Chin Up Chook - advice just administered by Tuff. Moping about the fact that my x-husband has just emailed me to tell me he got engaged, I had to share my misery across the globe. Tuff, bless her, regaled worse tales of woe than a soon-to-be married ex:
1. Brony's new perfect love may not be so perfect after all. Well, life may be a tad more up and down then initial indications. When Brony called to tell me that Terry (lover she'd found a week previously in Sydney when there for work) was moving to Auckland and moving in. My initial thoughts were that someone had lost their marbles (maybe I'm just jealous). At least this has a simple solution: locksmith and shipping agent.
2. Tuff's x-fiance (she was dumped a few weeks before the nuptials) has thoughtfully moved in across the road from her with his new wife...urg think this is possibly the worst and truly a Desperate Housewives maneuver.
Suddenly my life is not so bad.
On positives: was told by Prince of Kuwait on Saturday night that he loved me. He insisted that he really, really did, after I laughed at him for being so ridiculous as he lunged at me missing my clavicle and planting a sloppy Grey Goose something-or-other somewhere between clavicle and top of left breast. I couldn't bring myself to kiss him, as drunkenly charming and seriously wealthy as he was, to which Ted told me I was mad. Hmm, slightly overweight, has a bad goatee and errs on my short side of height range. Well, maybe for 50 billion one could overlook such trivialities. Damn I should have let him kiss me.
Romanian-American-Australian: have been sucking face (literally) with such a boy. He is v cute, tall and lives in Melbourne. Just what I want, but his kissing leaves a mess. You would think that he would think something was not quite right when even he is wiping the extra froth from my chin.
Drove back from The Hamptons last night we a new potential boy...v flirty but know he is v trouble. Bloody hell can't wait to see him again.
Finally Jace, gorgeous, kind, thoughtful, into me.....he's back tomorrow night from Wimbledon...def excited to see him, but maybe he's too nice. Will have to get Hotel Boy to have a word in his ear....CAN NOT BE TOO NICE.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Drycleaner blues be gone
Wistfully inspecting my winter coat, checking all stains acquired this winter had vanished (including cum stains from fabulous unexpected sex with Muppet who've I recently had to get rid of for sanity's sake) I noted sadly that yes my new drycleaner had done a superb job. She'd also sewn on buttons (again torn off by Muppet in another moment of carnal bliss) buttons I'd just not been able to bring myself to sew on - pathetically sentimental I know.
Feeling somewhat blue for what had now left my life (cum stains and no buttons) I was ferreting in my bag for cash, dithering about and taking up valuable counter space and time. Lost in the cum and button moment I'd not realised someone behind me was in a hurry - not realised until I heard a polite but urgent
"hhhmm..umm...sorry... do you mind if I cut in... it's just...arrh...can I just pay....uumm....errr....sorry....aaarhh...I'm in a bit of hurry". Looking around my face brightened - before me stood a v cute, disheveled Brit doing a impatient hybrid hop from one foot to another. Hybrid, lopsided hop due to crutch under one arm supporting a good leg and one slightly not so.
"Oh dear...what happened...are you OK?". Suddenly I was big doleful caring eyes. "Oh my goodness I'm so sorry I gushed....truly...please pay".
"No I'm sorry it's just..." he tried to explain without really explaining...bloody hell he was really cute - the kind of cute which immediately cleared my head of Muppet-longing and filled it with sexier than Colin Farrell longing.
"No, no I'm sorry... checking for"...I really was gushing..
"Yes, no I realise you've got to make sure they got everything out" he continued (little does he know). Anyway you get the picture. Following a tad more hopping and apologising from him and a lot more gushing and apologising from me he eventually shot out of the door - lopsided of course the tinkle of the doorbell his final farewell.
Spinning back to the drycleaner, I was immediately all over it....."Who is he? Does he live around here? Is he married or have a girlfriend? My God he was cute. Is he nice? Do you know him? The drycleaner a delightful Asian woman (of course) was delighted in my delight and told me his name - John and he lives around the corner and yes he is a regular customer and no she didn't think he had a girlfriend.
Spurred on by the unexpected turn to an otherwise grisly day she pulled down the calendar and started pouring over it with the gusto of a military operation. She calculated dates and times, jotted down on my receipt. Previous times' of day he popped in were noted. What he actually had drycleaned discussed - shirts (my guess is he's a trader). John also apparently plays a lot of squash, watches a lot of sport, is a very nice guy and definitely doesn't have a girlfriend....well at least not one who collects/drops off his shirts. My new matchmaker was beaming...promising to give him my name and number next time he came in..hurry up John, I've got my spring-time Mac to stain.
Feeling somewhat blue for what had now left my life (cum stains and no buttons) I was ferreting in my bag for cash, dithering about and taking up valuable counter space and time. Lost in the cum and button moment I'd not realised someone behind me was in a hurry - not realised until I heard a polite but urgent
"hhhmm..umm...sorry... do you mind if I cut in... it's just...arrh...can I just pay....uumm....errr....sorry....aaarhh...I'm in a bit of hurry". Looking around my face brightened - before me stood a v cute, disheveled Brit doing a impatient hybrid hop from one foot to another. Hybrid, lopsided hop due to crutch under one arm supporting a good leg and one slightly not so.
"Oh dear...what happened...are you OK?". Suddenly I was big doleful caring eyes. "Oh my goodness I'm so sorry I gushed....truly...please pay".
"No I'm sorry it's just..." he tried to explain without really explaining...bloody hell he was really cute - the kind of cute which immediately cleared my head of Muppet-longing and filled it with sexier than Colin Farrell longing.
"No, no I'm sorry... checking for"...I really was gushing..
"Yes, no I realise you've got to make sure they got everything out" he continued (little does he know). Anyway you get the picture. Following a tad more hopping and apologising from him and a lot more gushing and apologising from me he eventually shot out of the door - lopsided of course the tinkle of the doorbell his final farewell.
