Perfect disaster zone

I'm not perfect. I'm selfish, I'm impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control at times and hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best. - Miss Munroe
 
She had a point. It's true. And I too am all of those things and perhaps, I fear, more. I'm an artfully, endlessly complicated, absolute disaster. And to be honest, I kind of like it that way. It's tiring pretending to be a version of perfection. Halloween is over and it's refreshing to be able to walk around without wearing a mask or entertaining a masquerade.
 
I'm not perfect. In fact, I'm so far from perfect I'd be whatever the antipodal is. But, as my luck goes, I meet perfect people all the time. The kind with sparkly teeth and glossy hair, matching bath towels, cute babies, good knowledge of geography and interesting cultural points of view. They make me want to throw up. I just couldn’t stand the pressure of being one. Imagine the rules? I know its a club I’ll never be allowed to join.

I'm the direct opposite. The sort standing pulling gum off my shoe. A member of the ‘breathlessly late, half disheveled mess’ style club. The one with few other members other than the possible extreme exception of Courtney Love. But I think it suits me more, and I think I'll be an decorated member till I die.
 
I try to make myself feel better by chanting the mantra ‘perfection is over-rated’. Then again, I may just be jealous? Either way, perfection is a quest I gave up on a while ago, and continue to give up on each day when I roll out of bed, 10 minutes late for work and 2 days early for the weekend.
 
The moral of the story hence being if you see a girl, hair everywhere, coat and scarf disrobing, bag spilling, studying an upside-down map while pulling her stiletto heel out of the pavement, please, smile and run. It's probably me, and I probably don't need to see you. You and your crisply ironed, matching shoe/bag/belt/glove combo whilst you talk effortlessly on your cell, type a quick email and push your state of the art baby buggy to an 'Eastern Mongolian language class for advance learners'. Trust me, don't bother saying hi. Your just making me look bad.  And while I grit my teeth and say “I like my mask of imperfection”, frankly when I see your mask I start to think mine isn't that great. And I get the overwhelming urge to grab it and tap dance it into the pavement. And that’s really not going to be pretty for anyone.

It's a man's world...

I met a kid last night who has been nicknamed Hercules by Miss Mascara. Don't get me wrong, he's not obnoxiously big or arrogant or boastful or anything in fact quite the opposite (it's just that he has Hercules curls). But he's definitely a man's man, and he makes no apologies for it. I love it. No boys need apply. I see them with their trendy jeans and their hip-hop walks- and I think I envy their skinny legs and their flat butts more than anything, but I don't think I could date one of them. I firmly believe that you cannot date a man with a smaller ass than yourself. It's just wrong and bad for self esteem.
 
Granted, the metro-sexual movement has done a lot for the male species and in turn the female ilk, I give it that. We no longer have to endure mono-brows peering out unsuspectingly from supermarket isles, we can breathe easily knowing that most men will at least try keep nether-regions clipped and tidy as opposed to the wooly mammoth vibe and those under 45 will try to trim nose/ear/toe hair in a regular fashion. In fact, viewing this list, I think mostly the metro theme has simply removed unwanted hair from obnoxious locations. It did give us men who 'feel' things, who talk about emotions, who want to hear about our own, who write poetry and think being romantic is no longer only for cheesy Italian crooners. It produced artsy guys and adorable geeky ones, gave rock stars the ability to let a little human show through it tried to bridge the gap between the Neanderthal and the Frank Sinatra every man has inside. All of which is fine my me, but every now and then when you run into a guy who does all this, and still manages to be more 'man' than 'metro' - it's a nice change.
 
Metro-men...it's been great, and I've had a lot of fun, and seen some great sweater-shirt combos, but I wonder if I could be so bold as to ask if there could be another movement started please? One where men are all of the above, and more, and will still catch a mouse, chop the firewood and grill a good steak?

Needless to say, you don't have to be Greek or Roman Gods, but to be fair - it would help.

Can you catch amnesia from a cold hearted bitch?

A friend sat across the table from me at lunch today and described herself as cold-hearted bitch. Intense you'd think. But, in fact, she just might be. And I actually think she might have conditioned herself that way. By no fault of her own. She's let her heart grow a medieval suit of armor to repel any sort of modern amour. And what was most shocking was how unapologetic she is about the fact. She is more than successful in every other aspect of life but is resigned that she has an impenetrable heart of steel. She has shut her heart and has essentially shut the door on the topic as well.
 
So while it may appear that the modern woman strives for a combination of ambition, family, love, home, friends and any other clichéd but true desire in life -she seemingly, in equal measures repels them all at the same time too. But why? It seems mad.

We push away what we are afraid of so we don't have to take risks, give our hearts away, take a chance or admit we've failed. And sitting across from her I realised, what kind of fate is that to accept and wish upon each other?
 
We have the utmost faith in a friend's life story, knowing deep in our bones that for them, it will all work out. They’ll be happy, safe and joyful for years to come. And yet for ourselves? Why do we shun the slightest hint of success like a phat palm to the vicious paparazzi? Men who love us? We pick fights and push them away, cause drama and analyse it ceaselessly when it fails. Work? We struggle so hard to 'be liked' we forget to do our jobs, tell people when to 'shut up', 'push off', or even say 'your wrong you red-nosed lace knicker sniffing buffoon and I'm not honey coating it anymore snot licker'. Nope. Instead, we smile and nod and like martyrs and dig deeper. Home? Family? We want to be Wonder Woman, cook, clean, read books, plant seasonal flowers, re-tile the bathroom, wash the ceilings, iron that impossible skirt, raise a content 8 year old or mend that silk blouse all by 8pm Tuesday night.
 
We're never enough, and maybe its our own fault. Maybe we just need to forget all the bullshit we feed ourselves abut love, about home life, about the normal people in society, about the abnormal people, about ourselves. We need to un-learn all the crap that makes us unhappy and re-learn all the stuff that makes life good. Then maybe we wouldn't convince ourselves we're cold-hearted bitches, maybe we'd just accept ourselves, or at least accept ourselves enough to know that with a bit of self-selected amnesia; the sort where we forget the laundry, forget the breakups, forget the actions of our idiotic boss, and forget trying to be Wonder Woman.

Maybe if we just let ourselves forget a little we'd remember that things are going to work out just fine and maybe we'd relax. Just maybe.

If I go MIA will anyone see me waving my white flag?

The Milkman went on a buck’s party mission to Scotland and never returned. Ra Ra Army Boy was in the middle of driving to town for my birthday party on Saturday night and has never been heard from again. The Irish lawyer from last week may or may not have tried to hang himself after talking to me. King of Spades has spent the last week in the desert - really social. And even Monster Mashed has stopped chasing me for gossip on Suit and Tie's relationship with the evil Venus Fly Trap. I need a holiday. I'm too confused to function. It's like the full moon has come out and everyone has gone bonkers, including me.
 
Then, in an additional twist of fate - about a month ago, I was dating a guy for about 15 seconds who rather conveniently moved to Norway. So then his friend messaged to see if I wanted to hang out. Since I'd been making out with his friend I said, sure we could hang out, 'as friends'. Thinking anything more might be weird. We've hung out twice and he's cool - then he saw pictures of my friends from the weekend and now wants me to pimp him out. Huh? I realise that I was pretty straightforward in saying we can hang out as friends, but what? Did he initially want to hang out with me cause he thought snogging me would be easy? And if so, why hasn't he tried? I'm generally the confusing one in my relationships, but he has got me puzzled.
 
It's clear - the one's I like go MIA, the ones I begin to like are more confusing than I am and the rest are just throwing me curve balls to dodge. I don't get it? Waving my white flag right now. I give up. Your right. I don't get you guys. Everyone can come out now, joke's over. Guys? Seriously? Hey? Very funny! Guys? Where'd you go? Was it something I said?

No really, no need to thank me

Thanksgiving dinner was a delightful mixture of good friends, hilarious conversation, fantastic food and too much wine which culminated in us hitting a bar at which point we started talking to a chirpy bunch of Irish lads.
 
One of my friends, Miss Mascara ended up going home with one cute kid and whilst the other was funny, there really wasn't a spark so I left at a reasonable hour. Her memory isn't that clear on the whole night but as it turns out, after she wakes up, his sister is here to stay so best pretend she was with his flat mate. She comes downstairs and is duly interrogated by the sister - not about chosen man, but the flat mate - who, and I know it's not really a laughing matter but, TRIED TO HANG HIMSELF when they had got home.
 
Men are reduced to giving up on life after speaking me. We've hit a new low.
 
But even more peculiar this kid emails today and wants to go out for drinks next week? Huh? What the?
 
It's not enough I can't find a nice normal guy to have a nice normal relationship with, now I'm killing them?

Gobble Gobble

Happy Thanksgiving my little turkeys!

Noli me tangere quia Caesaris sum. Do not touch me for I am Ceasar's

Marriages and the stuff of Kings. That's what I've been stagnantly focused on for most of the day. Or more specifically the string of women associated with good ole' Henry. Britain's Henry VIII gave up his wife of 18 years Katherine of Aragon to marry Anne Boleyn, then gave her up to marry Jane Seymour, followed by Anne of Cleves, then Katherine Howard and finally Catherine Parr. The guy was unstoppable by the standards of the day.
 
It's the stuff my nightmares are made of. I know it's not rational but I somehow feel this disposable wife thing is more common in the minds of Kings. That they are easily able to throw over and throw away things that require work or no longer suit them and demand something prettier, more pleasing and more pliable. But who is to say that it is any more common for Kings and Queens than it is for others? Does a crown necessarily denote someone's fickleness?
 
Why is it that I'm not terrified of being in a relationship in this case, even before it's offered a beginning, I'm more terrified it will end? And more than anything I am terrified it will end with the intrusion of someone else.
 
Is that rational? I'm sure it must be but are the stakes any higher with anyone in particular? King/Queen/Jack/Ace? I've survived break ups before, I've survived many, many of them so what makes me dubious about it all. From the get-go? About him, about Caesar? Am I afraid of what I know will happen, or what might?
 
