy.
2. Himself needs new socks.
3. We are getting blinds for the naked patio door and kitchen window pronto.

Well. We're getting blinds in 52 days when IKEA opens in Belfast [can't wait!] They have this nifty double pole panel curtain system yoke that I've been after for ages. It's like what's on the left there.

It's also really bloody hard to find in Ireland and any of the interiors shops I've seen it in are charging the guts of 300 squids for it. The IKEA version, however, will cost approximately half nothing.

So our back windows will be covered and we might actually be able to buy something worth stealing with the sheckles we save.

Re-sult!

Adventures in Woodwork: Part 1

I recently designed/envisaged/dreamed up some integrated, pull-out shelving for my wardrobe on which my shoes could live out a happy [and neat] existence. I wanted flat shelves that could be pulled right out on rollers or something so that I could see everything, including those poor shoes that seem damned to spend all eternity stuck right at the back of the wardrobe and never get to see the light of day. When I told Himself about my vision, he had whipped out a tape measure and begun to size up the available space before you could say "So I was going to ask Dad if he would make them for me." Having only briefly perused Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus before casting it briskly aside and declaring that it was a load of absolute sh*te, I then made the fatal error of Questioning His Abilities.

Oh, the indignance that followed! Did I not know that Himself had done woodwork? [It was later revealed that "doing woodwork" in this instance consisted of a year long flirtation with same in his first year of secondary school. And since Himself no longer gets to tick the "18-25" box on forms, that was a bloody while ago.] I said oh really, I didn't know that, etc etc and made some vaguely conciliatory noises.

Several lifetimes in B&Q and a sh*tload of timber, lats, full extension brackets and sawdust later, I now have a very impressive bespoke† shoe storage solution without a Dad in sight.

Needless to say, now that Himself has proven to be rather a handy chap [and not just in a grope-y way] he is ab-sol-ute-ly f*cked. I have alcoves that are just crying out for some floating shelving across their width, an understairs cubby hole seeking a loving door or similar partition, and plans for a headboard-less platform bed. Oh, it'll be a long time before he gets to settle down in front of Questions & Answers in peace again. Mwwwwaaaaah hah hah hah haaaah...

† The favourite word of Grand Designs' Kevin McCloud, don't cha know [and mine du jour.]

Naaaaay-bours, everybody needs good naaaaaaayyyy-bouuurs...

If you haven't already checked out neighbours.ie, might I recommend that you surf on over - after you've finish reading here, of course - and have a nose for your homeplace on it. Especially if you happen to be a resident of Station Road, Portarlington [Himself is vay involved in the Station Road forum so this post is mostly a gratuitous plug. Frankly though, this is my blog, I decide the content, and if you are foo' enough to read it then it's your own lookout!] The website's a great idea I think, you can meet your neighbours in cyberspace and recommend stuff to each other or help out people who are new to the area and maybe wondering where the best kebab joint is or just have a moan about that neighbour who's a total disgrace because they never mow their lawn/insist on standing in the front garden during the summer in a string vest clutching a can of the Netherland's finest/whatever. Genius!

Cruelty rays. Don't make me come back there and use them...

It has come to my attention that certain segments of the population have branded my treatment of Himself as nothing short of cruel; there was some fretting recently about who my, quote, "cruelty rays" would focus on next. I would like to take this opportunity to state that Himself actually instructed me to be a bee-atch when it came to His "training". In retrospect, the theory behind may have been that He would be motivated to go running in order to get the hell away from me. Which is ok because I am obviously so lovely when just being myself that I am un-tearable-awayable-from(able). So there! In other news: the Kerry Running Weekend failed to materialise. I understand that Alan had a sniffle touch of pneumonia. Typical boy! Meanwhile, in the absence of a jaunt to the southwest due to Alan's sniffle touch of pneumonia, Himself, Jennifer & Marielle took themselves off to the Pheonix Park on Sunday for an 18 mile run [that's 1.5 times further than the Half Marathon, people] and I nosed around the shops for the duration. While I tried to find nice winter boots in a size 3, they managed to complete three x 6 mile laps at 55 minutes per lap in some seriously mingin' weather. Trés impressivo, non? After all that madness [that's right, the smallest size they had was a 4, pah], some serious chillaxing was in order, so myself & the troops headed to Marielle's gaff for dinner where some very interesting and ultimately very tasty things were done with salmon, bruchettas and spinach. Admittedly, I wouldn't previously have known a bruchetta from a hole in the ground, but it was all still very yum - even Himself ate all his spinach, quite unprecedented treatment of a non-pea vegetable and a pretty impressivo testament to Marielle's chef-erry!

