Maybe I'll be the flower girl?

Suit and Tie has met a girl. I met him for lunch today and he was as excited as a yappy dog on crack. They have been dating for two weeks and he thinks they are going to get married. I'm confused. I know he was looking for a serious girlfriend, but really? And he has invited her to his home country to meet all his friends and family. I mean I know I'm pushing the envelope dating 8 guys instead of 1 but....Eeeek! Actually I'm happy for him, but is this what the kids are doing these days? At the 2 week point is this the kind of thing to be expected?
 
My main reservation on the whole thing was set off by his penchant for name-dropping people she knows and things she owns. Don't get me wrong, a good name-bomb will get you far, but I think part of his infatuation is caught up in the material and the name-landmines she can set off. And it sent me flying, battered and bruised reeling back to where I started in the first place - The very first question: hearts or diamonds? Clearly, it's not just a choice for those of us of the female persuasion.
 
What do you do? Do you follow your heart? Or do you just get the biggest diamond you can?
 
I think in the ideal Disney world you get both, but we're all grown ups aren't we - is that combo really ever going to happen to more than a handful of us? Scarily she bears an odd resemblance to Monster Mashed's stories of his ex-finance (curiosity made me email him to check on the name). Could be a very interesting twist of fate, since from his stories it sounds like it's the diamond she's after. But then again, maybe that suits both - by the sounds of it, with all the name-dropping, that's what he seems to be infatuated with as well. Wedding bells are ringing....Bling bling, Bling bling.

Got Milk?

I was at dinner on Saturday night with a friend and after devouring cocktails we were finally seated in a buzzing dining room. She and I were warming up for a mischievous evening of stupid dancing when to our surprise two glasses were sent to the table. I'd love to say that it was champagne, or a fine wine or even something crazier like tequila, but no. We received two glasses of milk. Unadulterated, sweet and simple, milk.
 
The curiosity at it's arrival was hilarious. We couldn't stop laughing and in fact invited the gentlemen to sit at our table for a while. Turns out they were charming Irish boys and thought the milk was a good idea (Note: they were also trying to send us cookies). Point is - it got me thinking about what I expected in certain situations and how nice it was to receive something out of left field. To be honest it was a total delight. I've become so used to men buying drinks, sending champagne or planning dinner that I've forgotten about all the other (maybe more simple) fun things...What about going to beach? Bowling? Ice skating? Mexican cat throwing? Why do I always assume a date has to revolve around food, drink and a chance to wear high heels? Where has all the good old fashioned fun gone?
 
I've not laughed as hard as I did with these two guys in ages, and it made me think - have I become too serious in my pursuit of fun? Perhaps we think having fun is childish - something we are desperately trying not to be. But what's so negative about that? Do we act really like children? Perhaps we just treat each other like children? Or, more sadly, are we interviewing each other to have them?
 
Regardless, when did we get so serious? My resolve is to start sending more milk. I think it might get us all a little bit further, and if it doesn't it certainly will get a laugh.

Judgement day.

Is it wrong to judge someone because of what they wear? I know the mandatory answer to this is 'yes' - but really? Is it? Because I do it all the time. And I'd like to think I'm not a horrible person. I'm happy being about 20% horrible, but not much more than that.
 
And yet if your a guy and your wearing some cheap-ass suit or a sweater that is made of more plastic material than natural fibers we're going to have issues. Last week I actually met a man wearing a shirt/sweater combo. Normal, you think to yourself, until the other guys get drunk enough to point out that this wonderfully inventive item is already pre-combined! That's right. It's nothing more than a collar and sleeves sewn onto a grandpa vest! Huh? Your that lazy you couldn't put two items on? I'm sorry if you wear that shit you deserve to be judged. Period.
 
There have been many a fashion faux pas in my dating history, one VERY hot man who looked sharp in a beautiful Italian navy wool suit when I met him and then rocked up to take me on a picnic in a skin tight muscle t and combat trousers pulled up illegally high...one questions - why?...sneakers and jeans - no comment and a short guy who insisted on wearing an oversized leather jacket and matrix sunglasses - don't ask.
 
Looking back on my own fashion history, yes, there have been some shockers but I'd like to think overall it was only 20% horrible which means I've evened myself out. I have to draw the line at a shirt/sweater combo though - a cheap one at that, and if you've got a problem with that then go buy one. But be warned if I ever see you in it, I am going to judge you and it's not going to be pretty.

Just because I gave you my number, doesn't mean I did it willingly.

Some idiot from the meat market last Friday night has just messaged me (again) saying 'how are you miss busy? thought your work-social life balance is what your company is most proud of'....ummm - my work-social life balance is just fine thanks. But good way to offend me in 67 characters or less. Its just that I don't want to include you in either work or life. In fact, if I had the chance I really don't want to have to speak to you again. That's why I haven't responded to you previous 4 inane and innocuous messages. Get it? I need to come up with some sort of Rosetta Stone of female language for general distribution amongst the male population. 
 
Sound it out with me gentlemen...
 
'No darling, of course the pub is fine, I don't really feel like a nice meal anyway' translates to...douchebag cheapskate why you think I would rather eat shit for dinner as opposed to something good I will never understand.
 
