A week in San Francisco and things have not really gone according to plan.
Came out with SoyBoy who's interviewing for a new job after blowing his hedge fund up in New York. According to SoyBoy it was all his brother-in-law's fault.
So after having a preliminary interview in NY with a new hedge fund during which SB got into argument with interviewer - not really what one should strive for, we went west for the next stage. The whole deal was set up by a friend of SB who assured him it was a shoe-in. Meeting the friend for dinner on Saturday night with girlfriend in tow (moi) was also not the brightest move.
We arrive and then the Friend arrives. The scene is a dive bar with pool tables. I and SB are dressed accordingly - jeans, jumpers, trainers. Friend arrives shortly thereafter: dressed for a HOT DATE; plunging neckline on some velvety strapless number, double DD breasts impressively displayed like freshly baked souffles - begging to be plundered. It was then that I realised that Friend was actually Crush.
Who out of the three of us was the most embarrassed? I wanted to slip under the pool table and hide in the ball cavity for the rest of the night. Crush was utterly mortified; swiveling from me to SB - boobs windmilling with her head. SB, flapping his arms like some seagull. Opening and closing his mouth without uttering anything he then turned on his heel muttering something about going to the bar. Bastard!
Unable to fit into my desired hidyhole I launched into "SB's told me soooo much about you" mode. A big fat lie but I was trying to salvage the situation. When Crush replied "I'm sorry what's your name?" things didn't look great for the rest of the evening and it was only 6.30.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
I swear it was the lack of sulfates
Important thing to remember; number 638: do not drink organic wine, biodynamic wine or anything pertaining to be sulfate free. Aside from the obvious conclusion that wine of this nature is most likely to be revolting - it is. It also aids getting very, very, drunk in a sneaky, cunning manner.
Hotel Boy and I were dining at a restaurant he picked in the East village. Do not go there. After sampling four different wines of the above mentioned "pure" method, each of which no less tastebud tantalising than the previous, Hotel Boy boldly suggested we opt for a fine little French number, which we'd not tasted. He was pulling French-Canadian rank; what would I know about French wines, being Australian? I wanted to point out that aside from ice wine what other vitacultural delights did the Canadanians ever bring to the table?
Unsuprisingly the unheard of maker produced a fine little vinegar. Suprisingly it miraculously improved - well it did in contrast to the soggy fish and accompanying shrivelled - opps sorry rehydrated organic vegetables.
Quaffing our bottle of organic plonk we rallied on into the night, ending up in an Alphabet City bar. Here I uncharacteristically started slinging back martinis - perhaps frightened by the prospect that with an empty glass I might be confronted by another bottle of dodgy French salad vinegar.
It was sometime after Hotel Boy started going on about his Hotel Room Thing and several martinis, I believe I decided to start flashing Hotel and the other poor souls who had me in their line of sight my double A breasts. Why? I have no idea. If I owned a pair of double D's, then at least an impromptu stripshow would have made sense. Chatting about the East Village Russian Baths, foot fetishes and future plans to combine both activities must have been the spur - but really that's no excuse. Therefore I'm blaming the lack of sulfates for my ridiculous behaviour.
Hotel Boy and I were dining at a restaurant he picked in the East village. Do not go there. After sampling four different wines of the above mentioned "pure" method, each of which no less tastebud tantalising than the previous, Hotel Boy boldly suggested we opt for a fine little French number, which we'd not tasted. He was pulling French-Canadian rank; what would I know about French wines, being Australian? I wanted to point out that aside from ice wine what other vitacultural delights did the Canadanians ever bring to the table?
Unsuprisingly the unheard of maker produced a fine little vinegar. Suprisingly it miraculously improved - well it did in contrast to the soggy fish and accompanying shrivelled - opps sorry rehydrated organic vegetables.
Quaffing our bottle of organic plonk we rallied on into the night, ending up in an Alphabet City bar. Here I uncharacteristically started slinging back martinis - perhaps frightened by the prospect that with an empty glass I might be confronted by another bottle of dodgy French salad vinegar.
It was sometime after Hotel Boy started going on about his Hotel Room Thing and several martinis, I believe I decided to start flashing Hotel and the other poor souls who had me in their line of sight my double A breasts. Why? I have no idea. If I owned a pair of double D's, then at least an impromptu stripshow would have made sense. Chatting about the East Village Russian Baths, foot fetishes and future plans to combine both activities must have been the spur - but really that's no excuse. Therefore I'm blaming the lack of sulfates for my ridiculous behaviour.
