Sir? Do you get extra credit for this?

The way men ‘measure’, nix that - the way men ‘measure up’ has always been a rather contentious point to dwell upon. It seems the keys is in the inches; in measures, in defining a mathematic, quantifiable version of themselves. Less so for women. But then again keeping score was just never my thing. My foray into the numerical sphere halted at about the same time I rather decided I liked almost everything else instead.

Yet a rather curious thought occurred to me after reading a witty little book by Father Pat Connor – correct ‘Father’. Apologies to the non-religious who might take offence, well, you know, some people treat religion as a dirty word these days.

So we place a lot of time and over analysing energy into establishing how men measure up as boyfriends but exactly how much attention do we pay – or even think to pay when making the marital leap? It’s all nice they make the grade as boyfs, but how will they measure up as husbands?

Plenty of chivalrous, effort filled dating men, could, for all intents and purposes potentially live up to all our delicious fantasies. Leaving us to salivate over how simply wonderful they are. And yet rice thrown and promises made? Do they really stand up to the test or somehow have we been slyly developing characters no self respecting boyfriend-husband morph could ever actually live up to? And lord only knows what the score sheet looks like? I guess the boring Cosmopolitan magazine oldies just get trodden out.

Well – despite what the score card says and what conclusions you come to I guess it doesn’t change much in the end. 9 times out of 10 men measure by maths, and women by virtue. Spin it any way you want – multiple choice, essay, short answer or verbal exam – you end up with the same question. Is he the one? And quite frankly, no extra credit class on ligand-binding theory can help you with that little gem.

Do you think Romeo has a Facebook page?

To facebook relationship link or to not facebook relationship link? That seems to be the question…

It’s ‘oh-so-Romeo’ that I cant even bare to think of its romantic implications on the future of English literature. Really? Is this what my life has been reduced too? Wow. But then again I’ve heard successful relationships are not just about merging finances and furniture. Apparently it’s about declaring your electronic dependency. Well he did pirate a program for me and I expanded his iPod horizons. Dependant enough for you Mark Zuckerberg?

To begin with, I’m fairly new to this whole facebook scenario, but I have not resisted because of archaic aversion. I am just fiercely protective of spreading myself over a medium that does little good for many people. See Paris Hilton’s sex tape. I mean some of the pictures on FB are boarder line worrying – and if one more person spouts the virtues of de-tagging… What happened to the old fashioned burning of prints and theft of negatives? Nothing like a smidgen of arson and burglary to enforce peace of mind!

That being said, last night I sucked up my courage and asked the 20% Russian to please remove some latent photos of his ex-girlfriend I had cruised. (You must remember the myth of the Minator?) Not him and his ex. Not him and his ex “avec les autres”. Not even the ex in a group with other people. But just 2 of her standing solo. The combo pics can remain. Past is past and she was a player, but the solo ones? And to that fact, not even good pics. No. Sorry. They’re going. Beats me how they ended up tagged in the fist place, but perhaps that shows a newbie’s naivety. Attention needs to be paid, Zuckerberg – on to it please.

And after that useless deliberation which saw a serious focus swerve, I’m no further down the line than I was when I started this piece, nor 3 months ago when I was forced to join the site for fear of misrepresentation (you know who you are Miss Harvard). The relationship linkage still seems cheesy, fake and forced as it feels like a redundant symbol of electronic abdication. Frankly, at this stage, I’ll just be happy knowing that there isn’t an effigy to his ex hidden somewhere in the trite ‘random pics’ collection. (4th thumbnail across, first page of the ‘Europe and Random Album’ circa 2008, if you’re interested)

Baking State Of Mind

I'm cursed. I'm dating - yet another - man who thinks Alicia Keys is hot.

Look, I realise that she is, in fact, hot. Straight out of the oven in fact. I get that. But I'm starting to see a pattern here, 2 in a row? I'm baffled. If it's the case that they find her so hot, pivotal question, why are they dating me? I'm certainly not in the same batch as her, in fact I'm the virtual opposite of her - small, definitely white, only a medium sized ass and virtually no musical talent. I don't get it.

Occasionally, yes, I wear black tights, but never the shiny leather version that come up a little too high. Yes, I wear stupidly high shoes and totter around like an inebriated cupie doll but no, I'm probably never going to get mine free. Yes, every now and then I even rock braids, but mine are the sweet type, not the pet snake kind that stick to your head. (The one time I tried them ended in a disaster involving a 3 day migraine and a razored head). Alicia and I don't exactly exhibit the vital traits of sisterhood, let alone rank as women similar enough to draw the same men.

So what is it? I'm not insulted by the fact they both like her, how the hell could I be? But if, in my opinion, the aforementioned men are in no way cookie cutter versions of each other why am I so confused by the fact that it appears they have cookie cutter taste in women. That's what really worries me. I didn't think I was cut from the same mould as Ms. Keys, but it turns out according to them I am. I guess I just never thought I'd be in the same category as her exciting type of biscuit. In fact, I'd always assumed I'm a different version all together, compared to her I'm the plain cookie, no chocolate, no shiny leather and no ability to pull of the snake braids. Just call me the boring tea biscuit.

But damn it, you know what, tea biscuits can be good too, once you get to know them!

If I could have your attention prior to take off please...

This might seem slightly off the topic, you know, of men. But I've been on amazing amounts of planes if you survey my life time, and I've just come to realise how ridiculous the whole safety demonstration is. In fact so ridiculous that I'm worried for the sake of humanity if this is how we think we are going to survive a fireball plane crash, but whatever.

Problem One: The Safety Card. Who looks at those things? Then again, who draws those things? And do they have any idea what people look like whilst a plane is crashing? Can they not even get actors in to get an idea? Rent a DVD, Snakes on a Plane comes to mind. Where is the realism? I want terrorised faces, I want close ups, tears, people making phone calls to loved ones saying they wont make the arrival time. I want people clawing to get out first. And most of all I want a fat kid looking confused with an inflated vest inside the cabin.

Problem Two. The Seatbelt. Look, if you can't figure out how to put the seatbelt on or take the damn thing off you shouldn't be on the plane. You shouldn't be allowed to travel. No exceptions. And for god-sake there should be no situation where a 'seatbelt challenged' user should be seated in the emergency row.

Problem Three. The Exit Row. I've been in the exit row, a lot, and I’d like to think im calm in a crisis. But to be honest - a crisis for me is choosing a alternate beverage if Starbucks is out of soy milk. And yesterday I couldn’t choose, so I left. Perhaps they should devise another method to pick a candidate to throw open the door to the 40,000 ft high club, one other than first in best dressed. (Otherwise known as first in first down the inflatable slide). I'm just not a great door bitch. Checking life jackets? High heel violations? Children without escorts (parents I mean, not for-hire dinner partners) - Ha, do you think I would stick around long enough? So frankly, I don't think 'just anyone' should be allowed to sit there. And me in particular, I defiantly shouldn't be allowed because if we're dive-bombing land sea or air, I'm just not going to pay any attention to anyone but myself, and possibly my hand luggage. Sorry, but I#m not. And yes I am taking my handbag with me. It's useful, and if we end up on a real-life version of Lost I’d like to have a book and some tampons thanks.

Face it, the brace position is utterly useless - besides the fact that if you're going to hit something at the speed of light falling out of the sky, I'm going to go out on a limb and say you're not surviving casuse you're crouched over. Well I just don’t think planes leave enough room to fold in half. I can't and I'm 5 4' and limber. So let's discuss the gymnastic ability of a 50 year old 6 2' man. Seriously? But on a positive note, the use of oxygen mask I'm ok with. I actually think they should drop it down most flights anyway - a shot of oxygen wouldn't do any harm, and frankly I'm paying for this trumped up form of travel - so I want my moneys worth. I know you've got oxygen back there. Give me some. Life vest seems ok too, although I'll hazard a guess that the light and the whistle aren’t going to be what attracts the attention if the plane crashes. Just a thought.

Maybe instead of the safety demonstration they could just hand out cocktails and play Snakes on a Plane II? Frankly I think they'd go down better (haha - get it? Go down - oh dear, maybe it isn't the sanity of humanity I should be worried about).

Boxes of memories and some old bills

I'm going through the process of packing up my life and moving. This includes peculiar things like going through all my emails and deciding which ones I might need - like photos, old bills and sentiments from my mother.

One email folder in particular contains memories from my relationship with Mr. Big.

I am a lover of words (reasonably obvious statement) and simply put he loved to write them for me. Most mornings on the way to work he would compose some sort of witty rhyme or poem to make me laugh, smile or just generally try to make my morning brighter. I must have 100 little vignettes. I would go back to them every now and then, like someone delving into a box of old love letters. In the beginning I would try and figure out how something could change so dramatically, then figure out if I missed him, then stare in disbelief, and finally, merely look at fading memories and to wonder at them a little.

