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?
Friday, November 27
Thursday, November 26
Wednesday, November 25
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?
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?
Tuesday, November 24
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.
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.
Monday, November 23
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!
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!
Friday, November 20
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.
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.
Thursday, November 19
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 18
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 17
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?
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?
Monday, November 16
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 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.
Thursday, November 12
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 11
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'.
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'.
Tuesday, November 10
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.
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.
Monday, November 9
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.
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.
Friday, November 6
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.
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.
Thursday, November 5
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 4
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 3
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!
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!
Monday, November 2
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.
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.
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