Perhaps half my trouble is that with power and position you don't really date the man, you date a family, an empire, you date traditions and frankly, you run the risk of losing yourself. Well, it's taken me too long to find myself to throw her away. And I think that, right there, losing myself, is the thing I'm more afraid of than anything. It's not a marriage beginning, it's not a marriage ending, it's losing me. And the only way I've come up with to avoid that is to find an equal who, in every way, stands next to you, never above or below you. And I don't think the King of Spades was raised to be anyone's equal.
 
So perhaps it's a case of, sorry Caesar, I just don't know if this is going to work out. The distance, the kingdom - you know, all that stuff. I'm just not sure it's really 'me'. Maybe we can just go back to being friends? Ok? Wanna smoke shisha and do shots instead?

Say no evil, dream no evil

I'm in a bit of a pickle. Saturday night after a few drinks with the wonderful Miss McQueen and having eaten a grand total of a single sandwich all day, I suddenly found myself receiving a call from the King of Spades. He had been out hunting all day and I think he was just thinking of me. But as it turns out I was a little more drunk than I thought since I can't really remember the conversation. I do remember he had me in tears at one stage. I must have admitted I still had feelings for him and must have told him that I was disappointed he never made more of an effort to make things work - or frankly even make things formal between us because he's been messaging and calling ever since. And last night he even brought up the conversation saying he 'never realised half the things I had told him'. Ah oh. Problem.
 
Despite the mysterious conversation, I'm now trying to piece together; my problem is, and our problem has always been - we live on opposite sides of the world in opposite cultures. And to me, that's a HUGE problem.
 
That's not so bad you say. Well I beg to differ, he's of the 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' variety and conversely, I've tried to do the long distance thing. And I side with the 'out of sight, out of mind' crowd. Long distance...simply put? It doesn't work, no matter how much I love someone when I'm with them, and I miss them when they're not there, you can't 'get close' with an ocean between you. It's not possible. Sorry to burst any bubbles. Yes, you can talk, yes you can listen, yes, you can learn a lot about the other person - but to me, nothing beats the good old fashioned one on one interaction that you get when you spend time (in person) with someone.
 
It's the same reason I refuse to internet date. How can you know who someone is with just words? Hemmingway / Take That and the Bee Gees all wrote, 'It's only words and words are all I have'. Well I don't plan on ending up that way. Don't get me wrong, words are great, some of the most special gifts anyone has ever given me were composed entirely of words. Promises, dreams, declarations of love, poetry, little songs, screaming matches, stories and letters - and all composed almost entirely of words. And yet in the end - they mean virtually nothing. Its the actions. The stolen flower on a Sunday afternoon walk, the opening of a door, the smile when your frowning, the arm around a shoulder, the presentation of a ring and the gentle nudge toward the steepest waterslide you were dying to ride until you looked down from a glorious height. Those are the things that matter.
 
And so once again, he and I have ended up back at the beginning, not by any fault of our own, but by virtue of circumstance. And I fear because we don't live close enough to date seriously again, fall completely in love, panic, fight, get sick of each other, dissipate and fall apart we're going to be left dreaming. And if it's even possible, I think dreaming is even worse than talking. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil - i think there should be another one...dream no evil.

I might not have felt at home when I got there, but I sure as hell didn't want to leave!

There are some landmarks we really aren't that excited to reach. School, work, adulthood, the grocery store, home after a great night out, the pee stained end of the swimming pool, our room in an old people's home, the cemetery, or anywhere playing bad 80's slasher music.
 
I'm currently not that excited to get to 25. I'd love to do a re-run of 24, but to be honest, I'm not really sure how far that year got me either. Perhaps I should look back and nominate the perfect year. And there, yet again, I'm stuck - there doesn't seem to be a year I can pin point and scream - YES! THERE! THAT WAS IT! STOP THE TAPE! LETS FILM IT AGAIN!
 
My 18th year involved a lot of terrified sneaking into American University night clubs, the 19th a lot of arrogant skating over my studies when all I wanted was to be done, my 20th a lot of day-time sleeping in front of a computer in NYC the solution to which I thought was to run away to France and eat too much, my 21st year was about a spectacular party, but I had to wait till December for that - so it ended up being a year of waiting. The 22nd year was all about screaming around the desert and the world, but I didn't have family or friends with me - so that was just hard. 23 was all about a man who ended up getting more attention than he was worth and thus we reach the year of 24 - this year. I'm only just settling into my 24th year skin, and now I'm meant to try the next size on? I don't think so, it's not going to fit, I don't like the colour of it, it looks funny and I don't have ANY shoes to match it, I can tell you that now.
 
And quite frankly, why do I need to change my outfit? I don't look cute anymore? Is this all about getting older, wiser, more clever, rounded or worldly? If wiser is what I'm meant to be getting what do I make of the fact that frankly I just think I'm getting more drunk on a more regular basis? And even more shockingly - what if that thought doesn't bother me in the slightest. You lot get married - I'll get drunk.
 
I refuse to give up my sparkly mini shorts, my cocktail habit, my penchant for stupid dancing, my love of chips and twizlers, my obsession with cheesy pop music and my short-attention span dating. And yes, I probably said all this last year. But upon reflection, turning 24 wasn't so bad. And sure, I might not have felt at home when I got there, but I sure as hell don't want to leave now!

Revenge isn't always a bitch- I'm rather nice!

"She's the kind of gal you get in your head a can never really get her out. You know it can never be, but a piece of her always remains inside." I came across this little gem today. And I hope its true of every man who has ever loved me.

It's the kind of egotistical thing that you not meant to say, out loud, but do. Well at least to yourself. 

I had an older friend who was with a girl for 5 years in his early 20's. He got to 26 and decided that he didn't want to be tied down. He duly broke it off and spent the rest of his life looking for a woman just like her. And by the time he got to 50 it was too late and he'd never found her. He did get married, but he always regretted that the original girl was never his wife. He knew she was 'the one'. 

I think secretly I've always wished that of every man with whom I've had some sort of serious relationship. 

You don't know what you've got till it's gone - but by then it's usually too late to get it back. I don't mind that thought, as long its - you don't know what you've got till it's gone, and then you'll regret it forever. And if that makes me vengeful so what- we all want to be remembered, for me it's by those who loved and lost.

And to be honest about it it's because I'll always remember them.

What's the expiry date on the milk?

A 7 hour lunch with The Milkman, followed by a 3 hour dinner last night? Really?

What's happening to me? I'm so used to getting bored by the end of date two I've forgotten what it's like to 'like' someone...this is bad.

And now I stare expectantly at my phone when I send him a messages instead of ignoring the damn thing for days. OMG. This is killing me. They'll find me dead tomorrow morning. Tox test  clear but the wall around my heart starting to erode. This is bad. Very bad.

Minge at 10 O'Clock!

In one of the most hilarious conversations I've had in a long time last night at girl's dinner, a gorgeous American friend described in fierce detail the experience of attending a German day spa in (name protected for legal and more importantly ridicule-related reasons). At this 13-stage progression-spa, she was stripped, scrubbed, scoured, squeezed, sandpapered, pummeled, primed, pushed and prodded then she was suddenly thrust out and exposed. Very very viciously exposed.
 
After 12 stages of female companionship. BOOM. Males, naked ones everywhere. In homegrown fur-shorts. The fear was terrifying. Frantically searching for her husband amongst the leering eyes in the room - desperately trying to keep eyes above shoulder height to identify her beloved. When she realised a shocking fact (and one that I never knew)...Japanese pubic hair is straight. Correct, straight out, no curl, no wriggles, dead straight- and standing to attention. Wow. 
 
She was a nether-regionally 'neat' woman herself, as she had previously realised in the female section of the soft blue film she was now in. Suddenly she feeling more self conscious about her lack of cover in more ways than one. Swiftly discovering her husband she hurried to a spa where by the magical words where uttered...'Darling can you keep your minge underwater...the Germans think you have cancer.'
 
I mean it was fine in England and America but clearly the Germans didn't agree...and were giving her the X-Factor triple gong.
 
Oh well, you can't please all the people all the time and I guess there are always going to be some differences that can't be sorted out in the Treaty of WWII.

Canyon of the Moose-Headed house plant

Is it just me, or is having a conversation with a parent these days like talking to a moose headed house plant? You feel your talking, and yes, its all going 'in' - but its not quite hitting the spot...well at least not in a way you were expecting, anticipating or desiring.

I feel this happens to me more often than I would like. I feel like some of the things I think about just aren't engineered for their generation. And whilst this list is in no way comprehensive, it does make up the topics covered in the 10 minute conversation I was lucky enough to have with my father this morning.

Youtube, I've coerced my father into finding random old music legends. I, of course, then love them and claim them as my own, cunningly getting major vintage music kudos from others. Works perfectly.

Doing more than one thing in a single night - another thing my parents are genetically engineered not to understand. They claim this is detrimental to my mental and physical health. Read: deadly. Frankly I think its social efficiency, but hitting 2 prep bars, a restaurant, a party, 6 night clubs and a 4am breakfast hot spot doesn't have the same exciting ring to them.

Having a gay boyfriend. A completely necessary item in life.

Anything un-ironed. Hey if Prada is promoting the crumpled look I will continue to pull it off, its also cheaper than the phase I went through where I dry cleaned everything I owned. They should be thankful.

And most importantly dating wildly inappropriate men. A potential sticking point with my beloved oldies. Whilst the 'rentals always try and understand my left field romantic choices they tend to observe the obligatory grand canyon between my choice for me and theirs.

As far as  can gather, it seems that generationally the paths we stomp and the words we recite are best evaluated by our peers rather than our parents. It's not that we don't value 'olds'...I just don't think they're 'getting it'.

And if they're not getting it now, they're not going to get it in 20 years...God, help me when I have children? Make sure they're at the bottom of the canyon and I'm on the top?

Pre heat the oven and add a pinch of perfection

Saturday early evening saw 4 girls sitting down to a beautiful home cooked meal after a few glasses of vino. One of my best friends, Miss MQueen is on a mission. She is going to be the perfect housewife. 50's style. No matter that there is no boyfriend currently on the scene. This quest is more about her personal growth than expanding the belly of her current crush.

She has been cooking each weekend for near on a month and each meal gets more delicious and more perfected. Besides her phenomenal cooking prowess, I admire her brazen bird-flip to modern feminist notions that women should be shirking the stereotyped nipped-waist and court heeled 50's wife. And in turn, abandoning the art forms they so lovingly nurtured.