Nutters

Himself and a few of the peeps from work have been in training for the Dublin City Marathon for the last few months. I have to say, I use the word "training" pretty loosely when it comes to Himself's, emmm, "regime". Initially, of course, there was much impressive talk of gruelling runs supplemented by super-frequent gym workouts. Paradoxically, there was very little talk [of any kind] of a marathon-worthy change of diet. There was the expected reaffirmation of the "All Vegetables Are Evil [With The Possible Exception of Mushy Peas, Mmm], How Could They Be Good For You" doctrine and a not-very-suprising resuscitation of the "I Just Need To Eat More Steaks [For Protein, Not Coz They're Tasty, Mmm]" mantra. The Crunchy Nut Cornflakes/nice things breakfasts were to be ditched in favour of the disgusting, smelly, mushy, puke-inducing, grey pulp popularly known as - I'm actually shuddering as I type this - porridge. Bleeeeeuuuurrrrgh.

A Marathon Masterplan™/training schedule was duly composed and distributed to all the relevant nutters those involved in the scheme. It dictated the day and nature of each of the aforementioned gruelling runs: run for X minutes, walk for X minutes, run for X minutes, collapse for X minutes... [ok, ok, so I made the last one up; it actually said "collapse for 10 minutes", jeez people!!] Himself followed the plan religiously for... oh, about 4 days, and then the improvisation began. I won't go into the minutiae of the digressions. Suffice to say, He somehow arrived at the conclusion that:

Seriously Curtailed Training* + Zero Modification Of Diet + Normal Alcohol Consumption** = Appropriate, Correct and Totally Safe Preparation For The Undertaking Of A 13- or 26-Mile Run

In fairness, Himself did complete the Dublin Half Marathon which I was vay impressed with; He decided to run/walk/run/collapsewalk the last mile but in retrospect [and possibly in the course of that mile!] felt that this was actually a bad idea as His legs started to sieze up. [Man am I glad I'm not athletic-ally inclined.]

After the success that was the Half Marathon, the impressive talk started up again in earnest. The probability of Himself joining an Athletics Club was given an airing. And yet... there has only been one [3 mile] run since the Half Marathon.

Now, all involved have pencilled in a training weekend down in Sneem, Co. Kerry for the 6^th/7^th/8^th October. Himself will, of course, be in attendance. Good. Great. I am all in favour of this whole marathon thing. I'm just worried that what seems to me to be a very sporadic approach to preparing for such an ordeal as a 26-mile run [let's just call a spade a spade here] for someone who's not all that involved in sport etc [ditto] might not be very, well, safe.

Anywho, while I give myself ulcers worrying about Himself, have a gander at the photos below of Him and Marielle from work giving it socks at the Dublin Half Marathon on Saturday, 23rd September last. [I didn't make up the captions, that's what they were saying. True story...]

"This is a piece of p*ss easy peasy! Dunno what marathon runners do be whinging about."

"Me either. Wonder where the Kerry representative is?"

.

.

.

"Yep, still dead easy. Aren't we so cool with our running?"

.

.

.

"Oh sweet merciful Jesus, we're gonna die. We are actually gonna die doing this stupid goddamn marathon (half marathon, lads -Lyndar). Whose goddamn genius idea was this again?!"

.

.

.

"I wa--wa--want my Maaaammy! Blub blub blub."

.

.

.

* Yes yes, we all know about the injuries. I'm just saying, is all.

.

** I should point out that, the Friday post-work Heineken and the very odd work-related, boss-imposed Sambuca [ewww!] notwithstanding, I'd say Himself's Normal Alcohol Consumption, or NAC as it is often termed by no-one, is well below that of the average punter. I just thought that nutters those preparing for a race were supposed to abstain totally..? Or, at the very least, not spend most of the Saturday 5 weeks before the race drinking with a mate in a Sligo pub and trying to negate the disapproval surrounding the revelation of same by inferring they spent the "Sunday" surfing. Huh. Last time I checked, "Sunday" was a bit more than two hours long...

Valo's: The Update

Well, Himself really outdid himself (yuk yuk) yesterday. We take turns organising stuff to do on Valo's Day and this year the deed fell to him. (Previous February 14ths have involved a trip to the zoo, a bus tour of Dublin, a Tommy Tiernan gig, massages in a Chicago spa and an architectural boat tour on the Chicago River so the pressure to deliver was really on.)

Around 2 or 3 o'clock yesterday afternoon I got a message to say that there was a delivery for me at the main reception and could I come collect it; it was the most elegant bunch of flowers I've ever seen with a single red rose, a huge spray of pink orchids and really unusual foliage in a glass vase. And there was I thinking a white rose was as good as it gets!! There was a card with the flowers addressed to "Lynnie" with the message "Loves ya much" - I'd like to have heard the conversation where that text was dictated so precisely!!

After work, I headed straight into town and checked into The Westin. It's one of the nicest hotels I've ever stayed in. I am horrifically fussy about hotel rooms and usually expect to have to request a change of room because of cleanliness issues/the room just being plain wrong (a double bed and two twin beds pushed together are simply not the same bloody thing, people!), but no such drama in The Westin. The room was beyond clean, large, with elegant decor, a marble bathroom and a seperate shower room, and overlooked the central Atrium of the hotel (which is probably thebest view available; a room facing onto the outside world would be looking out on Westmoreland Street, Fleet Street, D'Olier Street or the bus stops at the side of Trinity College. Not very picturesque!) All in all: fanceeee!

