Because you can't always be nice

What is that noise? Thump, thump, thump…it's getting louder, thump, tha thump…meooooow, thump.. what the…is that what I think it…uh oh, the lock isn't strong enough. Shit she just burst through the door. There she goes, red hair in the wind…my inner bee-atch...

There is this lady in my gym who wears one of those c. 1982 thongs over her leggings at the gym. Always matching her sports bra. She should not be wearing such tight spandex in the first place. Why those things are legal, I don't know. No one needs a clear white line demarcating your buttocks miss marple!

To all those people on the tube that think they are too good to hold onto something when they stand, I will not be your support pole. Stop bumping into me. At some point my dirty looks will turn into a pinch. Who do you think you are? I carry germ-a-tiser in my handbag if it is for fear of touching something because of the bird flue pandemic.

You know what else annoys me? Fake nice. Don't do it. Don't pretend, just walk away. Don't be Passive aggressive. Just say what you mean. Get it out there. Its called efficient communication.
And male haircuts. Not synonymous with being groomed properly here in london. Your neck is not supposed to be a breeding ground. Look here Simon McCityPants, shave it – there is not supposed to be a little path between your head and your back. Doesn't anyone tell the males how to groom? You make how much money in your City bonuses, and you can't swing by a place once a month? We know the old guard don’t get it….you could put their nose hairs on a jumbo tron at Wembley and they wouldn't have a clue.

The slouchy boot is driving me crazy. It is gypsy meets Scarborough fair meets ugly ass. Cease and desist. Even kate moss can't do it.

If you are going to cat call me, mr. abdul walkin down the street, don't expect me or ask me to respond. It’s the quid pro quo. Don't treat me as if I am being rude by ignoring you. Are you being polite by roughly complimenting my ass? That isn't' polite mr! So, this is the deal. You want to open up your mouth and talk about someone that you don't know's anatomy, they aren't going to respond. If you want a response, go talk to your mom or girlfriend. I am going to start holding up a sign that says "yeah, I know, so go away".

My boss wears the same suit days in a row. Please don't. If it was Paris, it would be a Chanel suit. But it is feaux. Glaringly so. And to my office mate who runs in leg warmers and a skirt, over her leggings, girlfriend your ass and legs are big, and those inch thick layers don't act as a mirror. How do you reckon that helps? How come everyone I know training for marathons gains weight?
If I hold the door open for you, say thank you. But to all those forty McSomethings that glare at me when I have a seat on the tube, go fuck yourself, you can stand just as well as I can. Come back when you are in your sixty's.

And people, when someone isn't doing something by the UK Invisible Rules, just say something. Break Invisible Rule No. 49, thou shall not tell someone they are breaking the invisible rule, because then you are just as bad as they are; nb it is acceptable to make all sorts of faces and passive aggressively communicate that you think nothing is wrong. Just say something. You can do it politely. Try this: excuse me but the queue ends here, would you mind taking your place and not jumping?

Lastly, Muffin Effect. Girls, size your jeans accordingly. If your flubber is overflowing, you need a different size. And some exercise. And to lay off the crisps. Curves are good, just cover them don't stuff them.

Dreams and Dreamability

There was a time when I had a opaque dreamy vision of my future that consisted of driving up in a green Volvo onto a pea gravel drive, surrounded by green landscaped gardens which surrounded a modestly sized but open, spacious, airy yet somehow serene and cosy house. I would step out of the car with my organic groceries, my puppies (springers and setters) bounding over me, and walk into my house.

I always found it odd that this dream, as opaque as it was, did not have a man in the foyer to greet me. Not even stepping out of the pool behind the house, ala cabana boy style. Was it that I had no idea of the type I would marry? That a visceral inner knowledge was telling me I would never find a mate? Or perhaps I was preparing myself for a entirely solo life. Or maybe I am not interpreting the shadows of the image correctly; and that one day a real person would be inserted into this lingering image.