As I was cleaning, aka. deleting, my mouse hovered for a few moments over his folder, aptly named 'The Other Side'. Not thinking much of it, and yet not ready to make any sort of decision I simply moved to another. But after a morning of cleaning, and no careful consideration whatsoever, I returned. I looked at it. Opened it. Absent mindedly scrolled down. Closed it. Pressed delete. And found a slight smile on my lips. I no longer need any of his words and it's the nicest little bit of closure I think I've had in a very long time. How does the old saying go? Sooner or later the things in love you lose. I feel whole again, and I never thought that feeling could come from losing something which at one time had seemed so important.

Interestingly enough the artist formally known as Mr. Big is the only ex boyfriend no longer talk to. It wasn't uncomplicated but it was lovely. And maybe because it was so complicated I kept his notes, his words, those reminders of him at all. Hidden from myself. Folder within folder within folder. But still there. I think I have needed evidence of him to push me forward. To push me to know that another love, and a better love exists. I'm finally grateful for my heart ache. A thought that is hard to grapple with. It takes away none of the pain, fear, hurt or pure survival of the breakup. But it does put a neat little end to it as far as I'm concerned.

And to know that on this sunny London day I'm going to be just fine and I'm honestly happy again, well that's is a feeling that, for a long time, I never thought I would have. So whilst I'll take some things with me to the Big Apple, like photos, old bills and sentiments from my mother, something’s I'll be happily leaving behind. Maybe sometimes moving on is about looking back from a different direction, feeling a smile on your lips and believing things only ever get better, never worse, only better.

Praise the Lord I think I need to get my game-face on

Religion, Sex and Politics. Apparently you're not meant to talk about them. Not one to shy away from dubious topics I dropped a bombshell yesterday. "Dad, what am I mean to be looking for in a man I'm going to marry?" I mean he's always been ok at trying to represent the male way of thinking, so why not ask?

I realise it was a fairly serious question but frankly at this stage it needs to be asked, I'm no longer 12, I need to get my game face on. I'm pretty good at picking them short term, I know when I man is handsome, engaging, supportive, gentle, intelligent and kind. But I also realise I have no idea how to quell my fear of picking a husband who will still be all these things in 25 years. Entre the Padre.

One of his thoughts included choosing a man who doesn't have religious opinions too far from my own. Or at least one who isn't a zealot. Particularly relevant since I’m rather non-plussed when it comes to God being rather more fond of Beckett's Godot. Dad's advice mirrors what my maternal grandfather thought as well - 'Choose someone with the same social standing, opinions on raising children and religious views.' So feasably this religion saga has more importance than I've ever really paid it?

I wonder if I could perhaps find someone as blank as me and just pick bits from the vast array? The thick or thin vows of marriage and commitment in Catholicism, the uniting Friday Shabbat of Judaism, the humbling togetherness of Ramadan from Islam, the perfectly measured Yin and Yang of Taoism and the communal individuality of MTV. Yet, reflectively, the only thing I seem to admire in religion appears to be the ability to entwine. The ultimate ancestral justification binding one human to another.

Dad is pretty good at advice giving, but I think a family friend takes the cake. His daughter had been dating a man for near over 10 years. Post breakup, there was one line he could contribute to her floods of tears. "You know I'm emotionally challenged, but all I want to know is are you ok for money?" That statement may seem like a jump from all my talk of religion, but is it really that different? A religion of family and support and unity, however it's offered, as cash, as a hand out of a ditch, as a hymn or as a kick up the butt. The religion of family togetherness, that religion is the one that matters most.

And without reserve I can say I like that thought more incense waving, choir singing, chanting, twirling and star gazing. And so what if that wasn't what my father actually meant. Perhaps what I heard was that I should simply find a man with a similar outlook on the important bits of religion. Some one I can look at across the dinner table now, tomorrow, in 25 or 65 years and know that closure isn't always 'Amen' but hopefully it is 'A man'.

If my sensible self had her way...

Well after only 2 days away I've been forgotten. It appears that I'm doing the calling, my text messages show no response (thank you iPhone for being so unabashed frank by showing me the entire dialogue, which is clearly a monologue currently) and despite hearing his cheerful voice and amusing stories on the other end of the phone a couple of times - I still feel abandoned somehow. Given my high maintenance nature, it's unsurprising that it's not a feeling I'm delighting in.

The 20% Russian has 2 childhood friends visiting and is exploring the city through their eyes which granted is a nice experience. But well, he must be thoroughly enjoying himself to have forgotten me so completely.

Don't get me wrong, I realise that this is a nonsensical reason to be freaking out and that's exactly why I'm writing about it. My rational, sensible self is quick to point out my over reaction, but in essence what is this blog for other than to put a voice to mental things I'm not eager to say out loud for fear of being institutionalised?

Right, so to the blog-worthy point of my freak out. In essence, why is it that I rely so heavily on other people and in this case the 20% Russian, for my emotional happiness? Others actions or attention or approval, I mean. Or, come to think of it, others non actions which as it appears can be just as potent as their actions.

I've tried finding more happiness from the inside and I think I've hit my max capacity there. What a pain, I think I'm stuck with this trait. So a minor warning to anyone who I rely on, call or don't call - just see which one causes more of a stir. I dare you.

Post script: The Russian was buying pants so that he'd be hole free and I'd be proud. My sensible self is acting very smug right now.

A wholey pants situation

The 20% Russian doesn't have any pants. Actually, let me re-phrase that. The 20% Russian has no trousers. No, again, let's get more specific. The 20% Russian definitely owns two pairs of work trousers - It just happens that BOTH of them seem to have developed holes the size of a small animal. Let's say a ferret. I'm not exaggerating (for once). And where are these holes I hear you chuckle? His crotch. Where else would they be?

This situation isn't made milder by the fact that he's going through a no underwear phase either. On the subway platform this morning I went through a minor phase of panic considering the consequences of one of those holes deciding to get substantially larger at any unsuspecting moment today. To be caught, not with your pants down by choice but instead to experience pure threadbare exposure? That's the stuff naked nightmares are made of.

He assures me this weekend will include a quick trip to Hugo Boss to re-stock but frankly, the man seems to have coped for weeks in his current fabric state. I'm worried he might think his luck will continue. These holes have grown large enough for a mouse to creep in or a snake to pop out, and no one needs that.

We'd previously discussed the notion of going shopping for some well needed essentials but since I'm jetting off to lay in the sun this weekend I won't be part of the shopping party. Lord knows what he'll come home with.

Then again as long as whatever he buys doesn't have holes in the crotch, perhaps I should just be grateful that he won't be arrested for flashing small children who have the misfortune of looking up at unfortunate angles.

Don't mention the war to the Minotaur

The boyfriend's Ex. A mystical creature of which we typically only hear stories. You know the ones, similar to the ancient legends of the Minotaur - human body, head of a bull, teeth of a lion. The exaggerated enigma, always more of an asshole or a perfect dream. It's the unknown of this creation that enraptures. And the opportunity to learn about them is an allure that very few can pass up.

Extraordinarily I have little desire to learn more than I already know about the 20% Russian's Ex. I know she is in another relationship, I know she calls when she's drunk (even though her friends tell her not to), I know she was hurt when he said he was bringing me home to meet the family, I know she got over it and apologized. I know she thought she and the Russian would end up together (very sweetly ruled out by him). But do these little nuggets of knowledge really add up to much? It sounds eerily like 'I can't/won't have you anymore but no one else should either' syndrome. Frankly an all too common post break up affliction.

Should defend my position? Force him to cut off all communication and set her up as an adversary? Some think that even once you’re the leading lady you still need to fight and to defend your position military style - 'Just because you're in Baghdad doesn't mean the war is over'. But simply, I don't live in fear of her enough to do that. Life is tough enough without trying to fight the ghosts of the past.

On the other hand, I do take potentially sick enjoyment out of being the Ex and in effect, interviewing next round applicants. My childhood sweetheart brought me a girl once who was virtually peeing her pants with nerves. To her, I was more fearsome than his mother (quite a feat). But I digress, ultimately, as much as you like or dislike the new replacement or as much as your predecessor likes or dislikes you, we can't exactly go about life living as though the existence of someone else is a personal insult. It's just not practical.

Just Beat It

I came across an interesting fact the other day. It's about animals so 'ran across' is probably a better phrase rather than ran over or into. Cereal box fact 196: Did you know each animal's concept of time is determined by its heartbeat. It puts the concept of marching to your own drum in context, although granted it's an animal context.