It might sound archaic but I think most of us take pride in keeping a beautiful house, cooking impeccable dishes, hosting parties and carrying on interesting table conversation- so why not make it official? I love the commitment this girl has to making it a delicate and elegant art form again. To be the perfect wife is something long forgotten in the ambitions of young women today. I know. I'm one of them. And until Miss MQueen boldly stated her aim, goal and hypothesis- it never occurred to me that trail blazing through the kitchen might be one of the best things we can do.

So it might be cheesy (fondu style please) and to some it might be regressively thinking but frankly as long as my belly is full and I'm on the weekly guinea pig dinner party list then I'm fully supporting her super-housewife mission. One day she is going to make a very special man a very full one.

She might be pregnant, but I'm ok with that...

She might be pregnant, but I'm ok with that...ummm, your what? Seriously did Suit and Tie just come out with that? After 2 weeks - wait, my mistake, almost 3 weeks. I'll pay my fair dues. I've decided to call her Venus (after the fly trap, not the eternal beauty).
 
This stuff just gets bigger. Its better than a Brazilian soap opera. You can't even make this stuff up! And I thought my life was worth blogging about. I've just officially been usurped.

Not in your wildest nightmares does this shit happen

Update - it's the same girl. The girl who mashed up Monster Mashed now has her claws into Suit and Tie. This is too freaky to be true.
 
Do I tell him she's been married before, she's been pregnant - that she's crazy? Or do I leave it for him to discover? I should never have sent him the break up email offering to be friends. It's my own fault, I've brought this on myself.
 
All hell is going to break loose no matter which way I swing on this one.
 
1. If I tell him and it works out then I'm a loony friend who tried to break them up.
2. If I tell him and they break up I'm a kill-joy.
3. If I don't tell him and it works out I'll always know a history she hasn't told him.
and
4. If I don't tell him and it doesn't work out I'm a traitor to our friendship.
 
Why am I being punished like this? I swear I really regret stealing that Red Skins hat when I was in grade 5. But it was in lost property - and how was I to know that didn't equal 'free goods'.

Maybe I'll be the flower girl?

Suit and Tie has met a girl. I met him for lunch today and he was as excited as a yappy dog on crack. They have been dating for two weeks and he thinks they are going to get married. I'm confused. I know he was looking for a serious girlfriend, but really? And he has invited her to his home country to meet all his friends and family. I mean I know I'm pushing the envelope dating 8 guys instead of 1 but....Eeeek! Actually I'm happy for him, but is this what the kids are doing these days? At the 2 week point is this the kind of thing to be expected?
 
My main reservation on the whole thing was set off by his penchant for name-dropping people she knows and things she owns. Don't get me wrong, a good name-bomb will get you far, but I think part of his infatuation is caught up in the material and the name-landmines she can set off. And it sent me flying, battered and bruised reeling back to where I started in the first place - The very first question: hearts or diamonds? Clearly, it's not just a choice for those of us of the female persuasion.
 
What do you do? Do you follow your heart? Or do you just get the biggest diamond you can?
 
I think in the ideal Disney world you get both, but we're all grown ups aren't we - is that combo really ever going to happen to more than a handful of us? Scarily she bears an odd resemblance to Monster Mashed's stories of his ex-finance (curiosity made me email him to check on the name). Could be a very interesting twist of fate, since from his stories it sounds like it's the diamond she's after. But then again, maybe that suits both - by the sounds of it, with all the name-dropping, that's what he seems to be infatuated with as well. Wedding bells are ringing....Bling bling, Bling bling.

Got Milk?

I was at dinner on Saturday night with a friend and after devouring cocktails we were finally seated in a buzzing dining room. She and I were warming up for a mischievous evening of stupid dancing when to our surprise two glasses were sent to the table. I'd love to say that it was champagne, or a fine wine or even something crazier like tequila, but no. We received two glasses of milk. Unadulterated, sweet and simple, milk.
 
The curiosity at it's arrival was hilarious. We couldn't stop laughing and in fact invited the gentlemen to sit at our table for a while. Turns out they were charming Irish boys and thought the milk was a good idea (Note: they were also trying to send us cookies). Point is - it got me thinking about what I expected in certain situations and how nice it was to receive something out of left field. To be honest it was a total delight. I've become so used to men buying drinks, sending champagne or planning dinner that I've forgotten about all the other (maybe more simple) fun things...What about going to beach? Bowling? Ice skating? Mexican cat throwing? Why do I always assume a date has to revolve around food, drink and a chance to wear high heels? Where has all the good old fashioned fun gone?
 
I've not laughed as hard as I did with these two guys in ages, and it made me think - have I become too serious in my pursuit of fun? Perhaps we think having fun is childish - something we are desperately trying not to be. But what's so negative about that? Do we act really like children? Perhaps we just treat each other like children? Or, more sadly, are we interviewing each other to have them?
 
Regardless, when did we get so serious? My resolve is to start sending more milk. I think it might get us all a little bit further, and if it doesn't it certainly will get a laugh.

Judgement day.

Is it wrong to judge someone because of what they wear? I know the mandatory answer to this is 'yes' - but really? Is it? Because I do it all the time. And I'd like to think I'm not a horrible person. I'm happy being about 20% horrible, but not much more than that.
 
And yet if your a guy and your wearing some cheap-ass suit or a sweater that is made of more plastic material than natural fibers we're going to have issues. Last week I actually met a man wearing a shirt/sweater combo. Normal, you think to yourself, until the other guys get drunk enough to point out that this wonderfully inventive item is already pre-combined! That's right. It's nothing more than a collar and sleeves sewn onto a grandpa vest! Huh? Your that lazy you couldn't put two items on? I'm sorry if you wear that shit you deserve to be judged. Period.
 
There have been many a fashion faux pas in my dating history, one VERY hot man who looked sharp in a beautiful Italian navy wool suit when I met him and then rocked up to take me on a picnic in a skin tight muscle t and combat trousers pulled up illegally high...one questions - why?...sneakers and jeans - no comment and a short guy who insisted on wearing an oversized leather jacket and matrix sunglasses - don't ask.
 
Looking back on my own fashion history, yes, there have been some shockers but I'd like to think overall it was only 20% horrible which means I've evened myself out. I have to draw the line at a shirt/sweater combo though - a cheap one at that, and if you've got a problem with that then go buy one. But be warned if I ever see you in it, I am going to judge you and it's not going to be pretty.

Just because I gave you my number, doesn't mean I did it willingly.

Some idiot from the meat market last Friday night has just messaged me (again) saying 'how are you miss busy? thought your work-social life balance is what your company is most proud of'....ummm - my work-social life balance is just fine thanks. But good way to offend me in 67 characters or less. Its just that I don't want to include you in either work or life. In fact, if I had the chance I really don't want to have to speak to you again. That's why I haven't responded to you previous 4 inane and innocuous messages. Get it? I need to come up with some sort of Rosetta Stone of female language for general distribution amongst the male population. 
 
Sound it out with me gentlemen...
 
'No darling, of course the pub is fine, I don't really feel like a nice meal anyway' translates to...douchebag cheapskate why you think I would rather eat shit for dinner as opposed to something good I will never understand.
 
'Does my bum look big in this?' translates to...be very very careful if you want to get laid tonight.
 
and 'Ummmm - sure, really? Ummmm, ok....yeah....my number.....' translates to... No I don't want to give you my contact details, cause for the last 20 minutes I've been trying to signal my laughing friends to rescue me, excuse myself if you'd give me 10 seconds to speak and eye up your hot friend all without success you greasy smarm ball.
 
I don't see how hard they are to decipher. Honestly.
 
Lesson: If you somehow get my number and it didn't seem like I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally wanted it give it you. I was being nice and you put me in the awkward position of calling my phone directly 'so I have yours'. And in terms of the next day, please, message once (just once, just in case) and then if no response, never again. I realise this might be hard to figure out. But its really no harder than learning Chinese or building something big and complex. And we all know your more than capable of doing either of those things.
 
I think perhaps I'll start giving my number out in roman numerals...half the idiots won't be able to figure it out, weed out the weak - Chinese could be a stretch for these imbeciles.

The moral of the story

When I was 22 my father said something that rocked my world and changed how I viewed men.
 
It went along the lines of..."when you’re a young man you approach things differently. You know that your going to have to look after a wife and children and take care of a family, your going to have to succeed. They'll look to you for survival and happiness. That’s a lot of pressure."
 
Until that point it had never occurred to me that I was oblivious to this pressure. That I'd never struggled with the idea that I'd have to buy a house, support a family, pay school fees or violin lessons and perhaps pay for aging parents by myself. I certainly don't consider myself old school traditional, the notion just ever occurred to me.
 
The reason I raise this pithy little bit of dad-wisdom is because a guy I've been having coffee with lately (The Dutchy) has been told by his ex-girlfriend that she's 6 weeks pregnant. They broke up 6 weeks ago and she has a 1% chance of ever having kids. No bones about it - she's keeping it. I can see where she's coming from, but I don't think this is quite how he envisioned his family starting.
 
I realise I consult this piece of advice my father gave me when I think a man works too much, that I work too much or that I don't see something as important as it is to another person. Pressure comes from all sorts of directions and I can never know which direction someone is feeling at any one time. But the more I think of his particular situation the more I struggle with it. And even though Dutchy and Preggers both want different things how much pressure can they put on each other before the lid is going to blow off?
 
And at the end of the day life is life and you can't control every section of it. I guess it's the unanswerable question with only one response...
 
Q: What do you do when life gets in the way of plans? Or, worse, plans get in the way of life?
A: Cross all your fingers, hope to hell that it works itself out and stock up on condoms.

Glade anyone?

November winds are setting in and frankly I don't like the smell of them. They're a dark and dank sour concoction of pre-december- that sickly sweet Christmas cinnamon and a rank hangover of too much to eat at halloween candy blow outs. And the result? Let's just say it's something you wouldn't want your worst enemy to be trapped in an elevator with.

It's not November's fault- I know that...but it doesn't make it any better. And the smell of it doesn't make it easy to stay under the covers and hide with all the rainy weather either.

And the boy scene isn't much brighter frankly. They will now go into hibernation- drinking in random unlocatable pubs- camouflaging hot bodies and beer guts alike with damp old sweaters and a steadfast refusal to shower...Oh summer sun- how I miss your unforgiving glare! At least I knew what I was working with then...now it's a virtual guessing game!