The image has altered slightly. Now it is me living in a cottage in devon or dorset, near the coast, just outside a village. The car and dogs are the same. Enter horses and cats because I love them too. I probably even have a neighbourly fox that I love to hate. Walking into the eclectically decorated house, full of English country vintage, Bauhaus and contemporary Scandinavian pieces, it reflects all the things that balance me out. The house is not cluttered, things being stored and out of sight. Except for the room I use most but for massive Aga laden kitchen. That is my writing room. A cluttered room, half way organised, littered with post its, letters to my friends who live all over the world, photos from trips, and a computer. And some watercolours. And some charcoals and an easel. Lots of plants and a big window that looks out to a scattered garden, which thanks to the English weather does not need my dark thumbs to tend it.
But where is my partner? Why can't I conjure up this vision of a person? Subconsciously am I against niching myself here? Do I not believe it will happen at the deepest level? Or am I analysing too much (who me?) and actually there is just a free open space for someone to fill without pre-existing conditions to trip them up.

This little room where this fantasy is ensconced is lovely, but there are so many things wrong with it. A girl has needs you know…I don't put any trust in the local lovin' situation. And then I can't get away from the expat issues. I would need to find a way to legally stay in this country without a work permit. That is a massive roadblock. I would need to get one being a writer, but that presupposes I am already successful enough to obtain one because I can prove my high level of income. Lastly, there is the car. I have yet to drive in this country and it really scares me. I am an excellent US side of the road driver. But I can't drive manual and I am intimidated by the other side of the road. I am going to move out to this cottage and not be able to go anywhere except on a bicycle, or horse.

I am now accepting applications for new fantasy lives. Preferealby one that could segue into reality without a lawyer, escort service, and cheuffer.

Lonely Planet

When I was tipsy the other night I called several people, as you do. I called the polo player because he has been calling me every week and leaving phone messages. As he is English, I am surprised he is not reading the message I am sending passively. The I am not interested message because I am not returning his calls. On the phone he attempts to harangue me for not calling him back or being available. I say well I am not your girlfriend, and I don't want to date you, and you have disclosed you don't want a relationship with anyone because that is how you operate (this is the guy that said he only goes out with women under 30 because they will be up for a bit of fun without strings). Thus I am not interested, so I am not too fussed about keeping in touch with you. Buh bye. Being tipsy is great.

The tipsyness stemmed from the wine tasting at my firm which I attended, and sampled some amazing wines from the Languedoc region. I familiarised myself with Carignan and Cinsault grapes that are used in the blends of the AOCs in the region. Lovely, sumptuous, despite the gamey-ness. I sat next to an 80 year old solicitor, who was lovely to speak to. He looked 20 years younger; his secret is drinking ½ bottle of wine each evening.

When speaking to my colleagues, one of them extolled the virtues of being single and mentioned travel. The freedom to travel when not pulled down by the weight of people relying on you, whether partner or children. Being me, I disagreed, and said actually, travel is one of the worst things. Without a partner to drag around the world, one is left to constantly hunt for companions, then compromise with places and schedules, and eventually go somewhere on your own. It is a million times worse than organising a cinema trip, where you originally wanted to see Closer on Saturday afternoon but end up seeing Love Actually on Sunday night.
I travel on my own several times a year and most times really enjoy it. But, I said, when you travel on your own you are limited to where you can go. For example, I said, I can't go to Marrakech. And another, I went to the south of Italy with a girlfriend, and I would not repeat that again, not to mention attempt on my own. Anyone would have thought the Italian language consists of hissing and other animal noises. There are many cultures where 30 year old single women are not appreciated. Nor are they respected or tolerated. I could become the next Tracy Emin if I had a photographic catalogue of the stares I received whilst eating alone at night at a café in Milan.

So it looks like the first may bank holiday I will have to plan on my own without a friend. Any suggestions as to a fun place to go would be appreciated. Maybe I will go on a blogger retreat so I can learn how to make my page more than generic. Provided it is on a beach with a coconutty rummy umbrella drink.