Case and point - the sepeotic fly (invented insect). This fly, or a real world equivalent would be born, enjoy its idyllic childhood, first kiss, graduate university, marry a childhood sweetheart in a tasteful ceremony, work for years, raise a dysfunctional family, buy a condo off the plan, retire, watch copious Golden Girls reruns and die approximately 325855585 times by the time you've read this article. The blue whale (obviously not invented) on the other hand will only experience a single heartbeat during the course of this hour, which depending on how slowly you read, may also be within the spectrum of you finishing this article.

The same must apply for humans. There are those content to beat once an hour, grunt and change the tv channel, others that scream around town at break neck speed. Men beat at a different rate to women, each culture has its own riff and the old and the young differ again. But what makes us beat as a simple human animal? You know, in general. What denotes what speed we move through life as homo sapiens? Once we've got that nailed, then can we confront the question of what flicks the auto-pilot higher or lower like an expensive Mercedes? What makes us rock to the rhythm of The Killers, Fat Boy Slim or The Rolling Stones?

What is your beat of choice? Not soundtrack of choice, not band of choice, but heart beat of choice? I think I want to be the sepeotic fly (invented insect). I think it gets a pretty good deal, life is no less complete its just more intense, and yes, granted shorter - but whatever, that's the price you pay I guess. It's like a James Dean life style for those with multiple legs. Anyway, I'm better at break neck speed even as an invented animal.

The Economist meets draft night

The 20% Russian has mentioned the concept of my NPV (Net Present Value) a few times now. It's a financial term (shock) and in my mind is a process by which something's eventual value is estimated/calculated. You add in all the elements, mix it up, consider it's management team (in my case my friends and family I assume), my propensity to deliver in the long term and then assign it a value. This value denotes whether it is a stock/company worth investing in.

Playfully, my equation apparently involves apartments in most major cities, whopping great diamonds juxtaposed with my using a tea bag 17 times, a love of second hand books, never wanting to throw anything away, a Maserati and countless other factors. Each time I mention something else ridiculous apparently the Russian simply 'factors it in'.

I don't mind- or more accurately I guess I can't really mind, truth be told I have my own long term evaluation standards- even if they don't have a constant form or a nifty economic-friendly acronym. But in all honesty, it is highly unlikely this champagne swilling, foie gras monster will turn into a croc-wearing, recycled fabric embracing enviro munchkin. In other words I will never be cheap.

So I guess once all the sums are done (in both directions, if you please). It's a matter of weighing up the NVP and seeing if it's result is your MVP (Most Valuable Player). Final tallies to the front table please.

Shall we invite the penguins to dinner dear?

I'm currently scampering around Norway, land of the Viking, home of the ridiculously good looking. I've been gone for just over a week now. And as such the 20% Russian has been left to his own devices for 5 weekdays and 2 weekend nights. I'm nervous, and for no rational reason, he seems to be a good guy (please note I reserve the right to retract this statement at any later stage if he becomes a douche).

Men don't need supervision do they? I want to hope not, but the more I sit staring at this question, I wonder just how rhetorical it is.

What am I to do? I need to let go and trust for this to get any substance behind it. I can't spend my life babysitting. What kind of relationship is had by confining a grown man to the reading corner? Only to come home praying nothing has happened.
And more seriously, why am I so un trusting inherently? Reading a psychoanalytical diatribe I’d hazard a guess it originates from a parental relationship. Unlikely. My parents are, yes, divorced - but unfortunately completely faithful. Hmm. Theory 2: Previous boyfriends cheating? Nope, negatory, never. Hmmm. I'm out of ideas.

How can my 'biggest fear' – which is it, be based in absolutely nothing at all? My fear, is in essence, for all intents and purposes, a macaroni penguin - all hairstyle and outfit with no substance.

(Side Note/Explanation of seemingly random sentence above: Around 1772 there was a 'macaroni club' in London whose playboy members wore particular clothes and hair styles. So the species was called macaroni penguin. Try and use it in a sentence today.)

Is it a fault of pop culture? Movies, music and television shows which encourage, condone and present characters that lure the viewer to side, encourage and, perhaps misleadingly, condone adultery. Perhaps in an age of individual rights we now believe it is better for the partner trapped in a sufferable situation to be able to ‘get out of jail free’ rather than stand by the decisions or promises they have made.

But to be fair that’s taking it a bit far. The 20% Russian isn’t trapped, struggling or unhappy as far as I can gather. Nor is he my husband. Either way, it doesn’t seem to matter. This little issue is not him. It’s me. It’s my drama, my fear and my macaroni penguin. I might just have to let my control side go, embrace my surroundings and like a Viking, albeit a less than ridiculously good looking one, forge ahead regardless of my latent desire to supervise penguins sitting in reading corners.

Out Of Office Reply

Is it rational that I've turned into a crack addict over my impending doom. Sorry, did I say that? I meant my holiday. It's freaking me out. I'm not standing on a joyous precipice, straining eagerly to embark on a refreshing, gratifying, relaxed, rainbow milkshake of an adventure. Quite the contrary. While my holiday is shaping up to be one of the more interesting journeys I've made in a while, I am about to melt with the possible prospect of the Western World falling apart in my absence.

Am I so enculturated in the flaccid corporate world that I now feel hesitant venturing into the real world again? Sunshine - horror, no deadlines - torture, sleeping in and days to spend how I choose - unthinkable? Wow, I think I really have to evaluate my life right now. Only two days ago I had an enlightened moment, declaring that I was feeling cleansed without my blackberry. It was short-lived. I'm again avec deux portable devices after a mini lapse. And like an addict with a fresh supply of crack I'm back in my dependant hole of email surety, relieved that I can cut off the electronic blood supply and inject a little self fulfilling panic with each message vibration.

It's like I can't feel at ease with the world unless I'm tied to a desk, waiting on a call, checking an email whilst looking out the window dreaming of sunny fields, blue skies and a bottle of rose. And yet, now I can open the garden gate and run, and I'm scared. That's right, I'm not going to lie to you, I'm scared. I could say that I'm scared that the world will fall apart, but I don't think that's the case. In honesty I'm scared everything will be just fine and I won't be needed or even missed. And beyond rainbow milkshake holidays, to me that's more scary than anything. Being consigned to oblivion.

In spite of this - can someone please hold the place together while I'm out? Water the plants, walk the 20% Russian and feed the cat. I'll leave the keys under the doormat, 10 bucks on the kitchen counter for incidentals and I'll owe you a favour. I promise I'll be back soon, so don't get too comfortable.

Bang Bang...my baby shot me down

Lord help me, Miss Vuitton has asked me to do a reading at her wedding. The request will, to date, be possibly the most important thing I've done in the eyes of God or a celebrant or whomever says 'you can now...share a bank account and a hotel room without judgement'. Anyway, it's very important and I'm sure there will be cake. Scarily, it's the first wedding where my participation level is higher than wearing something floral, pretending I haven't cried and just generally trying to stay out of the way.

I was most surprised by the fact that I get to pick the reading. That's a risky choice, you never know what I'm going to come up with or out with next. I asked her, rather vaguely, what I should avoid or focus on and have terrifyingly been given virtual 'free reign'. She stands just as much chance of getting a speech from Reservoir Dogs as one from A Midsummer Nights Dream.

So which path do I wander in wonder, or perhaps more aptly - simply stumble down? I've been told to avoid the whole 'I didn't know life before I met you' approach. That's fair, Miss Vuitton had a wonderfully functioning and fantastic life before her pending nuptuals thank you very much. There is no need to point out what she may be leaving behind - since, let's face it, she's already bought the dress. I guess in the same vain, other sappy things can go too, like - two halves forming a whole, two hearts beating as one, darkness becoming light, sour becoming sweet, and cringe worthy eternal and immortal love declarations. We've emerged from the 80's people, comments like that make me feel sick and I'm really hoping there will be seafood. Scollops and soppy sentimentality aren't usually the best main course- too much salty water involved.

Right. So how do I do this? I can't be realistic, I can't be graphic, I can't be indulgent or efulgent, I can't be churlish, oafish, curt, smart, fancy or artsy. So what can I be?

I guess I'm left with the only thing I know I can be - honest. I have to find something that says, life is great and life is shit, equally. Someone who says, there is no-one I want to get old, ugly and toothless with as much as I want to stay young, beautiful and energetic with, as much as I do with you. A famous person is sure to have written something along those lines. And if I can't find anything in The Love Letters Of Great Men the Sex and the City abrigded version or Wikiquote, then I'm making it up and giving a dead person credit. Besides it's a beach wedding for god's sake, I'm hardly going to crack out the Shakespeare sonnets. Then again, in all honesty, I find that (after all the shooting) the love the men have for each other in Reservoir Dogs is rather touching so perhaps if I get really stuck I could work them in somewhere.

Far flung jewels and Nightclub insurance

I'm going to have to tell my mother I've lost, yet another, family heirloom. I'm not very good at this.