Spinning back to the drycleaner, I was immediately all over it....."Who is he? Does he live around here? Is he married or have a girlfriend? My God he was cute. Is he nice? Do you know him? The drycleaner a delightful Asian woman (of course) was delighted in my delight and told me his name - John and he lives around the corner and yes he is a regular customer and no she didn't think he had a girlfriend.
Spurred on by the unexpected turn to an otherwise grisly day she pulled down the calendar and started pouring over it with the gusto of a military operation. She calculated dates and times, jotted down on my receipt. Previous times' of day he popped in were noted. What he actually had drycleaned discussed - shirts (my guess is he's a trader). John also apparently plays a lot of squash, watches a lot of sport, is a very nice guy and definitely doesn't have a girlfriend....well at least not one who collects/drops off his shirts. My new matchmaker was beaming...promising to give him my name and number next time he came in..hurry up John, I've got my spring-time Mac to stain.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Sex Texting
Something is seriously wrong with me. I'm acquiring v male character traits ie/ I'm looking/assessing every man I come into contact with, questioning "could I fuck them?". Reached a particularly low point today over brunch with one of best-friend's friend-with-benefits. Decided that no I could not fuck him; he bobs his head too much in conversation; can only imagine what sexual jigging would do. Was so dizzy trying to keep eye contact with a head that was like a pogo-stick that I couldn't eat my eggs.
Wondering also how low my moral ground has sunk. Have spent past 10 days either ignoring or making up quick responses to Mafiosi Toy-boy's sex texting. Terrible: last night as I was trying to climb into bed, slightly tipsy, well v tipsy MTB was sending me rapid-fire sex texts about how hot I was, what he would like to do to me, and how I was responding. My reaction: I encouraged the poor sod, by claiming I was masturbating whilst still wearing my cowboy boots but nothing else. Reality: eye mask on, and settling into perfectly cosy sleeping position. Followed up with further deception this morning with text claiming I woke up wet thinking of him, and had to help myself before breakfast. Perhaps all this really means is that I should get a job in the porn industry - script writing. Going straight to Craigslist.
Wondering also how low my moral ground has sunk. Have spent past 10 days either ignoring or making up quick responses to Mafiosi Toy-boy's sex texting. Terrible: last night as I was trying to climb into bed, slightly tipsy, well v tipsy MTB was sending me rapid-fire sex texts about how hot I was, what he would like to do to me, and how I was responding. My reaction: I encouraged the poor sod, by claiming I was masturbating whilst still wearing my cowboy boots but nothing else. Reality: eye mask on, and settling into perfectly cosy sleeping position. Followed up with further deception this morning with text claiming I woke up wet thinking of him, and had to help myself before breakfast. Perhaps all this really means is that I should get a job in the porn industry - script writing. Going straight to Craigslist.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Chipmunk and burgers
Have become burger obsessed. Problem is I think due to new obsession am now sporting celullite. Bloody hell.
Brunched with Chipmunk who really is a chipmunk. How does he think he's soo hot? He's a sunscorched salt and pepper haired 40year old chipmunk.
He is good company so long as the conversation is about him. I guess I did get to have another burger. I'll deal with the celulite tomorrow.
Brunched with Chipmunk who really is a chipmunk. How does he think he's soo hot? He's a sunscorched salt and pepper haired 40year old chipmunk.
He is good company so long as the conversation is about him. I guess I did get to have another burger. I'll deal with the celulite tomorrow.
Tax distractions
Should be finishing my taxes. I was such a good girl about 2 weeks ago. Determined to do my own taxes I did begin the task. My noble intentions however have been interrupted by:
1. Deciding to find another new apartment - nothing wrong with the one I live in - is spacious and I live with the most easy-going man on planet - damn it if only I fancied him....sex in own home with separate bedrooms - this week's dream come true.
2. Signing lease for ugly but well positioned apartment in West Village. Got into complete broker/legal pickle. Broker claimed I was beholden to lease I signed but which I now don't want. Brokers are weasels....not a newsflash. Weasel broker still hounding me for $3000 finders fee. Doesn't really sound reasonable for unwanted apartment.
3. Craigslist obsession ie/ trawling for apartments which read divinely; in reality dark cockroach riddled shoeboxes.
4. Design Hotel and other swanky hotel website searches. Maybe becoming as obsessed with these things as Hotel Boy. Problem is I don't really have the time to do so, nor funds.
5. Alternatively creating sex scenes in head starring me and lardy mono-browed Greek; me and Mafiosi Toy-boy; me and Hotel Boy. Obviously not getting enough sex (make that any sex) thus developing sex-obsessed mental condition. How does one get into the porn industry? Hmm another thing to look into on Craigslist and not do my taxes.
1. Deciding to find another new apartment - nothing wrong with the one I live in - is spacious and I live with the most easy-going man on planet - damn it if only I fancied him....sex in own home with separate bedrooms - this week's dream come true.
2. Signing lease for ugly but well positioned apartment in West Village. Got into complete broker/legal pickle. Broker claimed I was beholden to lease I signed but which I now don't want. Brokers are weasels....not a newsflash. Weasel broker still hounding me for $3000 finders fee. Doesn't really sound reasonable for unwanted apartment.
3. Craigslist obsession ie/ trawling for apartments which read divinely; in reality dark cockroach riddled shoeboxes.
4. Design Hotel and other swanky hotel website searches. Maybe becoming as obsessed with these things as Hotel Boy. Problem is I don't really have the time to do so, nor funds.
