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?