It's not that I don't love the beautiful things I have, in fact that's not the case at all, I adore and cherish the things I have been given with love. Especially those with history, stories and meaning. In truth, it's just that I tend to accidentally fling them across nightclubs.

And I acknowledge I have no one to blame but myself but I simply can't abide by the notion of keeping 'special things' only for 'special occasions'. What's the point of living life in beige when the most spectacular things are brightly coloured? I don't get it. And it's because of this, my bad habit stands out. Things I adore somehow contain a repellant which makes them leap from my body with blatant disregard. Problem.

I've lost my parent's wedding ring, huge precious stones out of both tight and antique settings, family crest rings, a bracelet which survived 300 years before it got to me and various other pieces of clothing and jewelry. Not to mention losing sight of my dignity every now and then. Ergo, I'm embracing it and have come to the conclusion that I lose everything. It's simply a matter of the length of time I get to hold onto it.

Hence I'm just going to grasp my rule of thumb and conclude that before I lose my marbles or my will to live, I'm going to continue as I have been and merely accept it. That and hope someone with a similar taste for expensive jewelry is trailing along behind me at leisure picking up some nice little sock draw stuffers. And in the meantime, I resolve to enjoy my time with the elfin memory sparks wrapped, fastened and tied around my wrists, fingers, ankles, ears or my neck. And when my trinkets and I eventually part ways, which we will inevitably do, I will take what my mother says and embrace it. "It's just a rock, as long as you're safe, that's all that matters."

I'll focus on the fact that those little memory holders are simply stone, metal or fabric and the most important things, the memories themselves can't be flung across nightclubs, even if that's really all you want to do. And knowing that, I will breathe a little easier, even though I will have to add yet another earring to my 'singles' pile and file yet another insurance claim for stupidity.

Mary Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow?

The 20% Russian wants to read the blog.

Minor crisis. Owing less to the fact that it contains stories I wouldn't tell him in their spring technicolour detail. No, I'm standing on the edge, wavering with giving him the address, insomuch as it's handing over transcripts of a Sunday Girls Brunch, and exposing mystery. Granted, when it comes to a new relationship I'm not going to get very far with my seed packets clutched to my gardening apron but on the level, I don't think I'm ready to throw them all down and just trust the sun and rain.

To put it bluntly, this blog doesn't paint me in the most positive light - and I admit it's occasionally done on purpose. Being indulgent with the details is part of my nature, and though I'd like to humor myself and say it's a writing style, if someone was to read this to 'get know me', I'm not sure how honest and reflective some entries would really be. We all have past adventures, and good, bad or ugly, we're a product of a world of collective contributions. Everything we ever experience or encounter has an effect greater than none. So appreciating that, how much are we willing to lay on the table? Clean, bare and labeled for a potentially ruthless evaluation.

I like that he likes me, and the openness, has been astonishingly calming. But in an attempt to maintain this state will I have only my foolish unimpeded nature to blame if his perception, or my coddled written interpretations of my past, come back to bite me? If a relationship's foundations are built on potting soil, ripe seeds, a sunny patch in the garden, pot ash and a watering system can we simply throw down all the seeds and expect the weeds not to fight over the outcome?

Its not about hiding, manipulating or even changing. This is who I am, and I make no apologies for that. But essentially how much is too much and how soon is too soon? And to that effect, I can't help but wonder at the potentially revealing nature of Mary's womanizing answer - Mary Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow? - With silver bells and cockles shells, And pretty maids all in a row.

Please ensure you're cover letter contains the ideals your looking for in this job.

I live in my own little world most of the time. Walking down the street, I have abstract conversations with no one in particular, often thinking of something amusing I'll burst out laughing or I'll go through the motions of doing something considered private, like hitching up my stockings in a completely public place. And I do it all without thinking or realising. And while I don't think it's earth threateningly important, it's probably less than ideal - for everyone involved. It's like I stopped to think about something and then never rejoined the land of the living again. Or the world of polite society at least.

It's come to a head because there is a new kid (well a 35 year old man) at work and he keeps staring at me. Every time I look up - BOOM, he's there. Staring at me. It's driving me mental. I can't live in my own little world anymore without feeling like I'm now in a permanent fish bowl. It's unnerving.

Miss Gloss thinks it could be cause he's in my default line of vision, whenever I look away from my screens I tend to look in that direction, at nothing of note, but perhaps that has lead him to think I'm looking at him. I don't know, and I don't really care what he thinks frankly, but I can't even explain to you how frustrating it is. But I've been snapped, rather violently back into reality this morning when I - oh so elegantly - sniffed my arm pit. Yes, correct - sniffed. Ok, granted, my desk is not the ideal place to do this, but that's not really the point. I live in my own little glass box bubble, so of course I think I'm actually the only one who exists in this world and so I sniffed.

The only problem is, of course, he caught me. And now I'm paranoid. This kid must see me do everything - maybe I'm his own personal big-brother channel. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh - tune out dude. I'm going to have to get a new job if this continues because I'm certainly not going to be coming back to reality any time soon. I need to be able to sniff my armpits in peace and without being judged thank you very much. I wonder how that would go down on a cover letter detailing what I'm looking for in a new line of employment?

Destiny's Child

I'm an ardent believer that you never meet a man of serious intentions in a nightclub. It's a law written in permanent marker across the sweaty forehead of a hung-over frat boy. I believe I've blogged about it before. I'm sure I've even extrapolated the theme to include other venues which represent what I see as fruitless hunting grounds and if I haven't - I meant to.

Point being - I'm a little bemused to find myself potentially, slightly, falling for a man with whom I made my first acquaintance in a night club. And even more incredibly I was on the rebound from Hercules. But contrary to all norms the 20% Russian has now been on the scene a whole month. Ground breaking, I know. And I'm yet to tire of him. Again, ground breaking. Made even more surprising since it was his friend trying to buy my a drink at the bar. Then after introducing us said "No, don't go over there, come back, you'll be sick of him in a week". Clearly this kid had a bad sales pitch - 1 week? Nightclub? Rebound? Exactly what I was going for. And now the tides have turned on me and we've been hanging out a whole month. Worrying.

There isn't much to say really - it's a matter of waiting this one out. But Jeanny boy (Jean de La Fontaine) I think I might agree with you - "sometimes a man can meet his destiny on the road he took to avoid it". I have met at least one month of destiny in an alcohol fueled, sticky floored establishment when I wasn't trying/looking or anticipating. Expanding this theory, perhaps in the future I should avoid doing anything worthwhile with my working life, acquiring any forms of wealth or having ridiculous amounts of fun. Which will, according to this theory, then inevitably mean I'll be rich, successful and deliriously happy. Sign me up and play blood on the dance floor I'm in!

Then again, the 20% Russian is sweeping me off to the Canary Islands this weekend for sunshine and pina coladas - maybe I shouldn't mock, maybe he'll last for another month of destiny. Jeanny - maybe, just maybe you might have hit on something here old boy!

What's in a title?

Astonishingly I've just been asked which one I would like. I never thought you got to choose these things. Like nicknames - I thought they were simply annoying enigmas you had to embrace and accept. No one really WANTS to be called Shazza do they? Exactly. It's clearly punishment for crimes committed against polite society in a previous life.

But in general does the existence of the question mean that by selecting a title I'm immediately boxed into a category? Am I now ready for easy, general consumption by others upon introduction? Mr, Miss, Doctor, Lover, Professor, Director, Countess, Girlfriend, Husband, Knight of the Realm - they all illicit an image. So which one would I like? You know, since in this case I can choose.

I think I'd like to be officially known as 'The most amazing woman I've ever met' - verbatim please. It just rolls of the tongue so easily, and it sounds so good in conversation.

"Hi, (insert random person here) how are you - lovely to see you again"
"Wonderful to see you too 20% Russian"
"This is 'The most amazing woman I've ever met' - Mikey"
"Wow, nice to meet you"

I'm seeing amazing potential here.

But instead of simply agreeing with my spectacular idea, the 20% Russian has countered with 'More than a girl (space) friend in training', or MTAG FIT, with the M being silent of course. So pronounced - tag fit. I sound like a work out class at a trendy gym. No. What about 'She's not a girl (space) friend, but i love her' SNAG BILH - H is silent, hence snag bil. Or 'I can't call her my girlfriend yet, but I'm trying my ass off', ICCHMGY BITMAF - hmmm, might be a bit much.

How about we skip the titles, I like my original one anyway - and frankly The Countess suits me just fine.

Objects in the rear-view mirror may appear closer than they are.