5. Alternatively creating sex scenes in head starring me and lardy mono-browed Greek; me and Mafiosi Toy-boy; me and Hotel Boy. Obviously not getting enough sex (make that any sex) thus developing sex-obsessed mental condition. How does one get into the porn industry? Hmm another thing to look into on Craigslist and not do my taxes.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Self analysis
Observations about self:
1. Is Friday night at 9.02pm and oh my god I'm blogging. Is this pathetic? Hmm possibly. Do I feel guilty for:
a) not going uptown to watch films at sick girlfriend's house? Hmm not really... 3 miles is too far to go when feeling exhausted and lazy...besides she lied to me about her botox. Couldn't figure out what was up with her eyes....kept commenting...she kept feining innocence...finally, she suffers such guilt she admitted to the tox.
b) do I feel bad for making my gorgeous lazy-eyed Croatian girlfriend (never really sure which eye to focus on, nor convinced she is paying attention when chatting in person) with whom I'd made plans with tonight, feel bad for messing up supper/party plans? She's stuck in North Carolina waiting for delayed flight. Am I bad friend for not acknowledging said exhaustion and would, if knackered body allowed jump for joy at prospect of climbing into bed, which is sorely neglected; never spend enough time in own bed.
Now what also is amiss or perhaps not:
1. Enjoying sexual fantasties about Hotel Boy - incredibly vivid and arousing. Second morning waking without Ambien - very good girl. Waking up prior to alarm, totally aroused by Hotel Boy and our fabulous sex scenes - a thatched roofed hut on the beach is constant theme.
2. Flirting with The Poet but not really sure why. Am thinking it is because of his furniture. Didn't really fancy him prior to seeing his apartment which is decorated just the way I like things. Urg...am I that shallow? Possibly.
3. Flirting via texts (he lives in Washington) with Mafiosi Toy-Boy - and he really is a boy. Have never fancied a younger man. Not to late to try one on. Is 30 too young? He thinks I'm totally hot - which is a positive of course. Strikes against him however include the all-encompassing cringe at most things he says/does/is. Explanation: he has a horrible Atlantic City accent and is super Atlantic City cheesy. I'm really insufferable. He wants to take me to Atlantis (yuck ultimate cheese I'm guessing). Of course couldn't not come right and and say yuck, but angled that perhaps we could go somewhere neither of us had been. Jamaica?
4. Flirting via email with lardy (polite American euphemism for fat) Greek who sports a mono-brow. He is totally charming but totally lives in London. We've shared one romantic dinner where I was totally distracted; over many courses I visualised the mechanics of having sex with such a fat man. My conclusions were: could not do missionary - would result in death by squishing. We would have to do doggy-style or me on top. Would also have to study-up on Karma Sutra - sure to offer many alternatives for body mass issues. Also not sure how easy it would be to find his penis. He really is very fat, although Hotel Boy assures me he looks not bad in swimmers. Other concern is his heart. Would I need to have phone near by for emergency services in case of heart-attack?
Going to bed, hoping for more dreams with Hotel Boy and not obsessing over sex positions with fat Greek.
1. Is Friday night at 9.02pm and oh my god I'm blogging. Is this pathetic? Hmm possibly. Do I feel guilty for:
a) not going uptown to watch films at sick girlfriend's house? Hmm not really... 3 miles is too far to go when feeling exhausted and lazy...besides she lied to me about her botox. Couldn't figure out what was up with her eyes....kept commenting...she kept feining innocence...finally, she suffers such guilt she admitted to the tox.
b) do I feel bad for making my gorgeous lazy-eyed Croatian girlfriend (never really sure which eye to focus on, nor convinced she is paying attention when chatting in person) with whom I'd made plans with tonight, feel bad for messing up supper/party plans? She's stuck in North Carolina waiting for delayed flight. Am I bad friend for not acknowledging said exhaustion and would, if knackered body allowed jump for joy at prospect of climbing into bed, which is sorely neglected; never spend enough time in own bed.
Now what also is amiss or perhaps not:
1. Enjoying sexual fantasties about Hotel Boy - incredibly vivid and arousing. Second morning waking without Ambien - very good girl. Waking up prior to alarm, totally aroused by Hotel Boy and our fabulous sex scenes - a thatched roofed hut on the beach is constant theme.
2. Flirting with The Poet but not really sure why. Am thinking it is because of his furniture. Didn't really fancy him prior to seeing his apartment which is decorated just the way I like things. Urg...am I that shallow? Possibly.
3. Flirting via texts (he lives in Washington) with Mafiosi Toy-Boy - and he really is a boy. Have never fancied a younger man. Not to late to try one on. Is 30 too young? He thinks I'm totally hot - which is a positive of course. Strikes against him however include the all-encompassing cringe at most things he says/does/is. Explanation: he has a horrible Atlantic City accent and is super Atlantic City cheesy. I'm really insufferable. He wants to take me to Atlantis (yuck ultimate cheese I'm guessing). Of course couldn't not come right and and say yuck, but angled that perhaps we could go somewhere neither of us had been. Jamaica?
4. Flirting via email with lardy (polite American euphemism for fat) Greek who sports a mono-brow. He is totally charming but totally lives in London. We've shared one romantic dinner where I was totally distracted; over many courses I visualised the mechanics of having sex with such a fat man. My conclusions were: could not do missionary - would result in death by squishing. We would have to do doggy-style or me on top. Would also have to study-up on Karma Sutra - sure to offer many alternatives for body mass issues. Also not sure how easy it would be to find his penis. He really is very fat, although Hotel Boy assures me he looks not bad in swimmers. Other concern is his heart. Would I need to have phone near by for emergency services in case of heart-attack?
Going to bed, hoping for more dreams with Hotel Boy and not obsessing over sex positions with fat Greek.
Monday, February 27, 2006
oh o
Need to add blogging to my life again. Not sure if it works as therapy but am desperate and can't face baring my soul to a nodding Ned as I lounge on couch looking at ornate white ceiling molds.