'Does my bum look big in this?' translates to...be very very careful if you want to get laid tonight.
 
and 'Ummmm - sure, really? Ummmm, ok....yeah....my number.....' translates to... No I don't want to give you my contact details, cause for the last 20 minutes I've been trying to signal my laughing friends to rescue me, excuse myself if you'd give me 10 seconds to speak and eye up your hot friend all without success you greasy smarm ball.
 
I don't see how hard they are to decipher. Honestly.
 
Lesson: If you somehow get my number and it didn't seem like I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally wanted it give it you. I was being nice and you put me in the awkward position of calling my phone directly 'so I have yours'. And in terms of the next day, please, message once (just once, just in case) and then if no response, never again. I realise this might be hard to figure out. But its really no harder than learning Chinese or building something big and complex. And we all know your more than capable of doing either of those things.
 
I think perhaps I'll start giving my number out in roman numerals...half the idiots won't be able to figure it out, weed out the weak - Chinese could be a stretch for these imbeciles.

The moral of the story

When I was 22 my father said something that rocked my world and changed how I viewed men.
 
It went along the lines of..."when you’re a young man you approach things differently. You know that your going to have to look after a wife and children and take care of a family, your going to have to succeed. They'll look to you for survival and happiness. That’s a lot of pressure."
 
Until that point it had never occurred to me that I was oblivious to this pressure. That I'd never struggled with the idea that I'd have to buy a house, support a family, pay school fees or violin lessons and perhaps pay for aging parents by myself. I certainly don't consider myself old school traditional, the notion just ever occurred to me.
 
The reason I raise this pithy little bit of dad-wisdom is because a guy I've been having coffee with lately (The Dutchy) has been told by his ex-girlfriend that she's 6 weeks pregnant. They broke up 6 weeks ago and she has a 1% chance of ever having kids. No bones about it - she's keeping it. I can see where she's coming from, but I don't think this is quite how he envisioned his family starting.
 
I realise I consult this piece of advice my father gave me when I think a man works too much, that I work too much or that I don't see something as important as it is to another person. Pressure comes from all sorts of directions and I can never know which direction someone is feeling at any one time. But the more I think of his particular situation the more I struggle with it. And even though Dutchy and Preggers both want different things how much pressure can they put on each other before the lid is going to blow off?
 
And at the end of the day life is life and you can't control every section of it. I guess it's the unanswerable question with only one response...
 
Q: What do you do when life gets in the way of plans? Or, worse, plans get in the way of life?
A: Cross all your fingers, hope to hell that it works itself out and stock up on condoms.

Glade anyone?

November winds are setting in and frankly I don't like the smell of them. They're a dark and dank sour concoction of pre-december- that sickly sweet Christmas cinnamon and a rank hangover of too much to eat at halloween candy blow outs. And the result? Let's just say it's something you wouldn't want your worst enemy to be trapped in an elevator with.

It's not November's fault- I know that...but it doesn't make it any better. And the smell of it doesn't make it easy to stay under the covers and hide with all the rainy weather either.

And the boy scene isn't much brighter frankly. They will now go into hibernation- drinking in random unlocatable pubs- camouflaging hot bodies and beer guts alike with damp old sweaters and a steadfast refusal to shower...Oh summer sun- how I miss your unforgiving glare! At least I knew what I was working with then...now it's a virtual guessing game!

On the up side Ra Ra Army boy just called to say he's back soon- so maybe I'll see him before the mince pies take residence and create a army tank style tire from the cold blues...then again maybe I could just attack those miserable November winds with a great big can of air freshener!

This little piggy went to market

I spent my Friday night at a local meat market. And not the sort with men, cleavers and lamb chops. There was even a complimentary girl fight on the door as we entered. And they made me pay 10 bucks for the privilege. Great start. We got there just as the excessive amounts of alcohol were clearly sinking into the place. In fact I think they may have been pumping it though the air-con like they do with oxygen in planes. The thing about a meat market is that everyone likes the idea in principle, a club with good music, a fun attitude and single people everywhere sounds good in theory but when it actually takes shape it's strikingly ugly close up, smeared mascara, sweaty guys waving bottles of champagne at women and the strange mix of too much eau de toilette.
 
This particular place is a well known hunting ground for professionals, bankers, business people and scary randoms who I fear actually like this kind of scene. And just to throw in some land mines there seem to be some token nice guys who end up there after work drinks. Which means essentially your dodging hunting bullets and trying to land on a gold mine. Otherwise known as the impossible.
 
The approach in the meat market is the most interesting thing about the place to me (since conversations rarely last for more than 10 minutes). To be fair it's a laugh to watch a severely inebriated man in a damp suit try and say something witty (without slurring or spitting) to a woman who is trying to avoid being slugged by his waving bottle. Then to watch her try and say something gripping back whist madly flicking her hair, waving her nails and screaming above the music. And yet it's a a rather futile exercise. No one is there to make banter, find someone they 'click with' or meet a mate. Who ever heard 'Well, your mother and I were both at this seedy joint where people totally embarrass themselves and snog each other - and I saw her across the room screaming at a guy and waving her nails...and that was it. I knew she was the one.' Well I hope many people haven't heard that story.
 
Anyway I'd love to tell you I found a good one. But shock, I didn't. Shame. But then again, I think I'd I be worried if I did.