I can't wait to get to a city where I can exist in peace again. In a car. I realise that's not the environmentally responsible thing to say, but so what- it's true. I miss my car, in all it's carbon spewing glory! My rolling school locker full of stuff- my infallible bubble of Zen insulating me from the world. The back seat where magazines, lunch wrappers, and sandy beach toys go to die. The front passenger seat holding a capsule wardrobe, cassette tapes and gym shoes. A glove box full of useless bits, and a personal sound proof karaoke booth.

I'm divided when it comes to judging people by their cars. Except for those greased up boys who cruise the main street pimped out with blaring music and leering looks. You know who you are - big input valve, small output valve. That's all I'm saying.

I don't always agree that the model, make or the cost have a lot of impact. But unfailing you can rely on the amount of crap it holds, radio settings, dings in the side or scrapes along the back bumper. They, to me, hold the vital clues. Flashy colour = I want to be noticed. Lots of crap = always on the go. Dings in the side = not as observant as I seem. Scrapes along the bumper = other people haven't found that I'm observant either.

My first car was a hand-me-down from my grandfather, a silver Subaru station wagon, roof racks, hard to roll with a super aggressive giant metal bulbar bolted to the front. On the road it was credible; where as I was not. I still think of it as a car that suited me, outward protection, inner comfort, a radio that functioned and an engine in perfect running order. And full of an inordinate amount of junk. Thanks grampy. But was it an embodiment of everything I already was or everything that a the time I was lacking? And in what dilutions?

We all know that even the shiniest of cars might have a quirky carburetor that no mechanic can sort. Just like cars our human faults are pretty evenly spread between us all. Some manufacture faults, some incurred after 50,000 miles, others due to another mechanism halting. Their intricacies are side mirrors to our failings as humans. If only we could spot them on the first test drive.

In any case, these days I miss being able to lock myself in a bubble and glide through the world regardless of whether the car embodies my virtues or my faults. At least in a vehicle assault on your person is limited to the occasional lane dodger or irate pedestrian glaring at you while they march across the street to test your brakes. And yes, that pedestrian is currently me - and yes, drivers my hatred for you is borne out of jealousy. So deal with it buddy. Deal with it.

The Golden Triangle vs. The Bermuda Triangle

I got an email today from the Dutchy - well it has been about two millennia (aka. 4 months), his man-pager must be going off. He wrote a very sweet little note which included the line, "I felt like I had nothing to offer". Let's get some perspective here, I realise he had just been told he would be fathering a child with his ex-girlfriend, and that shook things up - but to think you have nothing to offer? Rather dramatic.

So if that was the case, I wonder what he thought he was missing? If you’re not in possession of all three corners of life's triangle are you really in danger of being labeled incomplete? Not incomplete for ourselves but incomplete for others. Job, apartment and love - the evil trilogy, and oh how we ponder them. The question that intrigues me is, do we honestly expect perfection in ourselves and others? How do we define these sneaky little joints of life? And do we really think we need to achieve all three? Or is that like jamming a square plug in a round hole over and over and over again?

To add slightly more confusion to the black board explanation, there are ceaseless forms of triangles - acute, obtuse, equilateral, right angle, isosceles or scalene - so even according to the seemingly ridged mathematic principles, shouldn't there be just as many ways to measure value? And not the 'value of X in this equation' version of value either. But the 'something to offer vs. nothing to offer' equation. My head hurts. I'm not the biggest math genius on the planet but I'd say judging your own value on behalf of someone else, your bound to end up with the wrong answer (at least according to the text book anyway).

Well, whatever the situation, whilst Dutchy might not be for me, I don't think it's fair that he sells himself short like that. Then again, how much of the world or math’s or love or that strange sport curling do we just accept and get used to and how much do we really understand anyway?

Keep your receipts, this isnt the mafia

I'm a staunch feminist - sort of. In fact, perhaps these days there really isn't a name for what I am. I like men to open doors, help with my coat, stand when I go to the bathroom, walk on the curb side of the pavement and at the same time acknowledge my opinion as equal, propel me in the workplace, scrape my off the floor post melt-down and share the washing-up. I don't think its much to ask. How hard is it to be a bespoke gentleman, catering to the ever changing whims of the female sex?

In the 'old days' when you mentioned feminism thoughts turned to hairy armpits and bra burning. Now we are just as common in heels and Max Mara as 100% cotton and Birkenstocks. Conceivably women aren't out to seek revenge on the male population, instead we want to have our cake and eat it too. We were taught we could be anything and have everything. And we believe it. So with that in mind, and the knowledge that a strong woman raised me, let me tell you that I've stopped paying for things. Something that I discovered this morning when the 20% Russian bought my morning coffee. Small you think - but to me, meaningful.

I used to 'contribute'. Pay for breakfast, lunch and dinner, just to prove I could, and would, I'd be a step ahead with cash whenever it was needed. No longer. No thanks. If my mission is to find a gentleman who has traditional manners then I'm going to be controversial and say f-it. I want a man who pays. Or at least a man who wants to pay.

Is that too much to ask? Am I saying what we're not meant to say again? Damn - I keep doing that. It's not au fait but I'll admit it, I want to be looked after, to not have to worry about money. Wow she's high maintenance I hear you mutter? Well candidly, yes, but to be blunt even if you judge me it's not going to make a lick of difference. My role in this man-woman affair is to turn up and look good - and that's costly in itself! Miss Vuitton suggested this to me long ago, her reasoning was by letting the man pay you give him the feeling of being needed. A feeling women snatched from men long ago. But there is something delightfully sweet about watching him take pride in 'looking after you', and the kick they get comes from saying thank you. I get it.

Equally, if I'm looking for the perfect gentleman then I'm going to have to be the perfect lady. Well as long as this perfect little 'feminist' lady can do exactly as she pleases I'm up for that, let's start by bringing back martinis with lunch and the 3 day blow-dry. Ooooo - I could like this little turn of events.

PS. Title credit goes to Archie from RocknRolla, thanks buddy

Retract statement - the 'id' is out.

I retract all of last night's post. I'm bored not calm. The 'kill me now, there is no excitement in my life' - style of bored.

It's because for some reason, unknown to the logical me, I expected the 20% Russian to ask me to dinner tonight. I know I shouldn't have admitted that but I'm just being honest here. Since Miss Mulberry pointed out the horrible effects of expectations about 2 years ago I have tried to avoid having expectations of others, even if I have very high ones for myself. It was one of those life-changing pieces of advice that sink deep into your core and resonate like a piercing dolphin sonar. Simply put - it changed me and the way I relate to others.

Hence I try to keep my expectations to a minimum only to be rewarded when people surprise and go above and beyond. It might sound downtrodden but it’s hard to be disappointed when you didn’t hope in the first place. So if this is the focus I try to maintain, then please explain to me how or why I managed to get the notion into my head that the Russian would want to go out tonight? Or in fact, at all? But specifically, tonight of all nights?

Sometimes I think I'm following a set of rules my subconscious mind invents just to mess with the conscious me not to be confused which the conscience of me - which doesn't really care at all. Remember Freud's 'id' / 'ego' / 'super-ego' anyone? No? Fine. But Freud or not does anyone else get this, or am I slowly going nuts? Actually, don't answer that.

Look either way I'm looking at some serious issues which I'm starting to believe are being generated by the fact that I've reduced numbers in 2010. And I don't know if I like it.

Mr. Shedd I believe you were right, ships might be safe in harbour, but that's not what ships are for. I am not a vessel of any sort, but in this case, I need to go out, drink cocktails and get rid of my expectations and my 'id' – ha ‘id’ - whoever that little guy is.

Don't panic on the treadmill - trust me on this...

I'd like to make myself believe that planet earth turns slowly. (Owl City) I think that's pretty apt for a sparkly little tune. Granted the rest of the lyrics are pretty whacko, 'Cause I'd get a thousand hugs from ten thousand lightning bugs as they tried to teach me how to dance...' Sure. Fruit loop. But I digress.

Is it just me, but do you ever get that feeling that your running from pillar to post without really getting anywhere? Or at least without getting anywhere worthwhile? Your on the luxurious treadmill of life that doesn't seem to slow down. Not even so you can tie your shoe, take a sip of water or check out the hot guy behind you doing the strange bo-flex machine. There has to be an emergency choke chord on this damn thing?

Well I've had it, after a week and weekend of indulgence at 3am breakfasts with the 20% Russian and my usual whirlwind antics, I'm doing my best to simply slow down. Walk looking up, stopping to let someone cross in front of me, staying at the coffee shop for an extra 10 minutes to watch the world. And for once, it's working. It's only been on the agenda for a few days, but I'm thinking that I should start to introduce being calm on a more regular basis. I even managed to go to a yoga class tonight, stop at the little japanese supermarket I love and come home to cook something for dinner. This is unheard of for me. I could barely believe it myself, I still can't. I won't mention the fact that I was running to class from work after deciding to stop and pick up the jacket I left at a club after 6 tequila shots last Wednesday. Let's stay focused on the calm section of the evening shall we?