Just had bad conversation with Xboyfriend who has become Boyfriend-That-I-Never-See (BTINS), or Muppet. After bad breakup two and a quarter years ago (not that I'm counting) which essentially caused me to breakdown we bumped into each other at Soho House last November and have been seeing/shagging each other since - when he is not at work - which is always. Definitely have less sex with a supposed boyfriend than when I was single; which leads to the "bad" conversation.
Have not seen Muppet for weeks, well over a week, and therefore more accurately called BTINS we were trying to connect again and figure out when we would actually set eyes on one another. Weekend plans he offered Saturday, however then said would have to check with the Brother as Brother was organising party for his girlfriend on Saturday. Muppet then said however, without clearly thinking this through that he would feel uncomfortable taking me to party.............oh o....... he then tried to clarify (only getting into further poo) by suggesting that the Brother would be uncomfortable..."WHY"....I exclaimed. Lots of poo with response "well don't think his girlfriend would really like it".....FUCK. You see that's exactly what I did sometime last Autumn with the Brother.
Now, I didn't say anything as I wasn't sure if Muppet knew that I'd shagged his brother or if there was some other reason for making everyone clearly uncomfortable. Muppet was quick to want to get off phone with me (don't blame him really). He was going to check with Brother on their group comfort level and call me back. Hmmm that was at least an hour ago.
Just had bad conversation with Xboyfriend who has become Boyfriend-That-I-Never-See (BTINS), or Muppet. After bad breakup two and a quarter years ago (not that I'm counting) which essentially caused me to breakdown we bumped into each other at Soho House last November and have been seeing/shagging each other since - when he is not at work - which is always. Definitely have less sex with a supposed boyfriend than when I was single; which leads to the "bad" conversation.
Have not seen Muppet for weeks, well over a week, and therefore more accurately called BTINS we were trying to connect again and figure out when we would actually set eyes on one another. Weekend plans he offered Saturday, however then said would have to check with the Brother as Brother was organising party for his girlfriend on Saturday. Muppet then said however, without clearly thinking this through that he would feel uncomfortable taking me to party.............oh o....... he then tried to clarify (only getting into further poo) by suggesting that the Brother would be uncomfortable..."WHY"....I exclaimed. Lots of poo with response "well don't think his girlfriend would really like it".....FUCK. You see that's exactly what I did sometime last Autumn with the Brother.
Now, I didn't say anything as I wasn't sure if Muppet knew that I'd shagged his brother or if there was some other reason for making everyone clearly uncomfortable. Muppet was quick to want to get off phone with me (don't blame him really). He was going to check with Brother on their group comfort level and call me back. Hmmm that was at least an hour ago.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
Sick Weekend
This weekend SoyBoy is skiing in Utah. This weekend I should have been partying. This weekend I've spent crawling from bath, to bed, to fridge/freezer, to bath and back to bed; I think I'm going mad.
I'd been scheming for weeks prior - cooking up all sorts of bad behaviour to delight in.....the natural thing to do when one's boyfriend is away. As it turned out I came down with flu mid week and have been sickly ever since. Porn Man even blew me off not wishing to catch the nasty lurgies harbouring in my body.
Unable to sin, this was my weekend:
Friday night bath for one. I may have been ill but it was still Friday night. I'd earned several cocktails following a hellish week of knickering. Frozen banana daiquiri cleverly disguising dissolved Advil my Mother ordered I gurgle to numb sore throat. Note to Mum - still works as frozen daiquiri but actually tastes delicious. The bananas - a fruit serving, and source of vitamins and minerals. The alcohol to fight bacteria. Good thing I made a full blender batch....that way I didn't have to drip from bath to kitchen and back for top-ups.
Once the bath water was cold I tucked myself into bed with a hot toddy. A triple - brandy, lemon juice and honey to wash down the disgusting cough syrup apparently flavoured like cherries. Needless to say my three-course supper was a knockout menu.
Saturday was somewhat dull. I dragged my sickly self out of bed to have supper with my girlfriend, Buns Of Steal (her Title and name of fitness video where... she shows us why). Incidentally she is also X Maverick dancer (football team cheerleader I think?) and yes her body is awesome. It's actually quite sucky going out with Buns of Steal. The ogling never stops and Saturday night was no exception. Two guys at the bar closest to us, barely said a word to each other - engrossed as they were with Buns of Steal numerous attributes.
Buns of Steal and I had a laugh, which hurt and sent me into several gulping coughing spasms - probably good for my stomach muscles. I wonder if it's like doing sit-ups? Glimpsing her highly honed quadricep, delicately outlined by tight Gucci pants I did my own version of cheerleading later that night without the Gucci pants and highly honed quadriceps. Prancing in my kitchen feeling the effects of wine and drugs; I swear all above counter, the Roosevelt Island cable car travelers my passing audience. Nudity from my apartment is not new, the addition of high kicks in Ugg boots (to keep my feet warm) may be.
Sunday had slightly more promise. Wanting to go back to yoga for weeks, finally I did. Two sun salutations into the practice I had second thoughts. One nostril streamed, the other blocked and both sinus cavities pounded. My yogi has the body of chewing gum but his lack of squeamishness admirable. He pretzeled my appendages into a ridiculous configuration, urging deep, long breathing. This is a very difficult task when one's knee is wedged into one's diaphram and harder still when a silver slither trails from nose to lip, threatening to settle between pursed lips. Not to worry it turned out. Said slither was lovingly wiped away, as only a mother would do...or in this instance my Yogi.
During the practice-end prayer I sent extra thanks to my Yogi and his nose-wiping kindness. I also experienced a yoga epiphany - and intend adding it to my practice. Towards the end of the chant Grand Marnier is mentioned. Feverishly excited to get home I made myself a wonderful Grand Marnier Margarita loaded up with freshly squeezed lime juice and several liberal sloshes of Grand Marnier just as my Yogi mantraed. Vitamin C enriched alcohol and a couple of Claritins the chemist recommended - sure beats chicken noodle soup.