On the up side Ra Ra Army boy just called to say he's back soon- so maybe I'll see him before the mince pies take residence and create a army tank style tire from the cold blues...then again maybe I could just attack those miserable November winds with a great big can of air freshener!

This little piggy went to market

I spent my Friday night at a local meat market. And not the sort with men, cleavers and lamb chops. There was even a complimentary girl fight on the door as we entered. And they made me pay 10 bucks for the privilege. Great start. We got there just as the excessive amounts of alcohol were clearly sinking into the place. In fact I think they may have been pumping it though the air-con like they do with oxygen in planes. The thing about a meat market is that everyone likes the idea in principle, a club with good music, a fun attitude and single people everywhere sounds good in theory but when it actually takes shape it's strikingly ugly close up, smeared mascara, sweaty guys waving bottles of champagne at women and the strange mix of too much eau de toilette.
 
This particular place is a well known hunting ground for professionals, bankers, business people and scary randoms who I fear actually like this kind of scene. And just to throw in some land mines there seem to be some token nice guys who end up there after work drinks. Which means essentially your dodging hunting bullets and trying to land on a gold mine. Otherwise known as the impossible.
 
The approach in the meat market is the most interesting thing about the place to me (since conversations rarely last for more than 10 minutes). To be fair it's a laugh to watch a severely inebriated man in a damp suit try and say something witty (without slurring or spitting) to a woman who is trying to avoid being slugged by his waving bottle. Then to watch her try and say something gripping back whist madly flicking her hair, waving her nails and screaming above the music. And yet it's a a rather futile exercise. No one is there to make banter, find someone they 'click with' or meet a mate. Who ever heard 'Well, your mother and I were both at this seedy joint where people totally embarrass themselves and snog each other - and I saw her across the room screaming at a guy and waving her nails...and that was it. I knew she was the one.' Well I hope many people haven't heard that story.
 
Anyway I'd love to tell you I found a good one. But shock, I didn't. Shame. But then again, I think I'd I be worried if I did.

Do you have a smaller straw- it tends to fizz...

There might be something to this constant need to super-size, repackage, re-market and re-distribute. We used to buy plain old coke- now we can get frozen coke, diet coke, coke zero, coke black, cherry coke, lime coke, snorting coke...the list is never ending. I thought it was simply a marketing ploy to get us to buy more but then I thought about it on a human scale. Each time we meet someone new, in a millisecond, we evaluate the package presented and we re-form. We fashion a 'more serious', 'more fun', 'more thoughtful' et al, side of ourselves- never erasing other features, simply shadowing them for the moment (Read - burying them deep in the closet in the attic never to be seen again. Even if you ply me with too much brandy and come at me with a pick axe will I ever tell you about all the weirdo / psycho / tri-state prosecutable characteristics that I possess. Ever.)
 
Hence its kind-of fascinating to me to observe the different self-packaging I decide to give off at any given point in time. From the simple difference between my Monday to Friday clothes to my Saturday night shoe choices, from the way I speak with my father to the way I approach a bar tender. Never though, does this come into play more than when I interact with the men I fancy. Last night out with work colleagues I met a very hot 'manly man' who, on any other given occasion, I might have shamelessly thrown myself upon (well maybe not, I'm indulging a little - but work with me). Unfortunately, he too was at 'work drinks'. Given that we were both already packaged in 'work' the re-packaging never occured and we never really let the other in. 
 
But then again, how easy is it to re-package? Does each person only get one package? Can we change them mid-stream? I don't know if I’m ever consistent! I think I might have been a different person in almost every relationship - I'm a girlfriend schizophrenic (yes I did have to Google the spelling of that). Am I giving the opposite sex what I think they want, rather than just the me I am? How much of me do I 'customise, personalise and engineer to fit'? And how far does it really get me?
 
I don't think I've ever changed completely, and I hope I never do in fact - I'm fab thanks! And yes, relationships do take compromise, blah blah blah, but staying yourself takes just as much effort. How do you make sure your showing someone the real you? Are we still 'us' if we re-package every now and then? Is frozen coke or diet coke still 'coke' (obviously snorting coke is now excluded at this point). I don't know, every time I think of it, I seem to be channeling a different 'me' maybe I’m having too much of that sugary fizz again.

Position open for a good/evil witch- salary neg

Obsessed by a fairy tale, we spend our lives searching for a magic door and a lost kingdom of peace - Eugene O'Neill
 
I'm guilty of it. I'd love nothing more than a knight in squeaky clean armour to trot on by with his trusty stead, sweep me off my feet and ride into the shimmering sunset to a magical world where life is perfect, raspberries are always in season and I never have to worry about getting my legs waxed. In fact if I wasn't so impatient in general then perhaps I'd even indulge in a little courting, some duals, a couple of sneaky dwarves and potentially a witch of some sort (no initial preference for good or bad but prominent warts mandatory, nose warts favoured). Although being kidnapped avec trusty steed whilst waiting for a mouse driven pumpkin-taxi to turn up might not be the ideal way to start a relationship even if he did have a cute ride...
 
But even if I did make it through all that and found the elusive magic door - What would be so different? What am I expecting to find? Would I live in a cute little place like I do now or would I find myself in a drafty old castle with limited heat and too many stairs? Would I be in a thriving cosmopolitan city where I can jump on a plane at any moment or find myself in the depth of the forest 2 days by carriage from the nearest cocktail bar?
 
I don't think it's a case of 'keeping up with the Jones's' or 'the grass is always greener'...essentially I'm searching for a place that doesn't exist. For things that will forever be a step ahead of me. And even though I'm ticking more boxes in life than ever before (granted not all of them) I'm still feeling like that magical door must be there and it must lead to a place closer to my heart than even I, myself can create. Everything we are missing must be the secret, and must lead there. No matter how great our lives are we're forever searching for more. Yet each thing we desire, once gained is fleeting. And yet somehow we believe that the accumulation of these things the only way to find that entrance way.
 
Well I doubt it. Yes, perhaps in Never Never Land my skin would be a little clearer, my wit a little sharper, my legs hairless and my charming boyfriend iron clad with a cute horse but in fact would I still end up searching for the next doorway out? Where does it end? When do we realise that the magical doorway and the kingdom of lost peace aren't places that you should save to visit? They are places that we live all the time, if we bothered to stop, stand still and enjoy the now.
 
Maybe the story should go 'Once upon a time there was a little girl with silky hair and a cheeky smile and even though life wasn't always perfect, eventually she lived happily ever after.' Granted it wouldn't be so entertaining, but it would make us happier with who we are, and less determined to rely on magical doorways and kingdoms far far...shit, go to go, my mouse driven pumpkin-taxi is here and I can't even find my magical castle keys...waaaaaaaait! And now I've lost a shoe - could my life be any worse right now!?!

Sometimes you have to imagine the stars- sometimes you can't see what's really there

Breaks ups are hard. They're hard because you don't know who you are anymore, because you lose a best friend, because your view of the world suddenly seems different and darker than last time you left it and because they are made of a kind of pain and shadow you feel might never end.

We wear them like hats that cling and stop us from being able to gaze up any longer.  They keep our faces looking down and our eyes on the soil content to sink into the ground our feet so numbly tread. The hats are all different, some facinators with dark slick feathers, some paper boy caps of old checked wool, others the elegant dark mafia style and the scariest of them all the simple baseball cap which only masquerades as the easiest to remove. We wear them all, and many more through our life- like a never ending morbid Mad Hatter's tea party. We sit content to stare into our coffee cup until it's the next persons turn to hide in the shade. And then we finally have the chance to look up at the sun. The sun that felt so far away for so long.

But we really do have to remember that eventually, we'll find one, or two or maybe if we're lucky a few more loves who will embrace us and encourage us look at the sun with them for a little longer than normal. And that's really what we have to remember.

The warm sunshine beating down, the magnificent, never fading sparkle and that slightly warm tingle that make us glow. It will always come again. Because at the end of the day, as long as you believe that you deserve to stand in the sun- then all that staring down in the dark will be all you need to enjoy every second when you find yourself looking into the light again.

Why did the bird cross the road? To get to Plan B

I have to make little a choice. I have to decide what to do with my life. I've been reserving the right to be young and stupid until now and whilst I've apparently achieved stupidity in wonderful abundance, I don't feel I've come out with any sort of 'sober career direction' as it were.

I do understand that things end- and no matter how much we try, even the most intelligent, energetic and alluring of us end up playing obsessive amounts of table tennis with beer-bought mates or sitting in front of endless re-runs, waiting for professional illumination. But what happens when we fall apart and its not a matter of the heart, something we're now trained and practised in. What if your breaking up with your boss?

You spend half your life, ok well maybe a third at work (totally made up statistic). And when you no longer feel the powerpoint love there is Plan B. Of course! Emergence of the first problem...the existence of Plan B implies that there was a Plan A. I must have missed the 101 Life Planning class cause I've flipped through my notes, and I've got nothing.

I've shamelessly fallen out of love with my ever-loving and faultless nurturing global investment bank and now I'm on the verge of being out, lost in the array of the real world again (insert sarcasm here). Who stops loving the American All Star for no reason? Some would kill to date the quarter back, and I'm flipping him the bird?

It's that moment before every pending break up when you have to pick a team, decide yes or no and you just wish someone would tell you its going to be alright then hand you a beer, a remote control, a spoon for the ice cream and a Plan B. Then again, maybe I'm just exercising my youthful stupidity...once again...

Pearl of wisdom: check your curtains for fish heads

The English Gentleman is clearly not so after a 5 minute conversation in which he berated me for talking to him less for two weeks, for not being able to hack his sickness-related whining for a month and then followed up with a rather nasty email which began 'don’t reply to this...' Huh? Was he really THAT hurt after 4-5 dates that he needed to send me hate mail? And where has the cheeky, kind, thoughtful guy gone?
 
Am I worthy of that kind of malicious attention? I don't really get it? If he had decided he didn't want to hang out with me anymore yes I'd be hurt, but would I go to the length of calling and sending him an email trying to big myself and curtail my speaking to friends about it? Ummm. No.
 