My grandmother is always at me about burning the candle at both ends, and in the middle - which I do just for good measure. But somehow I never take it in, and chances are I'm probably never going to in any meaningful way. It's not that I don't like stopping to smell the roses, it's just that no one seems to send the ones that smell anymore. I don't think that not being busy is something I could ever do. I like that little bit of adrenaline akin to minor hysteria. I like to have 100 things on a list and attacking them in a tizzy. What I'm starting to embrace is that if you believe the world is turning slowly you fall into one of two categories. The one where you speed up to fit more into your day. Or the second, where you slow down with it.

Either way I'm pretty happy with my yoga/cooking schedule tonight - it makes a change from cocktails, man eating and chasing the vanishing hours in the day. Chances are the world's pro rata speed I don't think will be changed by some luny lyrics in an elctro pop song but still the notion is a wonderful idea. And I think I can safely say that, for this week at least, panic is not our friend people and I'm pulling the damn choke chord.

Wiki Warning

Ladies,

I have a little business plan, well more of a plan in general...

It's called The Cigarette Pack. And essentially it's a wikipedia style, community content creator full of warnings for individuals. Searchable by full name and city its essentially a catalogue of things you might never know - but need to.

It came about because Miss Ferragamo got an email from her ex after she ran into him his current squeeze. Lo and behold what did the email read? 'What's going on sexy?'. Might I refer you to October's Blog on the 'Man Pager' and it's propensity to go off when your finally over him and happy.

More to the point- my instant reaction was 'you should send it to her'- I don't even know this girl and I've decided I'm on her side. She needs to be warned.

Miss Ferragamo doesn't have her address but essentially her warning was - he will get you hooked, cheat, give you an STD and try to get you back as many times as possible just to make you miserable! - I don't know the girl from a bar of soap but I dare say that little nugget of wisdom could be something she might like to consider.

Other warnings might run along the lines of - Afraid of commitment except to all other females but yourself, OCD and still idoloises his mother, will expect you to fold his underwear. Perhaps, incapable of dressing himself or of acting over 12. In love with an ex, himself, a mechanical object or even worse a fictional SIMS character. Married with 3 kids but doesn't wear a ring, thinks Macdonalds is a romantic location, likes to propose and then take it back. You get the gist.

But perhaps that would be too evil. I suppose it does rather obviously break privacy laws and perhaps having it all in writing doesn't allow for people to learn from their mistakes and turn over a new leaf. Then again, how much do we really change? Ever? On the other hand, if you knew, you might be able to prep for your broken heart - even if you didn't want to avoid it all together. After all people still smoke despite what's written on the front.

So who do we look after in this case? I'm of the opinion it's ourselves, together. I don't think anyone's failure has to be terminal. Maybe our failures could prove to be another's asset- with the only caveat being - I guess we'd have to know why we failed. Wikipedia might not be able to help with that.

What's in a name?

It seems everything in my life gets a nick name. Most of my friends seem to have nick names with incredible stories and somehow we manage to customise names for the most inane and boring. But for the more exciting, well they deserve a little more time and thought - tots reas (totally reasonable).

So, strangely on the same note - I went to have a sexual health check recently and found out I had a minor thrush infection. Sorry if that was too much information, but you'll deal. That evening I burst into Miss Longchamp's apartment and much to the hilarity of herself and her husband, regaled details of an evening being prodded behind a blue cotton curtain for, frankly, far longer than really necessary.

Well the results arrived today. By text message, as they do. And more than that, they arrived from someone who looks like a previously saved contact. As far as I can remember I haven't recently save the doctor's surgery as 'Thrush'. But a shout out to whoever invented that sneaky iPhone app. In honesty, I did think it was hilarious - primarily because it confirmed that I didn't have anything rather more serious and I'd already had a one tablet treatment for the the offending infection. But still, it got me thinking. Instead of changing names in my phone to 'do not answer' when I'm done with men, perhaps I could convert them to the most appropriate parting scenario to remind me of just how much I don't want to answer? Then that little twinge inside me wouldn't itch and say, 'ooo just pick up', give him the benefit of the doubt...

The Milkman - Houdini, the ultimate disappearing act
Dutchy - Baby daddy
Hercules - Gutless wonder
English Gentleman - Nasty with a top hat, spot of death cricket anyone?
HMV Poacher aka HMV Stalker - I think I actually have to keep Do Not Answer on this one for police guideline reasons
Just-in - Just-insist you like men, its ok
Suit and Tie - Met and married the Venus fly trap in 3 months, one word - desperate
Mr Big - Train Wreck, enough said
The Norwegian - Cold as ice

I think ring tones could be changed too, sounds of bombs dropping, rapid fire guns, screeching cats, vomiting, Celine Dion ballads, screaming babies, fingernails on a chalk boards, boats hitting icebergs, soap opera arguments and crazy frogs. I'd be darting to end the jarring ring tone rather than running to pick the damn thing up.

To be fair, as far as nick names go, I don't really care what they are 'officially called', I'll be calling them something else. And that's not to say I'm pre-planning their demise by giving them personas; for example, the newest addition The 20% Russian, or laughing at them like yesterday's run in with The Faux Sopranos. But I'll put it this way, as long as they are a character the story doesn't seem quite so personal, nor quite as disappointing if that's what they somehow end up being.

And on the bright side - the Thrush is gone but I'm yet to delete it as a phone contact, you never know when I'll have to ignore the Doctor's call and always like to play it safe.

Meet the new hall monitor

My January resolution to 'keep things clean' is going well so far. Not clean as in literally, my clothes I'm sure will be just as crumpled as ever. By 'clean' I mean my love life - no longer is it going to be content sitting in the limbo lane; I can't let it get messy or confusing. Now let us not confuse this we me actually finding 'someone' - rather let us focus on the 'cutting loose' of those not needed in the script anymore. I may even go so far as to reduce my dating numbers from 8 to lets say 3 or 4. I think 2010 should be the year of the individual.
 
And this resolution is the reason I have discovered that there may be a niche market profession in ditching men. Or at least coming up with the messages. I've sucked it up and ditched a couple this week, a Doctor that I've seen a couple of times and a handsome English Consultant who was formal and eager rolled into one, and all in all there were good results.
 
Same message sent to both - 'Sorry for the silence, have been gathering courage - the night I met you I'd just broken up with my boyfriend that week, and I just think this is all a bit quick for me - thank you again for such a lovely time, I hope you don't think I'm a total idiot and sorry, x'. Granted, not entirely true, Hercules was only a demi-boyfriend at his peak and essentially we'd parted ways much earlier, not to mention I met these guys at different times, but whatever. I got some rather lovely replies. *Sigh with relief*. I can now re-visit places I was going to have to strike off my list for fear of seeing them again. Nice - two birds, one stone. What I wouldn't want to read is their honest 'Analyse and Discuss' version of my text. There is clean and then there is cruel.
 
I think only good things can come of me being a little more 'honest' in the whole dating game. Keeping it clean, simple and neat - it can only produce good results right? Let everyone else look after the environment, in 2010 I'll be keeping the dating scene clean. The social environment is my playground and I'll be a hall monitor.
 
Hey you! Watch where you throw that candy wrapper buddy.

Text Message Thesis - Long but worth it (or not you twat)

Miss Vera recently gave me the most amazing book - The Proust Questionnaire. It's structured around a society game the French completed to amuse themselves at parties. It asks questions ranging from, What is your perfect idea of happiness? to Which living person do you most despise? It's genius (a yes, slightly unrelated) but it is with this in mind I will now answer the following:

Hercules has sent you 2 text messages. Anaylse and discuss:

(1) Hey sorry hadn't gotten back, was slammed yesterday shitty day actually, and not too much better today so far, on lighter note tho Bahamas was awesome and FL this wknd..And saw Miss Bottega at cluny on Sunday, she was looking good, I love those bloody mary's and short rib hash. (2) Hope you're well will call soon as I get chance.


(4 marks)


(1) Hey sorry hadn't gotten back (Just like you were so sorry for the 10 days I didn't hear a word from you after I hauled ass to NYC to see your miserable carcass - Sorry? Get fucked, I'd need to send a search party to find authenticity in that statement),

was slammed yesterday (Yawn, I'm sure, things are so hard when you do nothing all day, leave work at 4, lift 2 lb dumb-bells, drink cheap ass beers with the boys, perve on the waitress, stumble home and pass out on the sofa with a half eaten piece of pizza at 3am)

shitty day actually (That's cause your hangover ate the section of your brain that cared about anyone but yourself - I hope the financial market tanks on your positions),

and not too much better today so far (Seriously dude? Cry me a fucking river, I could care less about your measly day since you haven't bothered to ask about mine for the last 2 weeks. Did I mention my dog died, no - guess you wouldn’t know about that would you fly snorter),

on a lighter note (Thank god, I was starting to think you need even more therapy)

tho Bahamas was awesome and FL this wknd (Like I seriously give a flying rats ass, I hope you picked up a STD)..

