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!