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.