Pease Porridge Hot (not cold)

I think I may have mentioned I have a food fetish. I love food and I love cooking but I also love being slender. I grew up hearing " a woman can never be too thin or too rich". But bitter fact that you can't eat rich food and be thin. Even if you work out multiple times a week. I thank gods that somehow with this mantra being piped into my bedroom growing up, I have not created an eating disorder or been divorced 3 times from sugardaddies as of this point. Thus I have a idiosyncratic and schizophrenic approach to food. I probably need help. My friends have named this syndrome "food nazi".

Part of the Path of the FN is daily porridge. I love porridge; I rediscovered it when moving to the UK. Instant maple and cinnamon Quaker oatmeal doesn't begin to compare with the quality of the ingredients here, and also taking the 5 more minutes of time to make it properly as opposed to ubiquitous US Microwave version.

Porridge is a FN staple because it is low GI, high fibre, absent of wheat and tastes good. It is great for the intestines. Repeating myself, I heart porridge.

The Path of the Porridge, or Recipe: boil water in sauce pan (non-stick), when boiling pour a combo of jumbo and porridge oats into pan, begin to stir with wooden spoon and turn down heat all the way. Add a spice (all spice, or cinnamon), add a nut if not allergic ( I like almonds because of digestive properties, walnuts because of the good fat, or pecans (pronounced pu' KAHN) when I am homesick) add some dried fruit (I only eat a few fruit so this is limited for me, but usually it is dried cranberries or blueberries, and if they are dried the anti-oxidants in them are actually more concentrated). Add crushed linseed if on hand. Stir here and there for 5 minutes. Let cool and eat. I don't add dairy. I don't add salt because I can't discern a taste or texture difference and I get enough sodium in my diet notwithstanding, and I don't add a sugar source because the point is, it is low GI. But take this one thing I have learned as advice, which is that unlike Pizza, it does not taste good cold.

Chalet Antics, Directors Cut

Waking up with sticky eyes and a throbbing head, my senses begin to register that I am not in a bed next to reens and there is a very warm body next to mine in the same bed. Make that a gorgeous example of a male body next to mine. I am then inundated with waves of memory haze. Him "walking" me to his chalet; us snogging, me repeating in what must be a very unsexy way that this is a bad idea and his sister is going to kill me. And his attempt to assure me his sister gave him permission. And his wooing me with tales of how he began to fancy me and thought I was very cool when we had our dinner/bar chat. I am not above hearing lines that flatter me.

My phone rings and it is Reens. I am confirming that yes with LJ, will be home soon. But LJ and I just doze and lay there, none of us really feeling like leaving warm room to go into bright cold with blinding hangover. Eventually I make a move to leave, and he offers to walk me home. When we walk he says, what should we tell them? And I said, well, I guess that I stayed over and if pressed for details, we kissed. Which had veracity because surprisingly despite temptation, I kept my ski trip virginity intact.

I can't offer you the details either of how it happened because I have minimal recollection. But this is what Reens told me, when I met up with her that afternoon, halfway down the mountain, to do some emergency hydration and food. She said we were all on the dance floor, and M and A were each trying to pull me. I was pretty much just doing my own thing, which means flirting equally. Then she said LJ walked into the club, also very drunk. Walked right over to me, and started dancing. Then pulled me off dance floor, sat down and we started to talk. The others left, I said I wasn't ready, and that was it.

While the reaction was certainly not frigid, it wasn't taking the piss out of me either. Only one of the girls mentioned it, asking for some disclosure. Later I said LJ developing a crush on me was quite a compliment; she said she was sure I made his holiday. A was very frigid, although sent me a text that morning asking if had gotten home ok, and they were meeting at the lifts later if I wanted to join. After that though, he was ice king. The sister and other friend didn't freeze me out, but I felt they were a bit awkward around me at first. I had expected them to just take the piss out of me and laugh it off. Nor did they ignore or be mean or snide or passive aggressive. So snogging LJ and staying over with him may have cost me some NBFs. It definitely cost me more dates with Alec although I was never clear whether that was on offer, considering the lack of discussion up to the trip. On a positive note, it was extremely complimentary.

M still took time to talk to me and get to know me. The last night, he finally alluded to my getting together with LJ. He said, so last time you were here you left with someone. Do you do that a lot? I said, well, I don’t' feel bad about it. I am single, and I am not cheating on anyone. He said, well, yeah you should be proud; you were the only one of our group that pulled. I laughed and said, I would say I was pulled I am not sure how much I had to do with it, I didn't go out and seduce LJ.