And saw Miss Bottega at cluny on Sunday (I know, she emailed me straight away. She said she could see your disgusting blue bobble hat that I'm glad to see your now repulsing women with again, from across the street and ducked her head, but unfortunately she ended up running into you anyway - even my friends don't want to see you, and she is one of the most accommodating people I know - maybe you should get 'AVOID ME' tattooed on your head and be done with it),

she was looking good (Would you like her number? In fact, let me hand over all my friends numbers, they have to be better than the boring, skank whores in your circle of friends, it must suck to be such a loser and have had a glimpse of a life so out of your league - lets not pretend the mousey girl you were breakfasting with on the morning in question is anything less than a downgrade),

I love those bloody mary's and short rib hash (Eat up boy, gain another stone - just don't include me on your diet twitter page).

(2) (Otherwise known as the after thought text message)

Hope you're well will call soon as I get a chance (Don't bother, I'll be busy watching paint dry or dating your replacement...Zeus).


And if that doesn't get me an A+ - frankly, I dont know what will.

Speeding bugglet

Miss Burberry, sent me the most amazing quote today - 'Sometimes you’re the bug and sometimes you’re the windshield.'

Ain't that life. Sometimes I get squished in a second, without warning and end up against the glass in a smear of emotional guts. Other times I'm the bringer of the doom hurtling at incredible speeds destroying anything in my way - life, small insects, males, whatever. But if I could choose, if I could self select my role in this indulgent adventure I'm considering titling 'My Life, take number 438' - what would I choose to be? Bug or windshield?

Big, brash, aggressive and destructive? vs. Small, volatile, poisonous and flighty? Freud, thoughts? What do I think would be stronger, the best choice for survival. What is real strength? A bulldozer or an ant? And how do you define courage that goes along with strength? Because to me it's courage that makes strength stand up.

Courage is one of those things we chase and admire in others. But it's in each of us. And granted, we can't be ALL the pillars of strength ALL of the time. But how often can we be one, a few or most of them, for one person, a few people or everyone? I think courage has to manifest itself 100 ways in every second of the day. It's going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm for the task. Without losing hope or belief. It's being the only one who knows you’re absolutely terrified. I guess, usually right before the bug/windshield moment of impact. Strength is somehow holding it all together when all you want to do is fall apart. And it's doing it over and over and over.

So back to the question...Which is stronger? The windshield or the bug? Well the diplomatic answer is both, the logical answer is the windshield and the philosophical answer would be the bug. But I'm going to step outside the drivers seat and say the windshield wipers. They mop up the mess, they give the bug a dignified, swift disposal and they clean the slate for that enthusiasm to start again, fresh and new. Only for another bug and another windshield to throw themselves together.

So Miss Burberry, Miss McQueen, Miss Mulberry, or any of the other Little Misses in my life - I'll be your windshield wipers if you'll be mine? Sometimes I'll be the bug, sometimes you, and all of us can feel free to be the windshield with careless abandon. As long as the wipers are there with the strength and the courage to wipe the slate clean we can all start again, as many times as we damn well please.

And maybe along the way we can pick up some hot male car wash attendants! You know, just in case...

Love is a battlefield

Apt words - It really is a jungle out there, from the initial phases of meat market hunting, arbitrage, information herding, catching and gathering in a virtual minefield, through to the weeding and culling, the selection of the perfect right hand man, tilling the field of prosperity, only to see the rains come and wash away all the effort and hard work. A then like a true committed and resilient farmer; unperturbed, you start again, from the beginning, hoping that the Gods will be kinder this time around and you'll make better choices. And then, finally when you think the crops you've planted are taking root and starting to yield, a flash civil war that tears the country apart.
 
Welcome to the United Nations of Me. Various national anthems depending on mood and shoe choice, a multi-coloured flag covered in sequins, national dishes of sushi and candy floss, nation wide sport of being ridiculous, a cabinet comprised of dear friends and myself as elected leader.
 
But to be fair, I never meant to start a war, a futile war of silence and non response. But if we really can't swallow our pride and one of us surrender with that pesky white flag then we're going to lose what he had. If we haven't already. I understand the game playing notions that are borne out of the final stages of a relationship. The end is often fraught with more complications than some of the initial courting dances, which understandably terrify those crossing national boarders. But we've now ventured into situations fraught with invisible, yet razor sharp lines of diplomacy and we're not wearing a helmet.
 
And still, I'm going to go out on a limb and say, perhaps in this war there doesn't have to be a winner, perhaps we could just call it quits and go back to either side of the ocean? What do you think? I'm not really into winning for the sake of it - I'd rather call a truce and have a buddy. But that's my country's policy. Call me a naive leader all you like, but in this matter I'm into peace not war.

World peace can wait

Last night at our favourite spot, The Bot Bot conversation was raging about chest hair. An odd topic you might think, but to four single girls, it's really what life is about. Ok - that might be a little indulgent, it's not world peace, but still, it's what we were talking about. It was the Davos of chest hair.
 
Do you utilise an undershirt to double up? Do you want to hide or expose? Do you button ALL the way up? One button open? Do you flirt with two? Are you 'all out to the wind' Hawaiian style? How much do you expose for Exposure's sake? It's like playing chicken with your clothing.
 
An Irish lad 'opened' the conversation, crossing the divide with an ambitious 2 button drop, at the encouragement of the four ladies he was joined by an Italian who managed to 'open up' as well, although I preferred his initial single button gap. If the truth were told, I've got to admit I'm not a fan of chest hair. I find it strange. I'm not entirely sure why - I just do. I think it might hark back to latent connotations with gorillas and nits or something. Either way I don't mind a one-button drop but two? That's ambitious, and really should come with large gold chains, brill crème slicked hair and tight jeans.
 
Male cleavage is a point of contention for most women, and I dare say the debate started with our jungle dwelling ancestors and will rage for long after I'm gone. Unless we genetically breed it out - hair, I mean, not men. So ultimately, we need to look past the selected button drop and remember that inside every shirt there lies a man. And, well, if under that they are also sporting another made entirely of hair...then so be it.
 
Davos chest hair session closed. Tea, coffee and cocktails will be served in the break. Lets come back promptly in 15 minutes and move on to world peace. 

I'm a loser by default- hmmm

Internal struggle #359: Why do I always need to be a winner? Even when I'm clearly not, in any classic way an actual winner. Why do I always have to be rewarded just for showing up? Woody Allen said that 80% of success is turning up. Well I don’t know about that Wood-ster. I mean, come on? Really? Do we honestly strive to achieve anything anymore, or do we simply assume by birthright, that, of course we will? Achieve that is, not strive.
 
My latest educational obsession involves Generation Y and its foibles - one of which seems to be the united notion of failure by participation. That's not to say that we don't participate, in fact, it points to the fact that 'participate' seems to be all we actually do. No one is ever singled out as a real winner and given an early 80's style bowling trophy, obviously not for lack of talent but instead for fear of alienating the rest. And so everyone gets a cheesy participation plaque to send straight to the 'pool room' (non-Australian readers please ref: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUUVYlVYNR4). Agreed, I guess this results in fewer aggressive alpha type winners and if that is the goal - fair enough. Teary 4 year old pre-schoolers everywhere thank you. But in the end, if there are no winners, does that mean there are only losers? If we never have to fight to win how can we really expect not to lose by default?
 
By never having to deal with winning or losing and the feelings of elation along side disappointment are we really being prepared for the bigger picture successes and failures of life? A friend mentioned this at dinner and it's had my mind in a whir since approximately 3am on Sunday morning at the exact time it was mooted. She has a point. Will our generation be a blundering crowd of 'also rans' even though we run faster, jump higher, think bigger, drink harder, speak louder and fight smarter than any generation than before us?
 
Look, I don't mind participating - don't get me wrong, I float with the notion that life is about the experience; the journey as well as the destination. But lets call a spade a spade here. It's also about winning. And I want to win. So quit moddie coddling me and hand out a first prize, the fact that I didn't win will bug me for about 5 minutes and then I'll learn the lesson of failure and move on. Seems pretty straightforward to me. If 80% of success is turning up perhaps we need to spend a lot more time focusing on the 20% that results in the winner/loser divide and hand out a lot less loser trophies.

Don't drink the water in Damascus.

Perhaps someone could help me out with a definition of a home? I've come to the conclusion that I'm not really sure I have one anymore. A 'home', as opposed to a 'house'. I know I still have one of those. 
 