Guys getting nasty is not something which I commonly run into. I always though women were the ones who were meant to get all shitty and vengeful, sew fish heads into curtains and pour bleach into shampoo bottles. Clearly the new-aged man has also decided that it looks like fun and wants his share. Where does the nastiness come from? Who flicks the switch of cold heartedness and goes shopping bright and early for the strongest bleach known to man? 
 
I've had my pride hurt, I've been ignored, dumped, insulted and worse. Yes, perhaps what I am guilty of is not liking him that much anymore. So sue me. But how does that mean that I'm now worthy of self indulgent emails?
 
At the end of the day, frankly, I don't know what his drama is. And nastiness is not something I have any time for. What I do know is that Outlook makes a cute little BLOCK button for these 'problems'. You'll find it gets stored under the 'Junk Mail' tab, sub-file: 'Bullshit'.

Piggy banks need not apply

I understand that we're all a little cash, and for that matter stock, real estate and offshore investment poor right now so perhaps its not the best time to be expecting much dating wise. But frankly I don't care that the economic climate is in flux, in fact it impresses me even more when a guy asks for my company, but with me you've got about 3 dates max to impress. Its longer than the 7 seconds with which we size each other up and its not the month that I know some of my friends reward men with willy-nilly. With 3 dates over a week or two I'm pretty much in or out. And if that's the case, and your serious, boys this is not the time to be pinching your pennies.
 
Don't get me wrong I've been backpacking, slept in horrid dank places where rats turned up their noses, slamed their mini suitcases and scuttled out, I pick my toast up off the floor observing the 10 second rule, and yes I even do it occasionally when it lands face down as long as no one is looking, I buy second hand (now re-invented as 'vintage') clothes and I'll always re-use a tea bag. Granted I do have a high end designer addiction which I have no intention of giving up as well as a killer crux for amazing food and going out every night. About the only thing that I'm good at is not catching taxis except in the rain - but only by virtue of convincing myself that its keeping my legs toned...or so a slim French woman once told me.
 
To me what you invest in the first stages of development will only benefit you in the further resort development stages. A smart investor doesn't skimp on the foundations of a building project. Its just not done. Even saying that, I know it sounds ridiculous, but I don't think it can be said that once a relationship is in full construction mode I’m very demanding. Yes, one of Mr. Big's final comments to me was how much I had cost him (lets put that down to hurt feelings shall we). But, well frankly buddy if I'd have known the slightest earthquake would bring it smashing down around our ears I would have hired cabs to do laps of the city on your account and convinced you to go on more holidays. To Barbados.
 
The 3 date rule gives me a pretty good idea as to who you are, what you like and if we can make each other laugh enough to bother. So given that I'm hoping you've asked me to dinner to start some kind of relationship this is not the time to be bashful. Don't get me wrong you don't need a white table cloth lain atrium of cherry trees but I'd be grateful to find I'm not clad in my latest Herve Bondage dress at Nando’s Fried Chicken. 

Somewhere in the middle ground - cooking at home is good blend of impressive and elegant and shows you care (and cook) - but to me there is nothing better than planning it out, picking her up, opening the cab door, ordering the wine and chatting until the place closes, walking her home, kissing her on the door step and praying that her stomch is doing as many flips as yours. It's old fashioned, it's lovely and you'll only ever get one (well maybe three) shots at it.
 
Winston Churchill had the right idea when he said, "I am a man of simple tastes, I’m easily satisfied with the best". And frankly, economic landslides and all I see nothing wrong with that.

Flambé anyone?

Wow - So I feel shitty
 
Ra Ra Army boy just got back from crawling through a random mud-strewn territory saw a friend of his and talked about calling me. Unwittingly it was mentioned that I was seeing another one of their friends...The English Gentleman. Apparently, he was crushed. And now I'm screwed. Well not really. But I am officially shitty.
 
What I fail to be able to come up with is how, even though last time he was in town I got no meaningful communication what-so-ever, I still feel crappy for moving on over 4 months later. And more than that, I still somehow feel like I’ve missed out on something. And I hate missing out. When I was a kid I’d fall asleep under the dining room table just in case being asleep in my room meant I’d miss out on vital conversations. Smart.
 
Have I missed out? Should I not be thinking 'oh well, never mind I was over him anyway but sweet he thought of me'? Aside from the fact the English Gentleman has proved he won't get out of bed or quit whining for a sniffle, why is it that I'm running the lines of maybe, maybe, maybe in my head?
 
Maybe the guilt is because they were friends, but then again I think I'd feel guilty in any case. Maybe its cause I’m female, would a guy feel and think this way? Is it my curse of loyalty? Or is it more self indulgent guilt - simply that I can no longer have my cake and eat it too? Even when I had decided that I no longer even liked cake!
 
Am I standing at the buffet of men - ignoring the mountains of other sweets, guiltily looking longingly at the lonely pieces of flambé and tart (which I know I don't really want) just because, well just because they are there, and someone's told me now I can't have any of it. I didn't want it before, I don't really want it now. But what I don't want is for the desserts not to feel lonely. And all I can do is stare and somehow hope that someone else from another table is desperately feeling like flambé or tart.
 
Maybe (and its my last maybe) this is how fat people feel and I just have to walk away.

Please put change in the hat- we're looking at getting an ironing board

Since mentioning my vision in the mirror yesterday and my rather speedy conversion into my mother I’ve been running the notion through my head frantically. I’ve been forgetting conversations, reading way too many books, I’m no longer getting complaints about my music and I’m actually doing laundry. Yes I believe I’m down to 2 piles. It’s a steep and slippery slope, soon I may actually iron something…I’m sure I have an iron.
 
Don’t get me wrong, my mother is awesome. She introduced me to Champagne (yes it does deserve a capital) at an early age, taught me to trust my decisions and intuition, showed me how to get stains out of silk and that you can’t scrimp on shoes or toilet paper. These lessons have served me well - but to turn into her? At this age? I don’t know. And since we seem to view turning into our parents as a non-positive experience have I been too quick to jump on the anti-parental bandwagon?
 
It occurred to me how many of my male friends and boyfriends have been pretty much in love with my mum. To this day, they still look to her for advice, respect her opinions, follow her judgement calls and telephone for her birthday (even some who no longer bother to call me!). In fact, upon reflection, perhaps I’ve been a second prize or entry into her personal private members club for some of them. She’s got warmth, generosity, a fun side and is so fiercely intelligent she can slice you and your mediocre opinions apart. None of which she is afraid to use in any combination she might fancy at the time. She oozes the confidence of not needing anyone, anything or any combination of it all AND she gets all the guys with a snap of her fingers! But generally speaking giving off those vibes as young women isn’t encouraged. We’re afraid of being pigeon holed at two ends of the spectrum, as walk-overs or nasty pieces of work left to sit in the corner and stare daggers at people not wearing black.
 
My saving grace is that maybe its taken a few years to realise she doesn’t need to pander to anyone else, that to be herself is intoxicating enough to recruit fans of all ages. But is it age which gives you the confidence to be yourself or is it the experience that age affords you?
 
If pure age is the case will the virtue of my passing years turn me into my mother whether I like it or not or will my experiences shape and mould me into some else but with a few footnote references? And what if I’m not happy with just that?
 
Forget my initial worries. Now I’m not so concerned about turning into my mother, I’m concerned, that perhaps, I won’t. What if I don’t have one child? What if I don’t end up running an empire? What if I don’t go drink milk at dinner parties and do cartwheels on the beach at 55? Will I still become her – or at least a version, in years to come? Maybe I’ll be left charmless and redundant with nothing to contribute and no finger clicking capabilities? And worst of all, maybe I won’t be able to cartwheel.
 
Forget finding love, and finding the right man! What if you’ve found someone you love, can trust and rely on, and she happens to be the woman to bought you into the world. How the hell do you end up just like her? And maybe conversely, if you never really liked her anyway – how do you not?
 
After having this manically swimming around my head, I think there is one thing I have confirmed a hundred times over. I really shouldn’t go near mirrors. Especially the type in French cafes that are misty and magical and give you just enough facial ambiguity to start you thinking about what life could be life if times and places and people were different – even just slightly.  I mean, imagine if I had an iron….

Mirror mirror on the wall...

I've recently made friends with my blow-dryer and have been wearing my hair out as opposed to shoved on top of my head in some vague attempt to keep it from strangling me in the windy weather or attaching itself to innocent men in dark suits who surround me on the way to work. Walking past a dappled, misty mirror, the old fashioned type from French bistros that make you feel straight out of a movie, I caught a glimpse of myself, or more surprisingly, my mother. Long flowing hair, 70's style high powder blue jeans - I was a dead ringer. And whilst i adore and admire my mother i don’t know if I’m ready to be her yet.

Viewing myself as a sliver of time made me curious about how we really see ourselves. Is it in crisp mirrors that reflect in the harsh light of a public toilet all our misdemeanors, our imperfections and our faults, or mirrors that reflect only kind and good or perhaps in others that somehow seem to make even the disfigured and discoloured aspects of ourselves misleadingly glow with importance and delight? In all probability, it’s all of the above that show us in different aspects of our life, at different times and all at once.
 
Perhaps the mirrors that we hold up to ourselves are not really mirrors that reflect us at all, perhaps they reflect others views of us. If someone tells you your cheeks are rosy today, don't they seem to glow? Or if another says that they like your 'grungy jeans' - don't your favourite formal jeans start looking grey around the edges. Surely, compliments and criticisms contribute to the reflections we see of ourselves each day. And if that's the case could there be nothing more important than finding someone who's eyes shine with the most magical view of you? Since we look darkly enough at ourselves, perhaps its would be nice to gaze into the inky pools of delight to see a more brilliant version. I certainly have a very shiny view of a new player I've been seeing - Mr. Whiskey, I met him through my bff a while ago but noticed him on the weekend when he hosted a dinner party for a wonderful girl visiting from Paris.  
 
It does beg the question; do we really love people solely because of themselves?
 
I'm going to go out on a limb and say, I don't think so, I'd rather hazard a guess that loving is perhaps something more selfish. We don’t love someone because of their perfections, we love someone because of the perfect reflections they show us of ourselves.