I received an interesting insight into myself from M too. He said, you know I think the guy that gets you will have to pass a lot of tests won't he? I said what do you mean? And he says that he gets the feeling that I test the guys I go out with a lot. Hmmm. Very interesting. Because it fits in with the talk I had with Speed about not handing over the guy role to the guy I am seeing because I am so used to acting it myself as an independent single girl. And if they can't do it as well as I can, and they never do because I have had ages to bespoke the role, then I start loosing respect and planning my exit route. This is a no win situation for me and one I want to move past. M and I are texting here and there.

So by staying over with LJ I bruised A's ego clearly. He had expectation there, but I (attempted) communicated that there shouldn't be. He could have put more energy into the pre-skiing dating but he didn't, and I was the one that suggested twice when to meet up and he blew me out. The second time he texted sorry tonight didn't work out at 8:30 pm, well into the evening. I had said to a friend before I left, that he appears too cool for school. He has admitted that he is arrogant, to which I must agree. I am sure he thinks badly of me; but I wish he would learn the lesson that things (relationships with people, connection) don't come for free (in terms of energy and effort). No effort, no girl should not be a suprise.

But I hope that I am above receiving lessons myself. Such as pondering the consequences of M's observation about my testing strategy. I am pondering why and how i do this, and how i can change it. As for A, in my opinion, given we were not dating, if you really like someone, then antics won't matter. I remember when I found out the work guy – G (who I probably will always have a crush on it will just be a small ember from now on) had snogged the Cheesecake girl, AND her flatmate. I was slightly stunned because I didn't think she was his type, but then thought it was hilarious; and still liked him. After all, I can't throw stones in my tissue-paper glass hut.

a funny thing happened on the way to blog

I tried to blog whilst I was in France. I attempted several times to locate a i-café. Once they were out of tickets, another time the internet was down, probably due to the heavy snowfall. Whilst waiting for après I went into one, bought a ticket, and then proceeded to repair the only two computers not being used, everyone ignoring me as if I wasn't there muttering expletives. My mind was not really focused at this point because I was frustrated with the computers not working, having my heart set on unloading my tensions onto this blog, and coping with the "what have I done and is everyone going to be mad at me for going home with LJ" quandary.

I had texted Reens to see where she was. Because I had not heard I was going to call her to pinpoint après location for me to meet her. I delved into my pocket for my phone. And could not find it. I then spend 20 of the next minutes breaking out into hives and cold sweats because I am checking the billions of pockets that you hide when wearing ski trousers and jacket and hoodie. And I can't find it. I am wondering if it had gotten swiped and it seems to me that of course it could easily have happened, especially when my mind is in another place, namely my inner couch where I talk to Dr. Mark who had been my therapist in the US.

I mutter more expletives.
Finally, another boarder-looking guy asks if I am ok. I say no, I can't find my phone. He offers to call me and I thankfully accept. He dials. I ring. Yes, the phone is somewhere on my person. I am ringing. I start giggling and breathe a sigh of relief. I can't believe this I feel so stupid my phone is on my but I still cant' find it. It turns out it had slipped into the lining, and was on my back. I told him thank you so much he made my day as I was in a right panic. He said no worries, he now had a hilarious story to tell his mates. I felt absolutely ridiculous but immensely relieved. Thanks for being my saviour, I said, and have a great trip.

This is a story in the typical style of this trip. We had the kind of trip where we spent just as much time going out, always beginning with the ritual drinking games played with the pack of 007 cards that I brought, ending with "ice dancing".