Is it somewhere you can always return to? A classic version with a Brady Bunch model family, with childhood memories of swings and cake fights. Hold up, but what if your parents move to Palooza? Is it, perhaps, a little less literal? Somewhere you base all your adventures, landmark bookends for all the stories in which you’re the main character? Alternatively, and unromantically, is it simply walls and a roof making up a place you yourself live? I'm confused.
 
I used to think it was a country, or a city in which you step off the plane and could 'breathe out' - somewhere everything wasn't so complicated, where you could anticipate life, somewhere just 'getting by' wasn't such a struggle. You knew certain things for sure - how to catch a taxi, sneak into a nightclub underage, if you could drink the water without losing 5 kilos, how to buy a loaf of bread and if you could cut lines without getting stabbed - the essential day to day stuff.
 
But now I'm not so confident in my 'breathing out' theory. I've started to feel an annoying void between anxious and comfortable, even in places that feature heavily in my passport stamp collection. Suddenly places I've never been seem oddly familiar and places I visit regularly are equally as foreign. My life itinerary has become a confusing mix of comfort and alienation. Juxtapositions between first class footrests and morphing carry on liquid rules, of pre-plane vino and post flight custom checks. I'm frustrated; homesick for a place I suddenly feel I've never been and might never know. Somewhere I can gently blend spontaneity with regulated life, where I can come home happy, where I know the number of paces it takes to cross a dance floor but not what bone shaking moves I’ll pull across it. Where I can be the star of my own midday and midnight show and where I can love my life without questioning the notion that I'm living it.
 
But on a more practical note...Is it really possible to be homesick if you don't have a place you automatically think of as home? After much deliberation, I've decided that I think you can. Primarily because if you think about the question in reverse it seems so improbable; just because you don't have a home doesn't mean you don't get homesick.
 
And by saying that I feel somewhat comforted, it seems I don't really need to define what a 'home' is after all. Because a 'home' in reverse has to be, by default, wherever I happen to be at any point in time. And for practical reasons if it's not a family, a landmark or four walls, then maybe it's just a friendly smile and trustworthy advice on drinking the water.

Finally IDOL has a good business plan!

I've been listening to a cheesy pop tune that's got me humming and thinking - granted, not a common mix...
 
Stan Walker's, Little Black Box has me yearning...to dance and to place an order.
 
I think my life needs something little and secret. Not a city guide with numbers of unknown drycleaners, cobblers and boutique hotels. Not a forbidden love affair (although I wouldn't be averted to one of these). And not a little black book with a list of names for whom my name still causes flutters. Nope - Instead, I need a real little black box, the industrial sort. The sort that records all the details of a May Day flight before it goes plummeting to the ground. A little piece of history that remains in tact through fire, water, brimstone and bar side banter. In fact, to be fair - if these little boxes are indestructible – why has no-one thought of simply building the whole plane from them?
 
Hmmmm. An indestructible little black box of emotion - I'd like that. I would like to stipulate that my little black box should strain airline convention and be accessible by me obviously. Negating those in places of power is mandatory, just in case there are sections which may need slight editorial input - you know, for security and copyright issues of course. And perhaps if it could be available at all times? Otherwise it would be rather pointless - I'm probably going to die choking on a banana sooner than in a Boeing 747. Please note I do not eat banana.
 
I think, honestly, it would save a lot of angst and drama - particularly on hung-over hazy Sunday mornings. I'd be able to point at certain moments and note - THERE! TOLD you he said that - TOLD you we went there, TOLD you! HA! A virtual self regulated Big Brother.
 
But instead life is a matter of he said she said. And that's as simple as it is.
 
And so to put you on the spot a bit Stan claiming to 'search through the wreckage of a love affair, there's a little black box in the middle of the ocean holding all the truth about us, it's a little black box, a record of emotion, everything that ever was.' Well, now you’re going to have to follow through on your business plan - even if it is in song form, because frankly, I'm going to need to get me one of these babies. Either than or a reality TV camera crew.

Spanish candy?

I came home last week at 3am and promptly threw a stuffed reindeer Hercules had won me at a street fair out the window. The 3rd floor back window to be precise. I wanted no witness to the crime, nor did I want to have to walk past it in the morning. Upon reflection, that's when I made my decision. And threw any love for him out as well. What a waste of affection. I can't stand loitering on the sideline. I'd given him opportunities to have the 'this is not going to work' conversation - but he never said anything. And now cowardice in total silence. I can't abide that. Get in or get out. Cause someone injuries or stay off the field.
 
Perhaps that means I'm angry, but as far as I'm concerned it means currently I'm enjoying being a self-important, pretentious little shit. And you know what I say to that? 'So what.' Denial and my Zen calm are my survival techniques and I'm feeling so arrogantly contempt I don't care.
 
I want to sit down instead of the old lady on the tube, cut people off in traffic, leave my sticky lunch wrapper on the table, let important calls go to voice mail, steal someone's lunch money, give the bus driver the finger, press all the buttons in the elevator, drop my gum, ignore people on the footpath and push someone in the coffee line. I feel like an irrationally irritated 5 year old. And frankly, there is nothing better for a bad mood than scooping it up and sprinkling it over everything and everyone you come across, spreading it around a bit. Just like salt. 'Stand still while I rub salt in your eyes - it will make me feel better.'
 
But if I'm very honest with myself, it's not for everyone, and not everyone can be lucky enough to deserve my wrath. In frankness currently it's reserved for one person. And given the chance, I would use his heart as my personal piñata. Hell, I turned 25 didn't I - and 2+5 is only 7 - so how mature do I really have to be about this? I want a piñata. Now. I want a baseball bat and I don't want to have to admit to feelings of rejection.
 
The myth of Hercules might detail a man of strength and violence but if push comes to shove he's not winning this round. No way. Not in my bulletproof state and his of cowardice. Give me a piñata and a pina colada and maybe I'll go back to letting old people sit down on transport. Maybe.

Check the weather report stat.

I'm freezing.

I've been icy for a while now and I don't really know why. The rest of my apartment is warm- but my bedroom, the place in which I find my solace and spend most of my time - with is old fashioned wooden floor and big window, well it just never seems to warm up. The water in the shower is never scorching no matter how high I turn it or how long I wait and it frustrates me no end. The only time I seem to feel genuinely toasty is when I'm hurrying somewhere rugged up against the chilling wind that oddly coerces tears from my eyes early in the morning. Tears that have nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with temperature.

The wind is aptly pulling from my body what my heart isn't sure it wants to let itself do.

No matter how hard I've tried in the last week to let go of the relationship that has ended with Hercules I still manage to feel a strange emotional coldness. A surprisingly numb feeling that has spread in a pattern inverse to the usual physical version. It creeps outwards from my heart right to the extremities. And yet, it's not uncomfortable, in fact, it's a calmness that feels eerily nurturing. I feel like I've woken up from a dream to find myself in the final stages of grieving something that I never understood but knew was somehow important to me. I can't even manage to put it into words that make sense.

I guess just because our time together was short I could assume it was unimportant. But even that, especially that, I don't think I can somehow say. I don't think I can safely relegate it to the short, sweet and meaningless category.

For the first time I don't want to analyse him or us, or whatever we had and it's a strange feeling for me. What I do find I'm feeling is the cold. Its almost like the hotter the feelings in the relationship the colder the end of it feels. And as the current numbness eventually wears away I just wonder if it is the end of the relationship that has me feeling this way, or if it's a change in my composition that I'm going to have to try and accommodate?

But for now my confusion seems to be confounded to tears only eked out by the cold weather. And to be fair, spring is only a few weeks away.

When you smile alone...

For someone who has an allergic reaction to long distance relationships I'm happily surprised to be in one. In fact, the only itching I’ve been doing seems to have resulted from the strange insect bite I obtained in the Bahamas and if you go by the unpublished Bible-of-my-mother, this can be attributed to a riotously vicious mosquito which my own insect infested childhood didn't quite prepare me...so much for building an immune system to ward off 6 legged creatures and man creeps. 
 
Without boring you with the promotional details like he's tall, handsome, kind, funny and sexy all at once. I can pretty much state that for better or worse he's pried open the vault which had, for a while perhaps, become my heart, jammed it open with a wedge of laughter and thrown down a bolt of happiness to stop it blowing shut. I in return have essentially thrown my abandon off a cliff - admitted, somewhat reluctantly, that I like him and discovered what its like to find myself smiling when there's no one else around. It's nice, it's been a while and it's different.
 
I've no idea where it's going or how long either of us can support this rather expensive air mile addiction we've developed, but I do know for the first time in a long time I don't want to shrug only to look back and say...shoulda, coulda, woulda...didnt, damn. In fact, for the first time in a long time I'd like to catch myself walking down a hallway, smile to no one in particular and say...did, doing, damn good.