No drinks needed, just a faulty elevator please

The need for a fresh perspective on Friday night made me trek across-town to go out. After some hilarious chatter over a home cooked meal and competitive lounge dancing to random 80's tracks including my shameful new Barbara Streisand obsession- Sorry world. We then ventured to a cool local bar, a place so trendy I never know if I warrant being let in. At the other end of the bar were two hotties and so with limited options of approach the 'point and beckon' came into play. The girls laugh when I employ this method, learnt from a friend in NYC with a faultless track record recruiting the opposite sex, it's the boldest but best move ever.
 
You'd think hot guys used to being crushed on would be more cool/casual but it unfailingly it gets them walking across a room to you. It's very simple really, you literally point at someone and then beckon them over, they'll do the 'me, huh?' then look if there is anyone behind them...but don't lose courage...once again nod, smile, point and beckon at them...and without fail, they'll forget they have a friend / conversation / dinner reservation / brain...and will stroll on over. Its gold.
 
I tend to follow this up by simply giving them a killer smile, sticking out my hand and say 'Hi, I'm Mikey who are you?' It's a refreshing change from a pick up line or lame joke and gets an intrigued look a laugh and a response.
 
I've just never been a fan of the pick up line - they in no way feel genuine. 'You look really familiar' - is my pet hate. Frankly I'm no more striking than the next girl so of course I look familiar, there are HUNDREDS of girls all over the city who look like me or at least are the same height and have the same hair colour! Idiot. If you want to talk to me, say hi, hold your hand out like a nice human being, smile and introduce yourself. I promise I'll react to that better than 'Whats a girl like you doing in a place like this' and a seedy wink, even said in jest. I really don't know what takes over men when they are forced to 'make contact'? Perhaps they momentarily become 13 and rejected by the coolest girl in school, or perhaps they can't remember if they forgot to feed the cat or turn the iron off or maybe they just can't think of a normal way to interact so desperately revert to the cheat sheet they were forced to memorized during their greasy early teens.
 
We meet people everyday and have little interactions - from taxi drivers to people at the gym to occupants of elevators (side note: a great place to strike up 'trapped conversation participation' and in fact, a good place to break the ice with the hot guy in your building, gradually moving to 'one-liner interaction' and then finally progressing to cocktail suggestion). And yet - factor in a bar, a few brewskis and woman and they're struck dumb. They see us and something explodes in their brain making it impossible to say anything normal in the first 2 minutes. It must be chemical - like a small glitch that couldn't be sufficiently worked out before the product launch.
 
So its for this reason - I'll open the conversation, as long as your entertaining enough to continue it. I'll take a hit for the team, suck up some courage and get you over here with a beckon of the finger but its your job from then on to make me want to stay. And if the world ends and I can't find a functional one that way, I guess I'm going to have to turn elevator riding into a sport. Time to Google for a list of all the tallest buildings and anti-air sickness tablets.
 
Going up miss?
Yes please...lets start with the penthouse.
 

Shepherd guide me to the pastures I hold dear...now let's sing

So talking to my (virtual- not in the online sense) brother about women tonight he started talking about a family friend who is in trouble with his girl.

Simply put, she follows him around like a throttle-less go-cart. He feels pressured because everything they do is with his mates and never hers. Cutting the crap...essentially he feels like she clings.(Definition: the un desired sheep crap that attaches, takes residence and hangs)

Now I'm in two minds about this. I'll be honest, I've been totally over the cliff with a man- yes maybe to the point where I may have done almost everything with him...and by default, perhaps with his friends. But I've also wanted to spend time with friends too- and yet worried acutely as to what the new 'amazing, important thing' in my life would think about the other (frankly more) amazing and important things already in my life...and BOOM without ever wanting, hoping or considering it...I was a guys before mates girl.

Distraught. Never.

And if there is one lesson I learnt from this, I will remember it always: Your girls, carefully sifted and carefully picked, will be there forever- never lose them and never leave them. Beyond love and beyond the love of your life- it's your friendships that will see you through the tough times and dance you through the good times. But most of all, stand your ground and be proud because they'll see you through the 'him' times, which may be forever or they may be fleeting but they will rarely be as solid as they are with your girls.

Never let it be said that MY shepherd wasn't one of my best friends, since lord knows- she knew best and she'll always keep me from being a dag (you know, the un desired shit that hangs from the sheeps ass...)

Don't call the nurse she's on her tea break.

The English Gentleman thinks I've lost interest because he's sick. That's not true. My affections have waned because conversation is based around how he is feeling and how much he hates being sick.

I'm a great proponent of the Marilyn Munroe quote, "If you can't handle me at my worst you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best". But come on! He's an intelligent human being and all he can talk about is the golf ball which has momentarily taken up residence in his throat. It bugs me, he's consumed with it! Its like world peace is riding on him making it known he's sick.

Why are men predisposed to acting like the world is coming to an end when they get sick? Man-flu is a well known and widespread phenomenon infecting all male beings at various points through the years. But since according to the gentleman, this is the first time in 3 years he's been ill, perhaps god is smiling on me (and the blog) by ensuring the old adage - its all about timing - is employed in this case. I'm getting the perfect tutorial in a great chemistry and connection being totally blasted. In this case by a grumpy, whining man.

Frankly- I used to care he was sick, now I don't even want to hear his voice cause I can predict each line like a bad sitcom.

I sounds heartless and horrid I know. But I'm being honest. I'm not a nurse and I'm not your mother, I'm not even your local ice cream shop who will sneak you an extra scoop! Pull your socks up and get over it- your making everyone else suffer too and perhaps if this is you at your worst- then you shouldn't have shown it to me this early.

Hmpf...now watch me come down with the nastiest flu in history next week...

Your holding up traffic- green means GO!

I've been on a date christened "reassuringly untraumatic" by the Writer who took me to uber trendy sushi last night. He's adorable in a cheeky 'E' from Entourage way and kept me laughing for most of the night. But being described as that has made me wonder just how horrific some people's regular dating experiences are...don't get me wrong I've been on my fair share of doozeys but I like to employ a fresh template for every new cocktail buddy.
 
You can no more litmus test one date by the next than you can compare figs and corrugated iron sheds. But clearly we are spoiled by our predecessors - I mean, how can you test drive the new BWM without comparing it to the smaart car of your past? Its certainly not strictly 'fair', but it is life.
 
In theory each should be evaluated on his own merit and yet we're quick to adore a nationality / a profession / an abode / a favourite meal or even predisposed selection of footwear. And yet in all honesty it really doesn't say that much. I've met many a sportsman who couldn't be valued on the athlete before, many a nationality who didn't compare to their ilk and men who wore loafers when demolishing boots best revealed his outlook on life.
 
We date one to decide we never want anyone with a love of horror movies again, we date someone else to realise we can't be with someone who rides a bike, another convinces us that only a man with a love of sushi is 'the one' and so the trauma goes on and on. Gradually almost everyone in the developed, newly developing and undeveloped world is eliminated. Is it a fault of our endless and unrelenting search that we insist on narrowing the field to the point of insanity. What are a couple of bad dates with random forgotten guys compared to so vigilantly searching for a specific profile that essentially you can only ever be disappointed?
 
Give me a shitty conversation, a bad glass of wine and a loser any day - I'd rather keep my self defined 'naive' approach to dating. To think that I had passed up love based on crappy judgments would suck. Yeah the old Smart wasn't as luxurious as the new BMW, and yeah it factored into decision making, but you know what - it did the job and at the time I wouldn't have had anything else for the world.

Which channel is Martha on again?

Prince #2. He means something to me- I can't tell you what it is, but then again neither could he I suspect.

Things would be different if he lived here but it is what it is. For the times we see each other of course it's going to be fun, lively and full of conversation. We don't have a chance to get sick of each other. And the spark just bubbles quietly as long as you don't smother it.

Most dating starts out this way- but what happens if you never get past this stage? You know the relationship isn't mature yet and you long to move forward. But with him I'm forever stuck in date 3 mode. Its a dating ground hog day- all be it a cheery version without Bill Murray and that disturbing wired beaver...but when do you know or admit that?

If the best way to evaluate the recipe is to taste test it- then what choice do you have but to start cooking? Its not a fruit salad so much as the highly uncool fritta, handful of potato, some carrot and a bit of egg...throw it in the fry pan and keep your fingers crossed that it holds together.

I don't know. Stuck on date 3, ground hog day, grating everything up and hoping it clings? Is it all just rationalising? All because there is a spark between us that neither can pin down, find again, smother with an emergency fire blanket, or see it for what it might be, a spark existing simply because it's running on a gas supply.

I just end up back in the kitchen on this one...He means something to me- I can't tell you what it is, and neither could he I suspect. But whatever it is I can't figure out all the ingredients just yet and I don't think I'm ready to buy pre-made.

Perhaps I'll pour another cocktail and watch some more Martha Stewart till it comes to me...

Why the tears little lion man?

weep for yourself, my man,
you'll never be what is in your heart
weep little lion man,
you're not as brave as you were at the start
 
but it was not your fault but mine
and it was your heart on the line
i really fucked it up this time
didn't I, my dear?
 
Yep - you really did fuck it up...and now you come back into town and expect things to be exactly where you left them. Well it's not going to play out like that busta. Things aren't paused when your plane takes off to simply 'resume disc last time played' once you return. Prince #2 (not to be confused with The King of Spades) is back in town and decides to call me last night. He thinks he can get away with anything but for all the promises he's kept there are just as many that he's thrown to the wind. I'm happy to hang out with him, but I won't fall under his spell anymore. It's just too complicated. Last time he came into town he proceeded to tell me he 'disappeared' for so long because he found himself getting addicted to me...huh? And you went cold turkey then I assume. To be fair this is not the first time I've had the addiction thing raised...But seriously, I'm not a class A narcotic! Your a grown man for god-sake. Sort yourself out!
 
He's delaying his flight out till Tuesday since Monday is the earliest I said I could have dinner with him. Shame, I should have gone shopping with him on the weekend and hauled in some furs - but I can't do that and I never could...I don't want to lay on a yacht or go shopping, as nice as it is it's not a substitute for a real relationship. Fur bought by absent vote can only keep you warm for so long. Although a black AMEX shopping spree and a sunny 500 ft yacht with my best friend could always be revisited once my feelings callous over and the rainy winter has set in...
 