Thursday, July 01, 2004
My very own Baywatch
Flew into LA bright and early yesterday morning with SoyBoy. We are staying at SoyBoy's friend's house. The friend is a Lifeguard (to be more precise - a hot lifeguard) and I've already imagined some naughtiness; virtual sex is not straying as far as I know. In fact it's probably quite healthy. Good to know my hormones are active.
Hot Lifeguard's house is in Santa Monica, with direct access to the beach. From my bedroom window, whilst I'm lying in bed with my dirty thoughts of Hot Lifeguard and SoyBoy sleeping innocently beside me I can see the ocean and am feeling very happy.
The beach house worth squillions of dollars for its prime location exudes a charming casual quality, reminding me (if I shut my eyes really tightly) of my parents house in the bush. Only difference being in the type of drop-ins it welcomes. Coffs Harbour beach house - local nobodies; Santa Monica beach house - more hot Lifeguards, Hollywood wheelers and dealers, vacant but gorgeous models, celebs of varying success and the less-thought-of staff of world style-setters, but no less important.
Example A - Beach house is about to be rented for one week by Miuicci Prada's China Carrier (that is her official title) - for rest and recovery purposes, for the tidy sum of $30,000. It's hard work directing minions in Milan to wrap individual knives stamped with the Prada insignia for a private dinner for 12 in Los Angeles (Brat Pitt and Ben Stiller have accepted and will be scraping the bottom of; very excruciating experience, and no doubt holding their cutlery incorrectly - so American; in the company of Miuccia to celebrate the opening of her new LA store).
So I spent my first afternoon lazing by the pool, gazing out over the Pacific and at the motley (but hot - have I mentioned that) crew of Lifeguards who came in and out of the garden with surf boards tucked under their bulging bronzed biceps. Loving this holiday.
Early evening I went to a yoga class with SoyBoy's sister who at the end of the class burst into tears - apparently is was "just sooooo intense dude". Not sure about the tears. I wanted to burst into laughter when we were "panting like a tiger". I guess this is LA.
Then we partied with the hot Lifeguards. This may not be the most stimulating intellectually, but hey who needs Proust when you've got this much testosterone offering free surfing lessons. SoyBoy's not exactly wimpy but compared with the Adonis troupe I think some shutting of the eyes and reverting to past sexual proclivities;lying back and thinking of Britain during sexual liaisons with SoyBoy may be in order; or perhaps I can start "panting like a tiger".
Hot Lifeguard's house is in Santa Monica, with direct access to the beach. From my bedroom window, whilst I'm lying in bed with my dirty thoughts of Hot Lifeguard and SoyBoy sleeping innocently beside me I can see the ocean and am feeling very happy.
The beach house worth squillions of dollars for its prime location exudes a charming casual quality, reminding me (if I shut my eyes really tightly) of my parents house in the bush. Only difference being in the type of drop-ins it welcomes. Coffs Harbour beach house - local nobodies; Santa Monica beach house - more hot Lifeguards, Hollywood wheelers and dealers, vacant but gorgeous models, celebs of varying success and the less-thought-of staff of world style-setters, but no less important.
Example A - Beach house is about to be rented for one week by Miuicci Prada's China Carrier (that is her official title) - for rest and recovery purposes, for the tidy sum of $30,000. It's hard work directing minions in Milan to wrap individual knives stamped with the Prada insignia for a private dinner for 12 in Los Angeles (Brat Pitt and Ben Stiller have accepted and will be scraping the bottom of; very excruciating experience, and no doubt holding their cutlery incorrectly - so American; in the company of Miuccia to celebrate the opening of her new LA store).
So I spent my first afternoon lazing by the pool, gazing out over the Pacific and at the motley (but hot - have I mentioned that) crew of Lifeguards who came in and out of the garden with surf boards tucked under their bulging bronzed biceps. Loving this holiday.
Early evening I went to a yoga class with SoyBoy's sister who at the end of the class burst into tears - apparently is was "just sooooo intense dude". Not sure about the tears. I wanted to burst into laughter when we were "panting like a tiger". I guess this is LA.
Then we partied with the hot Lifeguards. This may not be the most stimulating intellectually, but hey who needs Proust when you've got this much testosterone offering free surfing lessons. SoyBoy's not exactly wimpy but compared with the Adonis troupe I think some shutting of the eyes and reverting to past sexual proclivities;lying back and thinking of Britain during sexual liaisons with SoyBoy may be in order; or perhaps I can start "panting like a tiger".
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