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.