HMV Stalker is at it again - I was fearing this, he calls from a blocked number and so does Prince #2...this can only end in tears. Stay tuned for inevitable screw ups which always make for amusing blogging.
 
The English Gentleman is being The Perfect English Gentleman which is rather annoying and The Writer hasn't written - concluding that there's mysterious and then there's absent, although perhaps delousing his aardvarks may be taking longer than I had originally thought.

Can I try this in another size?

The Writer's be sending me cute and curious messages that make me laugh - a friend sent a picture taken Friday...he's sexier than I remembered...his email address (useful for full names) reveals he works at a major ad agency...so maybe there is more to him than meets the eye...mystery...there's something I've missed!
 
The English Gentleman is rubbish at playing cool - but it's no longer a 'feeling', it's confirmed - he's not dating anyone else...we're not in America so I can't even be sure he's planning on having the 'let's just date solo' convo...and what do I say at that point...actually I kind of want to float around and do my own thing...not to mention I've still been a coward not telling him that I was hanging out with his friend Ra Ra Army Boy for a while...Oh god, too much to think about.
 
The Scandi is off to Scandi-land for a week or two - never mind - that was nice, but I think I was just 'trying him on for size'. He was a little to old. It appears conversations in my recent dating scenarios have frequently fallen into that 'dressing room' sector. In fact it seems to be getting more and more prevalent to pose scenarios where by we test-cast roles of husband and wife...and I'm never sure if: 1. I'm mean to take the husband or wife character and 2. if they are speaking in general or if its just me they're talking about? I'm sure I don't have "Looking to get hitched" written on my forehead, but then again perhaps its something we all do as a matter of course. Typically men try us on for size in a future family scenario and perhaps women try for a variety of things, family, money, attitude to work, potential aversion to changing footwear or shirt quality habits...
 
But beyond that we try each other even before we date - in fact, I think that's half the reason for the often invoked quasi-date...the 'hanging out' stage. Its at this point you can openly test if the person fits your shape, style and day to day function. Would you buy pants too short in the crutch? No, your just going to end up tugging at them like a madman with crabs until you finally get home and rip them off with relief. Would you buy a sweater so big your swimming in an ocean of fabric and you can't do your pants up after peeing? Are you comfortable wearing mohair? cashmere? nylon? bright colours? nude shades or natural fabrics? swear by organic fabrics or prefer full faux? It appears that there are as many stores and clothing items as there are people we've tried-on, walked past, admired, over budgeted for, under budgeted for, coveted, worn, worn out, worn thin and eliminated.
 
And yet at the end of the day, trying someone on for size is just that. And if its something you love, frankly you'll just work it, 2 sizes big or not. There is no umm'ing or ahh'ing - you grab it, you love it and you zoom out of the store with a stupid grin on your face. Some things just 'fit' and sometimes it's as simple as that.

Scissors - Paper - Diamond Rock!

At lunch on Sunday friends and I were talking about some of the gifts your not meant to give or accept from a boyfriend/lover/husband/toy boy/stalker - it seems the world of old wives tales is a large and contrary one ranging from paying a fair amount for a bee hive to not throwing water out after dark. I've always followed the one about pearls being the tears of the ocean, who ever gives them to you will make you cry. But with a simple Google search it seems I've only hit the tip of the ice berg...
 
If you want to tempt fate - cut your own hair. Any decent hairdresser or best friend will tell you that one, in fact I had a go at the blunt cut fringe/bangs about 8 years ago and just came out looking rather scary. Thank god I had a steady boyfriend or it could have resulted in a somewhat more dramatic use of the scissors.
 
Never dry yourself using the same towel as someone of the opposite sex - it leads to a quarrel. Well who wants a second hand, cold, damp towel anyway? Hand me one you've already used and frankly your asking for a quarrel.
 
Never accept a watch from a lover, it counts down your time together, never accept shoes either as they walk you to your relationships' demise. I bet neither Cartier nor Jimmy Choo would be too happy to hear this one...but frankly I'm only with you if your trying to palm off a stop watch or flip flops.
 
Its unlucky to pick up your own dropped glove, but you will share luck with the person who does. That's going to be great when I drop my new Chanel fingerless glove crush with no one around...what do I stand there till someone comes along and then instruct them to re-glove my naked hand? Or do I try and play footsie in an attempt to flick it back up to catching point myself? I'll look real cool.
 
Sew a swan's feather in your husbands pillow to ensure fidelity and have a mole on your breast to ensure irresistibility. No comment.
 
If you want to determine your fate - set fire to your hair. Quick question...What kind of fate do you think people are looking for if they light their heads on fire?
 
So if I'm not allowed to accept pearls, watches or shoes, use his towel to dry off or even pick up my own stuff it looks like I'm going to be standing waiting for Mr. Right to pitch up, notice I'm even missing a glove, compliment my breast mole, cut my hair and buy me a diamond. Well at least the final bit now has a little more meaning - I've found diamonds are the luckiest stone of all, they bring the power to drive off witches and prevent the wearer from going insane.
 
Phew! Such a relief - as long as I have a diamond ring my old boss won't come near me and I won't be tempted to light my hair on fire...and just in time too I was just about to nip out and pick up some matches...

How do we always screw it up?

I've been thinking about my Scandi ex  (3 year sentence for that crime). He's flying between between countries and thought he'd stop over to have dinner on Friday. Luckily I'm away this weekend but I've been thinking about our history. Essentially he ticks all the boxes and is a fantastic person. We had amazing times together, good and bad and yet the love we created virtually evaporated by the end.

In fact, to be honest- even though I might hate them at the time of the big bust ups most of my ex boyfriends were amazing men- and frankly I'm not second rate. Its with that in mind that I'm feeling a little confused. How is it that we managed to screw it up so badly? What makes perfectly great people get together and break each other's hearts? Do we not have enough to do at work?

Boiling it right down- how do we make everything else work? We foster amazing friendships, nurture work alliances, build corporations, lead sporting teams to victory and inspire people to better ways of living but when it comes to making peace with the one person you choose to love it can all end in tears and lawyers fees. How is it the smaller the distance the bigger the fallout? And no matter how great we are as individuals mixing it up as a pair can be the ultimate disaster.

Sing with me... "I got hoes in different area codes"

Picked up two newbies. A writer and another Scandi. Nothing ground breaking though. And sadly no Americans.
 
I did mange to pick up the writer after I drank his martini - well he shouldn't have left it unattended should he. Lesson learnt.
 
Men seem to be a little thin on the ground at the moment, well exciting ones anyway. Always the situation when you need to have a re-shuffle of the egg basket. I wonder what it is - sports season? not any more than usual, colder climate? but that's only kicked in this week, stagnant economy? possibly, but I refuse to believe this would stop them all...and yet the one that isn't halting is the Arms Dealer - in fact now that he's back from Spain I've seen him more than I saw of him when he flew me out there. And not by choice.
 
Friday night I was at a VERY small, kind of random bar and he rocks up - I couldn't exactly ignore him so I said a quick hello and went back to my table of friends. After 10 minutes he came and sat himself down which was - to say the least, rather awkward since I'd just finished recounting the rather embellished story of his demise! Thank god for my best friend who made polite conversation with him for a while and then proceeded to say goodbye, nice to meet you and have a good night, as he left to have a cigarette, he got the hint because he didn't come back to the table. Although I navigated Saturday night without seeing him, I was out for dinner last night with a childhood friend at my local, and lo and behold guess who turns up.
 
This is intense - It's not safe to live in my neighborhood anymore. Other people are plagued by crack whores, gangs of frustrated, hormonally imbalanced 13 year olds, maniac road workers who whistle and cat call but I'm living a nightmare - I can't leave my apartment without seeing this guy. I'm going to have to get a wig and dark glasses or a santa claus suit cause I'm certainly not giving up my apartment! Just like the good ole rap song says, "I got hoes in different area codes", I also operate on this principle. Its easier feeling relaxed and secure when your dating men in different parts of the city. No, you can never account for bad luck or the occasional foray into enemy territory (so far, I'm lucky enough to say I haven't had to face a 'run-in') but keeping only one in each postcode is usually a sure-fire way of making sure they all think they're flying solo. This principle is also true with your own postcode. A rule I neglected to factor in when hanging out with Arms - I guess I figured Spain was far enough away. What makes it worse...I told him I couldn't see him cause I was dating someone else...and each time he saw me on the weekend I was with a different guy...either way, I'm staying in tonight - I just can't chance another run-in - even if that means the basket will stay vacant for a little longer.

I'm going on a bear hunt...

I sent an email to Suit and Tie, I know I know - we admonish men for not dumping us face-to-face but I needed to wrap it up and was fairly limited on time. It pretty much boiled down to the fact that both he and The English Gentleman have asked me to do things tonight (Friday) and given I had been avoiding Suit and Tie for a while I knew the time had come.
 
The email ran along the lines of..."Look I'd rather be honest with you, another guy has asked me to date him seriously (not true) - its shitty but pls don't hate me, sounds cheesy but do you think we can still be friends and have a laugh?". He's usually one for the instant reply - so after an hour I was nervous I'd sent him into a suicidal downward spiral. Last night...he called...and was fine! In fact so much so was wondering if he got the email. I don't think I've ever been that chipper to be flicked. Just when I'm about to launch into it again he says, "Oh, thanks for your email by the way - it sucks but was good to know." Huh? That's it? That's a first. Thank you for breaking up with me. In fact, not just that, but thank you for ditching me for another guy! Wow, I wish that happened every time.
 
The English Gentleman has 'tonsillitis' aka. man-flu and is wandering the streets high on pain killers and minimal sleep - I'll be surprised if he's alive by this evening, let alone if he makes it to dinner with us. If he does then I'll have to save a my basket filing / man hunting for tomorrow...I think I'm a little too enamored with him - I have to snap out of that- nothing good can come of it. I'm missing not having an American in the mix - maybe I'll go hunting for specific creature this weekend, I don't think I'm up for a large game shoot, but perhaps I'll try for a regional specialty. One of the baseball cap wearing, well built, good for a adventure, perfect manners, all American variety...I'm going on a bear hunt...and lets hope I catch a big one...

Quit while your ahead

Perhaps when I quit we should go for cocktails? I'm not even kidding you - I work with one of the hottest men in the city and I swear he doesn't even know I exist. It kills me. Don't get me wrong, I'm not frolicking around the office flicking my hair but it would be nice if he could have a conversation longer than 4 sentences with me.
 