I'd been scheming for weeks prior - cooking up all sorts of bad behaviour to delight in.....the natural thing to do when one's boyfriend is away. As it turned out I came down with flu mid week and have been sickly ever since. Porn Man even blew me off not wishing to catch the nasty lurgies harbouring in my body.
Unable to sin, this was my weekend:
Friday night bath for one. I may have been ill but it was still Friday night. I'd earned several cocktails following a hellish week of knickering. Frozen banana daiquiri cleverly disguising dissolved Advil my Mother ordered I gurgle to numb sore throat. Note to Mum - still works as frozen daiquiri but actually tastes delicious. The bananas - a fruit serving, and source of vitamins and minerals. The alcohol to fight bacteria. Good thing I made a full blender batch....that way I didn't have to drip from bath to kitchen and back for top-ups.
Once the bath water was cold I tucked myself into bed with a hot toddy. A triple - brandy, lemon juice and honey to wash down the disgusting cough syrup apparently flavoured like cherries. Needless to say my three-course supper was a knockout menu.
Saturday was somewhat dull. I dragged my sickly self out of bed to have supper with my girlfriend, Buns Of Steal (her Title and name of fitness video where... she shows us why). Incidentally she is also X Maverick dancer (football team cheerleader I think?) and yes her body is awesome. It's actually quite sucky going out with Buns of Steal. The ogling never stops and Saturday night was no exception. Two guys at the bar closest to us, barely said a word to each other - engrossed as they were with Buns of Steal numerous attributes.
Buns of Steal and I had a laugh, which hurt and sent me into several gulping coughing spasms - probably good for my stomach muscles. I wonder if it's like doing sit-ups? Glimpsing her highly honed quadricep, delicately outlined by tight Gucci pants I did my own version of cheerleading later that night without the Gucci pants and highly honed quadriceps. Prancing in my kitchen feeling the effects of wine and drugs; I swear all above counter, the Roosevelt Island cable car travelers my passing audience. Nudity from my apartment is not new, the addition of high kicks in Ugg boots (to keep my feet warm) may be.
Sunday had slightly more promise. Wanting to go back to yoga for weeks, finally I did. Two sun salutations into the practice I had second thoughts. One nostril streamed, the other blocked and both sinus cavities pounded. My yogi has the body of chewing gum but his lack of squeamishness admirable. He pretzeled my appendages into a ridiculous configuration, urging deep, long breathing. This is a very difficult task when one's knee is wedged into one's diaphram and harder still when a silver slither trails from nose to lip, threatening to settle between pursed lips. Not to worry it turned out. Said slither was lovingly wiped away, as only a mother would do...or in this instance my Yogi.
During the practice-end prayer I sent extra thanks to my Yogi and his nose-wiping kindness. I also experienced a yoga epiphany - and intend adding it to my practice. Towards the end of the chant Grand Marnier is mentioned. Feverishly excited to get home I made myself a wonderful Grand Marnier Margarita loaded up with freshly squeezed lime juice and several liberal sloshes of Grand Marnier just as my Yogi mantraed. Vitamin C enriched alcohol and a couple of Claritins the chemist recommended - sure beats chicken noodle soup.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
No more rogering
I've really not wanted to shag SoyBoy for some time and I don't know why. I'm beginning to worry that it's because he's so nice to me. Affliction has happened in past and wondering if other women suffer the same thing. Is this why we covet arseholes? Do we love men who are complete wankers because we never get the upper hand - constantly yearning for them to adore us. Once they do adore us, bordom sets in? Or maybe it's just me?
After getting off to fabulously raunchy sexual start which led me to move in for sex-on-demand (also saves on cable bill), our sexual rampages have dwindled to almost non-existent. Apart from the possibility of his icky niceness, there are a couple of other turn-offs, namely:
a) He sports a rather large penis, and wedging me against the stove as if it were a bollard is perhaps only accepted the first time for sick glee in having a lower-back knob indenture reading "high". Dent eventually diminishes (takes about a week) but huge penis doesn't.
b) Basic sex can hurt. Depending on position the pain can sometimes be mild like a dull tooth ache or severe - ie anal.
to be continued...or not
After getting off to fabulously raunchy sexual start which led me to move in for sex-on-demand (also saves on cable bill), our sexual rampages have dwindled to almost non-existent. Apart from the possibility of his icky niceness, there are a couple of other turn-offs, namely:
a) He sports a rather large penis, and wedging me against the stove as if it were a bollard is perhaps only accepted the first time for sick glee in having a lower-back knob indenture reading "high". Dent eventually diminishes (takes about a week) but huge penis doesn't.
b) Basic sex can hurt. Depending on position the pain can sometimes be mild like a dull tooth ache or severe - ie anal.
to be continued...or not
Thursday, December 30, 2004
fucking men with camouflage fetishes
I suppered with Hotel Boy last night and he's shamed me into going back to the blog world. I'd abandoned it not because I was fed up with not being publicly recognised (although I do feel I should be); but because of all annoying things a full-time job has foisted itself upon me. I'm back in the knicker business and thus on most days, up to my eyeballs in knickers.
Tearing myself away from all things small and lacy what I really want to explore is the recurring theme of men in my life and their odd camouflage fetish. I found myself yesterday writing a Dear John email of sorts to the chap I've been shagging - let's call him Porno Man (will explain another time). He was getting the flick due to a sighting of him in army camouflage patterned pants. I know it's only my opinion but they are truly a fashion faux-pas. I think of macho-mustachioed gay men - bare chested and leather capped. Not a potential father for my offspring.