Epilogue: the i-café guy, who I monikered Nice Guy, sent me a hilarious text later, and I will quote it because it was so witty and made me laugh: This is a courtesy message from FindAPhone service…the 3 most common places people lose their phones are 1. in their pocket, 2, in their bag, and 3 in their hand. Please bear this in mind for when you next panic about losing your phone : )

I’ll take chalet antics for $1000 Alex or Circle D, all of the above

*Massive Sigh* I have arrived back from my ski trip in France. Six days of skiing, 50% hungover. Loads of powder. 2 sunny days. 3 sets of digits…
As I have alluded to previously, one of the guys in my chalet I have been with (A). We got together the night we met and then we went out on a date. Subsequently he blew me out on two dates ostensibly due to work, but letting me know at the last minute or after the date had passed. He is good friends with some of the girls on the trip. I was interested to a point, but he wasn’t giving me the impression that he was, thus so be it. I did not feel wounded and wasn‘t worried about the ability to be friendly on the trip. Right before the trip he sent me a text saying sorry we haven’t gotten together, and how did I want to play it? Um, I am sorry but at this point, where does the verb play come into context? You snooze, you lose. I texted back, Play what…looking forward to the hols too, and see you soon.
That is the prologue.
Enter 3 girls, A, then me and my friend Reens. Enter 2 other guys in chalet, M and J. Several other couples in chalet. And one satellite member, LJ the brother of one of the girls, staying at another chalet.
The car crash that occurred began slowly, erupted, and then the pieces were quietly put back together in a very proper English way.
Reens and I had a fantastic time bonding and talking girly stuff. IE about men, relationships, what we thought and our previous experiences. Of course, chat on fashion, style, potential business idea, friendships, food, dieting, and hair acted as the glue to the boy talk bricks.
Over the first two days A and I would talk pleasantly a bit, but come evening he would loosen up after copious amounts of wine and flirt. Then at the club one night we went around a corner to ‘discuss things‘. He was concerned about not telling his friend about us being together, because at some point isn’t it lying. I said, tell her what. We went out once, and lets be honest, have no idea if it will happen again. I said he needs to do what makes him feel comfortable, and to just let me know, but I am quite private and my love life is my own (cheeky clearly due to constant blog thoughts). Apparently I should not have assumed no interest when he blew me out and didn’t call or email me. He confided that his biggest fault according to his exes is his distance and reservedness. He does like me, and is interested in going out more. My reaction was, telling him that he needs to realise what you are communicating by your behaviour, it’s a little too late now to start dating, we are on holiday and why don’t we just have fun, chill out, and if we want we can take this up when we get back. End discussion with cheeky snog.
Whilst this pattern is emerging over the first few days, M, a stranger to us but now in our chalet and our age, is beginning to pay me loads of attention and flirt with me. Coincidentally, my friend is crushing on his friend J. So in the second quarter of this game, by the end of the night I have two guys orbiting me, trying to get some action. While very flattering, it is also complex. Both are cute and interesting and very different. Both are in my chalet. I am a single girl emerging from a sexual drought and rediscovering he mojo. Car crash looks imminent.
LJ meets up with our group here and there. He is a tall, gorgeous, very sporty 22 year old who I didn’t pay any attention to as he was rarely around us, always speaking to his sister, and a baby 22 year old. Think Abercrombie model, and you are not too far off. I never spoke to him much. One night I sat next to him and we chatted, then shared a pudding. Chatted some more at a bar later; at one point he pulled off his hoody exposing entire six pack midriff and chest. Reens and I after catching each other from fainting, and then teasing him about his display fetish, were teased ourselves for staring and then giggling. Can we help it if we are past the 'boys have cooties' phase? On the way home that night Reens and I laughed about that, how obvious it was on his part to impress, and I said he had loads of cabana boy potential. Too bad he was a relation.
The next night the boys went off to the pub to watch footie, the girls gossiped at the chalet, drank too much wine, then stumbled to the pub to find our friends. We played pool, while M and A looked on drooling at me and LJ‘s sister winning pool. We then went to another place where someone accidentally hit me on the head and I burst out crying. We then went to a club to dance. I am fending off A and M, trying to give equal attention but not make anyone upset. I am also trying not to lose my memory at this point as I am so lashed. It isn’t working. I blame the lump on my head. Reens and I fell on the ice on the way to the club. But more shots helped that hurt.
Next thing I remember I am in a little and unfamiliar chalet room snogging LJ.
Whoops.
TBC.