He's tall dark and strikingly handsome while maintaining boyish charm, belongs on the pages of a Hugo Boss catalogue and is as sweet as pie.
 
But I can't do it. I might say that he's one of the only guys I don't understand. I'm going to have to quit to even mention the fact that it would be cool to hang out, preferably in a situation where the music is so loud he'll have to lean in to hear what I'm saying and smell my perfume (then you know you've got him).
 
And yet I have to walk past him 5 times a day. Torture. Just shoot me now.
 
Actually, on second thoughts, perhaps - just fire me?

Can it be Easter already?

There is a moment in every relationship where you choose to pay all your attention to one person. You stare at them, weigh up your options and think- really? You? Hmmm- ok. Because as much as I'd love to be more romantic practicality is key when cutting other options and committing your eggs to one scramble.

The problem I'm currently tossing is I get the feeling The English Gentleman isn't seeing 6 other people. And as chuffed as I am to say that he's currently topping my charts...I'm a bit crap at the whole dumping saga. Always have been. I tend to be a fan of ignore at all costs- which only very rarely backfires...in view of this and keeping in mind that The Gentleman hasn't exactly asked me to 'go steady' I think I'm having a flash of conscience and am going to have to start to cull the herd out of respect.

The Arms Dealer announced he's flying back to London tonight and wants to have a drink- how nice, but I suggest you alert the staff at Heathrow rather than me. I was rather sharp in my reply- 'sorry I've started seeing someone else, safe flight'. Harsh but fair. And in my defence, that was over eons ago!

Monster Mashed will understandably be distraught- last time he cooked me dinner I noticed a black hair pin in his apartment...killer giveaway- my hair pins are beige and his hair isn't long enough for a cut let alone a pin. If him keeping the first series of The Wire is the cost of jumping ship on that, frankly it's a small price to pay- it only reminds me that HMV Poacher/Stalker exists anyway! (Quick note: He hasn't called ALL DAY! It's a first! Perhaps he's trying at playing hard to get!)

The American and The King of Spades have both left the country which makes that a cinch.

But its Suit and Tie that is going to be rough...I think I'm going to have to suck up all my courage and play the bad guy here. Crap. I really do love an easy way out...

And that thought makes me wonder how much of the cull is healthy, how much is indulgent and how much is a little premature...am I jumping the gun to get rid of my back-up men? I've never been a fan of this 'all eggs, one basket' tactic and my last serious love (Mr. Big) literally badgered me to fly tandem before I would let go of my posse.

And logistically if I do this, do I ask? "Hey, FYI thought I'd call to let you know I've dumped all your competition". Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. And at that point will I be surreptitiously admitting that I was seeing other people all along?  Do I wait and see if he asks? Will he ask? Especially if he's been flying solo since meeting me...oh lord- when did choosing just one get so complicated...this is exactly why I keep 8 in the loop! Pass me a new set of baskets I think I need to divy my eggs up again.

Beep-beep-beeeeeep...paging the perfectly fine girl over her ex...

When Suit and Tie suggested a 'call' last night I thought it would be tough. Turns out he had a 'great idea' and wanted to know if I was free Saturday. I lied. Told him it's my best friend's birthday. Side note: Is anyone having a birthday Saturday? Someone with an opening for a best friend? He made me say yes to a date on Friday instead. So perhaps if that best friend interview could happen on Friday? I'll buy the cocktails?
 
The Boxer is emailing from America to ask 'how much I miss him' - would it be too callous to reply 'who are you again?'...
 
Meanwhile...my crush on The English Gentleman from the weekend appears to be gathering strength. It's bad. In the season of the flu I think I've caught something less contagious but potentially more serious. What will this mean for all the others? And more importantly, what will it mean for my blog? I may have to get out on blogging principle. I can't have just started to document my search for the Prince Charming and then find him...it doesn't work like that. 
 
And yet the funny thing about getting a new crush is that other contenders can sense it. It's that mandatory 'man-pager' they all get during their first break- up, aged 14. Some keep it in a draw and some keep it in their draws but we all know it - they've all got one! It's the pager that stays silent all the time you dream about them, long for them to call, will them to think about you (or at least sob silently as they flip through old photos of you together)...and then BOOM...beep beep beep beeeeeeeeeeep - she's happy...she's excited about someone else...time turn up again....beeeeeeeeeeep.
 
At this point you've obviously rediscovered who you were before he made a mess of you, lost those 5 lbs you gained from all the 3 course dinners, extinguished the love candle, downed copious cocktails in an attempt to develop ex-amnesia, thrown away gifts...obviously keeping all Cartier, designer bags and immaculate clothing items. You've finally been able to return to your favourite sushi restaurant...where they still remember you and have the decorum not to ask where your male dining partner has disappeared to. And more importantly you've just met a guy who doesn't remind you of all the things your ex used to do right, do wrong - or just generally do and so remind you that he exists at all.
 
And then it starts - every guy you've been serious (or not) with will now start calling - it's inevitable...they'll call, sms, email, sky write, stalk you on the street - they'll send flowers, they'll ask after you through friends or they'll put a tombstone ad in the Financial Times. This uncanny timing is the concrete, indisputable evidence of the existence of the man-pager and frankly even though I realise that they must be a huge revenue generator for telecom providers, they need to be discontinued. Permanently.
 
These crappy pagers only get us into trouble.

A friend with whom I shared tapas with last night was telling me that her ex's pager had been going off recently. Then he saw her looking as gorgeous as ever, and clearly not crazy anymore - a couple of months apart does wonders for your skin and your spirit! Anyway seeing her sparkle the way she did when he first met her, he decided to try again. And what did she do? Not only did she neglect to grab his pager and his pride, and fling it as far across the bar as humanly possible. Instead she smiled her cutest smile, proceeded to fall for him all over again, take him home and bonk him. Not the smartest move ever.

What makes highly intelligent, beautiful, generally together women go crazy for a guy who has her number plugged into his emotional pager? I've come to the conclusion it has got to be the fear of failure. I'm guilty of it - feeling that I failed in a relationship and then trying to 'give it another go' as though it was a soufflé which never rose.

The more the pagers of the past seem to be going off - the more I have to resign myself to the fact that they now have the wrong number - and I have a new crush. And frankly I know which call I'd rather pick up and it doesn't involve trying to rescue flat desserts.

Oh I'm sorry! Wasn't I speaking English?

HMV Poacher really must be desperate. After a cheeky brunch with one of my best girls on Saturday I got a few more calls and a text saying - 'u dont reply? Wen you round 2meet?' Before she and I parted we penned the ultimate response. 'Its not rocket science - no reply=I'm not around'. Call me old fashioned but I'm not 12 nor am I a gangster, you need to write WHOLE WORDS! How hard is it to actually write what you want to say as opposed to whacking out the shortest version humanly possible? How is that endearing? How about...f off! i h8t it wen you msg in genrl! Actually - now I get it - he doesn't understand me! I'm speaking a language he doesn't get! English. Whole words must be beyond him.
 
Friday night's movie marathon never happened - I did have a feeling it would get cut from the reel. I've got to admit, I'm not really sure what diplomats do exactly - but it does mean he can legitimately bail at the last minute. Apparently. What bugs me is the fact he calls me 'darling' when he apologizes which infuriates me no end.
 
I was meant to play golf with Suit and Tie on Saturday but he went out and got trashed on Friday. Typical - I called on Friday to can him and then he sends me a message cancelling Saturday morning...huh? You can't cancel the date AFTER I've already cancelled. Doesn't work buddy. And now he want's to 'call me tonight'...uh oh...sounds serious...
 
In any event after a much needed calming yoga class on Saturday afternoon I went for a casual drink with my best friend and her other half who is in fact a close friend of Ra Ra Army boy (not featured in a long while since he's off crawling through mud).  He brought a friend who literally had me in hysterics all night. He's sweet and darling, hilarious, intelligent and hot! How does this work? He doesn't even seem to be damaged by an ex nor does he have 11 fingers (I checked). We hung out all Sunday as well - and still no blaring faults, other than he admitted he really liked me, which was more 'charming and honest' than 'desperate and scary'. Although - it's definitely too early to tell...he could have 11 toes, call me darling or worse send text messaged like a 12 year old.
 
OMG: HMV Poacher just called again! What is wrong with this guy!?! Kill me now!

What are the odds?

3 more ignored calls from HMV Poacher. That puts him on 13 to none. Give up dude I'm not answering.
 
The Boxer has left the country. Thank god, now I can go back to class. That was a clean way out.
 
The King of Spades was as charming as ever at dinner - we're having a movie marathon tonight. 100 to 1 nothing will eventuate. As always.

You spin me right round, baby, right round, like a record baby - or not.

3 days, 6 missed calls, 2 drink invites and a voicemail later the HMV poacher just doesn't give up. Fortunately - I do, and did; the minute his front door swung shut behind me and I bolted. You can learn a lot from your desire to run or even your desire to 'turn' and do the 'look back'.
 
You know when you say goodbye to someone after a date - and you walk those first 5 steps, then...do you turn? Yes? Or are you already on step 25 thinking of your next hair appointment / date / political candidate choice / art purchase / new guinea pig's name? You would think that it is a clear index of desire but in truth it's a little more complicated and is rooted in the motivations behind the movement. Are you turning to see if... 1. he's still standing there, 2. he's turned to look back at you 3. he's already on his cell phone 4. to say goodbye just once more or 5. just cause you haven't seen enough of him. Is it a Curiosity turn - not to be mistaken for the real thing; The Butterfly Effect turn - the best type where your stomach does the all important drop or perhaps the Ambi turn which is a strange mixture of both.
 
I used to have a rule that said never to 'look back', prove your strong and can live without him but then you realise its those fleeting moments that are caught in your memory forever and even when it's all over it's just the thought of The Butterfly Effect turn that drags you out of bed, makes you wash your hair and take a chance on your cab fare:man ratio.
 
Dinner with The King of Spades tonight - we're hitting an Italian place that got a rave from The Times, lord knows what I'm expecting - from him that is. I'm expecting amazing things from the restaurant. I'd be more shocked if The Times let me down than a guy!