Tragically this camo-pant shiver of horror was not the first to tingle my spine. Perhaps it's my destiny. Previous point in case: Last year when shagging Man-Recovering-From-Open-Heart-Surgery, I, Woman-Recovering-From-Broken-Heart - had to squeeze my eyes shut very very tightly to get over the glimpse of a camouflage patterned vest this lover was sporting. One hand hastily hoisting camo print polyester - it crackled (John Paul Gaultier polyester - still no excuse and further proof of Gay Man Wear). His other hand pushed eagerly on my head downwards to his slightly small penis. Hmm Porno Man's penis is also of questionable size; another coincidence?
Through tightly shut eyes and necessary blow-job focus I maneuvered the fleeting camo shock to the back of my mind. Simultaneously I countered that his outerwear was tastefully top notch; his upper east side townhouse to die for; and the discovery of a personal, delightfully-dirty turn-on: I totally got off getting fucked amidst a Museum-worthy collection of Richter, Ellison, Prince, Cattalan, Schnabel, Kentridge bla bla bla works of art.
Oh yes breakfast brought to one in bed by live-in housekeeper was also a little something which helped sweeten the nasty underwear blow. Perhaps I've been too hasty with Porno Man. With all these similarities a suggestion of a house-keeper-cum-chef, and contemporary art acquisitioning I may have to reconsider my hasty "Dear John".
Tearing myself away from all things small and lacy what I really want to explore is the recurring theme of men in my life and their odd camouflage fetish. I found myself yesterday writing a Dear John email of sorts to the chap I've been shagging - let's call him Porno Man (will explain another time). He was getting the flick due to a sighting of him in army camouflage patterned pants. I know it's only my opinion but they are truly a fashion faux-pas. I think of macho-mustachioed gay men - bare chested and leather capped. Not a potential father for my offspring.
Tragically this camo-pant shiver of horror was not the first to tingle my spine. Perhaps it's my destiny. Previous point in case: Last year when shagging Man-Recovering-From-Open-Heart-Surgery, I, Woman-Recovering-From-Broken-Heart - had to squeeze my eyes shut very very tightly to get over the glimpse of a camouflage patterned vest this lover was sporting. One hand hastily hoisting camo print polyester - it crackled (John Paul Gaultier polyester - still no excuse and further proof of Gay Man Wear). His other hand pushed eagerly on my head downwards to his slightly small penis. Hmm Porno Man's penis is also of questionable size; another coincidence?
Through tightly shut eyes and necessary blow-job focus I maneuvered the fleeting camo shock to the back of my mind. Simultaneously I countered that his outerwear was tastefully top notch; his upper east side townhouse to die for; and the discovery of a personal, delightfully-dirty turn-on: I totally got off getting fucked amidst a Museum-worthy collection of Richter, Ellison, Prince, Cattalan, Schnabel, Kentridge bla bla bla works of art.
Oh yes breakfast brought to one in bed by live-in housekeeper was also a little something which helped sweeten the nasty underwear blow. Perhaps I've been too hasty with Porno Man. With all these similarities a suggestion of a house-keeper-cum-chef, and contemporary art acquisitioning I may have to reconsider my hasty "Dear John".
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Gestapo Moustache
Went for bikini-line maintainence yesterday. We are off to LA on Friday which means surfing, swimmers, and exposed body parts. Needed to attend to the bush as it really had turned substantially feral.
Have found the best Brazilian operator (Anna) on the planet. I'm definitely an expert in the art with vast international experience. The Eastern Europeans are definitely the best. A proclamation from extensive experimentation here, Sydney and London - thus a very broad-based study worth publishing.
Anna's operating room is far from luxurious. There is no soothing music courtesy of Anya or the whales, nor subdued and scented candle light courtesy of Henri Bendel's Home. Note to all beauticians - flickering, dulled light actually causes anxiety as I'm worried my blonde pubes are going to be missed, especially those exposed when the buttocks are pulled apart.
The room is basically bare and white. I have in the past worn sunglasses, as the glare from the mega-wattage fluro lighting above is sometimes too much for a hangover. Anna doesn't speak in hushed tones and she's not trying to push extortionately priced French sounding potions that are actually manufactured in Boise, Idaho for mere pennies.
I love this woman. I love the way she hoikes my right leg over her head and around her back. I call it the PWP - prone wrestling pose. As my leg strained against her meaty back I had a brainwave. Perhaps my fortune would come from creating my own yoga-esq movement created to allow limb positioning for maximum hair removal with minimal pain.
I was in pain, and it wasn't only due to the wax which I suspected was several degree too hot. No, having my right leg in an inverted 75 degree position, bent at the knee, my right ankle trying to hook her right breast from behind is not: graceful, elegant or serene. This of course I reminded myself is not the point of such humiliation - it's all about getting rid of the bush. The left leg doesn't get quite the same treatment. The left leg strains against the wall at an equally obtuse angle.
When it's time for getting those hairs surrounding the anus, a sharp slap on the bit of exposed right buttock and grunt tell me it's time to turn over and pull apart my bum. This is the part which I have to admit stings the most. Again I'm not sure if it's the heat of the wax or the tenderness of the skin. I'll check later for blistering which will confirm a too high a heat for the wax.
After the anal business another powerful slap on the left buttock this time - which gives me a hand mark to match the right and the signal to turn back for the finale. Extracting enough floss to floss my teeth for a month, Anna wraps it around her fingers and neck and gets down to the nity-gritty on the pesky hairs not ripped from their follicles ala wax. This for the uninitiated is called threading - usually the domain of black chicks and their eyebrows. Highly effective however for the Brazilian.
Finished, I inspected Anna's handiwork and was most pleased with the result. Prior to the waxing we had discussed the artwork I would like to sport, and was pleased to note that I did indeed have my own Gestapo moustache. Some women like lightening bolts, others hearts, but I like the tone my GP sets. It goes particularly well with my handcuffs and fuck-me boots.
Have found the best Brazilian operator (Anna) on the planet. I'm definitely an expert in the art with vast international experience. The Eastern Europeans are definitely the best. A proclamation from extensive experimentation here, Sydney and London - thus a very broad-based study worth publishing.