We had dinner in The Chilli Club on Anne's Lane which was absolutely Thai-licious. The staff were nice and the place itself is lovely, small but perfectly formed. Additionally, the meal was pretty cheap-o considering the loveliness of the whole experience so well done on a super restaurant choice, Himself!

On to the Abbey to see a performance of "Homeland" - we're cultured, us - which Himself really liked, then back to the hotel's bar for cocktails [a Metropolitan for me, a Toblerone for Himself, a Lemongrass & Lime Martini for Himself, a Passion Martini for me...] and onwards to the room for champagne.

Oooh la la..!

Thank Crunchie!

Friday at last! Mmmm weeeeekeeennnnd.

Okay, I have to [grudgingly] admit that Himself's haircut is none too shabby. It's actually quite nice. Pah.

Himself's graduation ceremony was yester evening in Trinity. In addition to the usual black cape, Trinity-heads also have to wear a fur stole which, I have to say, did look the business... but it was real fur. So some mixed emotions there, to say the least.

On the extremely plus side, though, it was a black tie event so Himself had wear a tux complete with bow tie, rrrraaarrrrr :) Very nice!

Aaah, hump day.

I quite likes Wednesdays, I do. Except when they're Wednesdays like today where the traffic is nuts and it takes almost 3 hours to get from my front door to my desk. [The distance between these two points is c. 20 miles, 25 at most. I had to make the same journey one Saturday night 'cos I had audience tickets for Tubridy Tonight and it took less than 30 minutes!!!!]

As if that wasn't bad enough, my new pink sparkly retainer box hasn't arrived yet :( and I have a headache and, to top it all off, Himself has announced he's getting a haircut.

Eh oh.

HIMSELF'S HAIRCUTS: A BRIEF HISTORY
My deep-seated fear of the possible outcome of a visit by Himself to the hairdresser/barber/whatever the correct term is for the place boys go to get their hair cut is not a new thing. Ooh noo. I was informed early on that what I consider to be the perfect length for Himself's crowning glory [eh, I said "crowning", people; does lifting your minds out of the gutter for a moment really require such monumental effort?] is, in fact, too long. So I put my hands up and said fine, go get it cut.

And he did.

And the result was rather more U.S. Marines, arrrr, than one might have hoped. That is to say, he hadn't so much had a haircut as been scalped.

Hmmm.

The chilling sequence of events that surrounds one of Himself's haircuts has varied very little since:
- Himself declares that his hair is too long.
- I look suitably terrified and manage to squeak something innocuous like "Really?"
- Himself relents for a time; a kind of uneasy truce is reached.
- A week or so later, I receive a txt/phone call/e-mail announcing that the shearing of the offending follicles has taken place or is to commence shortly.
- I fret that this is the time when the hairdresser/barber/whatchamacallit really goes to town and leaves me with a boyfriend whose head is so shiny it makes mirrors jealous or who is missing a bit off the tops of his ears.

And then Himself had the nerve to whinge at me when I got my gruaig chopped without seeking prior approval!! The sheer unabashed cheek of it.

I guess there's always a silver lining, though: if Himself had a reflective surface where his hair should be, I'd never have to lug a mirror around ever again...

It's all about meeee!

This whole 'Lyndar the Merciless' [aaarr] thing started off as a misinterpretation of my moniker by a waitress in a Chicago pizzahouse. Well obviously it was a mistake; I mean who would have parents cruel enough to land them with 'Lyndar' in real life? People who have a brother called Algernon, I bet...

Anywho, after myself and Himself had a good laugh at the mad waitress, the misnomer stuck, much like a Shrove Tuesday pancake tossed overenthusiastically adheres to the ceiling. Himself is responsible for the 'the Merciless' bit, added because Lyndar has such an 'aaarr, now I am going to eat you, aaarr!!' ring to it. I have a few nicknames [at least, there are only a few that I know of]: I've always been 'Lynnie' at home to Mam & Dad & to the rest of my family & friends, unless of course I'm in trouble in which case I'm Firstname Middlename Confirmation Name Surname!! I like 'Lyndar the Merciless' though because it reminds me of spending three of the best months in my life in Chicago with Himself, and I'm secretly chuffed that it's not *just* a nickname, it's sort of a title as well. And it has even given rise to a host of spin-off nicknames, one of which is 'Blyndar' [tends to be used mostly by Himself in a whinge-y voice to enquire how long more I'm going to be in X shop. 'Blyyyyndaaaaar...']

What makes it really funny is that I am only a wee slip of a thing [although I swear blind that I am 5' 3½", the sad truth is that I'm only 5' 2", blub blub] and the scariest thing about me is probably my pointy-toe shoes :)