Anna's operating room is far from luxurious. There is no soothing music courtesy of Anya or the whales, nor subdued and scented candle light courtesy of Henri Bendel's Home. Note to all beauticians - flickering, dulled light actually causes anxiety as I'm worried my blonde pubes are going to be missed, especially those exposed when the buttocks are pulled apart.
The room is basically bare and white. I have in the past worn sunglasses, as the glare from the mega-wattage fluro lighting above is sometimes too much for a hangover. Anna doesn't speak in hushed tones and she's not trying to push extortionately priced French sounding potions that are actually manufactured in Boise, Idaho for mere pennies.
I love this woman. I love the way she hoikes my right leg over her head and around her back. I call it the PWP - prone wrestling pose. As my leg strained against her meaty back I had a brainwave. Perhaps my fortune would come from creating my own yoga-esq movement created to allow limb positioning for maximum hair removal with minimal pain.
I was in pain, and it wasn't only due to the wax which I suspected was several degree too hot. No, having my right leg in an inverted 75 degree position, bent at the knee, my right ankle trying to hook her right breast from behind is not: graceful, elegant or serene. This of course I reminded myself is not the point of such humiliation - it's all about getting rid of the bush. The left leg doesn't get quite the same treatment. The left leg strains against the wall at an equally obtuse angle.
When it's time for getting those hairs surrounding the anus, a sharp slap on the bit of exposed right buttock and grunt tell me it's time to turn over and pull apart my bum. This is the part which I have to admit stings the most. Again I'm not sure if it's the heat of the wax or the tenderness of the skin. I'll check later for blistering which will confirm a too high a heat for the wax.
After the anal business another powerful slap on the left buttock this time - which gives me a hand mark to match the right and the signal to turn back for the finale. Extracting enough floss to floss my teeth for a month, Anna wraps it around her fingers and neck and gets down to the nity-gritty on the pesky hairs not ripped from their follicles ala wax. This for the uninitiated is called threading - usually the domain of black chicks and their eyebrows. Highly effective however for the Brazilian.
Finished, I inspected Anna's handiwork and was most pleased with the result. Prior to the waxing we had discussed the artwork I would like to sport, and was pleased to note that I did indeed have my own Gestapo moustache. Some women like lightening bolts, others hearts, but I like the tone my GP sets. It goes particularly well with my handcuffs and fuck-me boots.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
The Crush
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.
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 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".
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Having the shit fucked into you
During a dirty, sweaty, lustful exchange of bodily fluids exclaiming "honey you're fucking the shit out of me" is the greatest compliment I can voice; in actuality however it's much more an oxymoron (explained below). Whilst in the moment, thoughts do flash between "this is fucking amazing" and "oh my god I think my spleen is now lodged permanently near my esophagus - probably not a good thing"; flick alternatively in my mind's eye.
After the paroxyms of a fabulous orgasm have finally ebbed away and the soles of my feet have stopped burning; (a true manisfestation of an organsm off the Richter scale) I'm left knowing that such a great fuck has dire consequences for future bowel movements. I've not had the shit fucked out of me but into me. For some reason however, my verbal proclamations of said lover's skills doesn't include, "honey, you're fucking the shit into me"... it just doesn't flow - literally.
So, now after four days of tremendous but quite hard-core fucking with Soy Boy I'm wondering what kind of therapist I desperately need to visit in order to have my internal organs repositioned to their natural place, and what anti-constipation concoction I can drink to help ease my discomfort.
Am thinking that perhaps a reflexologist would help and maybe I can create some kind of smoothie laced with chilies.
After the paroxyms of a fabulous orgasm have finally ebbed away and the soles of my feet have stopped burning; (a true manisfestation of an organsm off the Richter scale) I'm left knowing that such a great fuck has dire consequences for future bowel movements. I've not had the shit fucked out of me but into me. For some reason however, my verbal proclamations of said lover's skills doesn't include, "honey, you're fucking the shit into me"... it just doesn't flow - literally.
So, now after four days of tremendous but quite hard-core fucking with Soy Boy I'm wondering what kind of therapist I desperately need to visit in order to have my internal organs repositioned to their natural place, and what anti-constipation concoction I can drink to help ease my discomfort.
Am thinking that perhaps a reflexologist would help and maybe I can create some kind of smoothie laced with chilies.
Friday, April 30, 2004
Claritin, Benadryl, Boogies
Smug in the knowledge that I missed the coldest, nastiest winter in most of my friends' New York existence, allergy misery which spring brings is not really the jolly I was looking forward to. Finally going to bed v late last night, after an amusing evening at Janey's new loft in Tribeca, assembling Bang and Olson sound system, drinking yummy wine as we toiled over speaker wires and listening to Maccers complain about a) latest fuck-up in her life who she never sees due to his heavy work schedule and b) fleetingly short and short in statue (no surprise due to following bit of info) but Hollywood-connected actor, I couldn't decide whether her slightly peculiar manner was due to being charlied up to her eyeballs, tripping on diet pills, or as many of us are at the moment rediscovering the pharmaceutical mind-fuck benefits of antihistamines. Another slight possibility as cause of her personality freakshow may also have had something to do with Soy Boy. Post early shags I learnt that he and Maccers had once had some kind of longish-term sexual relationship.
However the ramifications of antihistamines are far more interesting than rogering in this instance (hmm maybe too close to home). Over the past week or so I have been experimenting with various allergy combatants and have discovered that Claritin (now freely available over the counter) is a superb party pill which gets double whammy points for sinus clearing also. Honestly it works just the same as Charles but I can get it at Food Emporium around the corner and I don't need to line it up in dimly lit bathrooms.
On a Claritin kick I have: vacuumed, moped, toilet scrubbed and generally kept an impeccable Soy Boy apartment; of course this makes him adore me even more - I'm sure I have him fooled into thinking it's just part of the natural female house-proudness coming out in me - just he wait till Fall; and partied late most nights - although a Claritin and Chardonnay bender was also my weekly undoing doozie.
Last Friday night at Gustavinos in clear view and hearing range of only about 100 people I was exuberantly and no doubt loudly rambling on inanely to Soy Boy and our now favourite (but admittedly captured) bar staff (Croatian dude and Texan who's trying to look like a Mexican with new huge fuck-off moustache). Lurching drunkenly against the non-existent stool back I toppled, not delicately, from a great height onto the tiled (yes obviously hard) floor onto my (now) v sorry tailbone. Am still in pain a week from the embarrassing event - not that I wanted to hide in the corner for long - stupid as well. Under the effects of C&C, giggling, Soy Boy dragged me to my feet. Great foolish and typically klutzy-me moment I clambered back up onto the stool, ordered another Chard and washed down another white bullet.
Lying in bed last night at about one in the morning, unable to sleep from the Claritin buzz and still sore bottom bone I was amused by thoughts of the Prat. The Prat suffers allergies more than most but from some fucked-up stoic British sensibility refuses to take anything for it. I wonder now if indulging me in a little bit of pill popping could have saved our marriage? On more than occasion, boogies glistened against his dark nasal hairs, as he sat across the dining table with friends or clients, on view for all who were not sharp enough to catch a glimpse and quickly look away before wanting to vomit. I stress this was not a rare offence and he was not oblivious either.
Admittedly The Prat suffers terribly from hayfever in the summer and a never-ending cold during the winter, and therefore can not be faulted for suffering social blights such as boogie issues. What can not be excused however, is his indignation at dealing with them. Many evenings I spent on snot patrol - desperately trying to alert him to offending foreign bodies, which the general public would not want to have cocktails with nor share a meal. His constant annoyance at my sentry duty really did get my goat - didn't he understand this was how I showed I cared.
Journeying home arguments over this particular issue would lead me to contemplate the very foundations of our union. How could I live with a man who was happy to allow a boogie to hang out in company as if it were the equivalent of the family dog and not some unsavoury, unsightly chunky reflective green thing.
Good thing that Soy Boy, also suffering from seasonal allergies is a big fan of the drug industry. His drug of choice is Benadryl which he claims not only stops him breaking out in hives but also combats stress during business hours - watching his hedge fund go down the toilet doesn't seem to be having quite the ill effect he would have imagined. Additionally his little pink and white capsules also mix well with alcohol and company. What a shame, tonight is most likely going to be another FDA approved drug-fuelled hoot.
However the ramifications of antihistamines are far more interesting than rogering in this instance (hmm maybe too close to home). Over the past week or so I have been experimenting with various allergy combatants and have discovered that Claritin (now freely available over the counter) is a superb party pill which gets double whammy points for sinus clearing also. Honestly it works just the same as Charles but I can get it at Food Emporium around the corner and I don't need to line it up in dimly lit bathrooms.
On a Claritin kick I have: vacuumed, moped, toilet scrubbed and generally kept an impeccable Soy Boy apartment; of course this makes him adore me even more - I'm sure I have him fooled into thinking it's just part of the natural female house-proudness coming out in me - just he wait till Fall; and partied late most nights - although a Claritin and Chardonnay bender was also my weekly undoing doozie.
Last Friday night at Gustavinos in clear view and hearing range of only about 100 people I was exuberantly and no doubt loudly rambling on inanely to Soy Boy and our now favourite (but admittedly captured) bar staff (Croatian dude and Texan who's trying to look like a Mexican with new huge fuck-off moustache). Lurching drunkenly against the non-existent stool back I toppled, not delicately, from a great height onto the tiled (yes obviously hard) floor onto my (now) v sorry tailbone. Am still in pain a week from the embarrassing event - not that I wanted to hide in the corner for long - stupid as well. Under the effects of C&C, giggling, Soy Boy dragged me to my feet. Great foolish and typically klutzy-me moment I clambered back up onto the stool, ordered another Chard and washed down another white bullet.
Lying in bed last night at about one in the morning, unable to sleep from the Claritin buzz and still sore bottom bone I was amused by thoughts of the Prat. The Prat suffers allergies more than most but from some fucked-up stoic British sensibility refuses to take anything for it. I wonder now if indulging me in a little bit of pill popping could have saved our marriage? On more than occasion, boogies glistened against his dark nasal hairs, as he sat across the dining table with friends or clients, on view for all who were not sharp enough to catch a glimpse and quickly look away before wanting to vomit. I stress this was not a rare offence and he was not oblivious either.
Admittedly The Prat suffers terribly from hayfever in the summer and a never-ending cold during the winter, and therefore can not be faulted for suffering social blights such as boogie issues. What can not be excused however, is his indignation at dealing with them. Many evenings I spent on snot patrol - desperately trying to alert him to offending foreign bodies, which the general public would not want to have cocktails with nor share a meal. His constant annoyance at my sentry duty really did get my goat - didn't he understand this was how I showed I cared.
Journeying home arguments over this particular issue would lead me to contemplate the very foundations of our union. How could I live with a man who was happy to allow a boogie to hang out in company as if it were the equivalent of the family dog and not some unsavoury, unsightly chunky reflective green thing.
Good thing that Soy Boy, also suffering from seasonal allergies is a big fan of the drug industry. His drug of choice is Benadryl which he claims not only stops him breaking out in hives but also combats stress during business hours - watching his hedge fund go down the toilet doesn't seem to be having quite the ill effect he would have imagined. Additionally his little pink and white capsules also mix well with alcohol and company. What a shame, tonight is most likely going to be another FDA approved drug-fuelled hoot.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Spinning, marriage proposal on 3rd avenue and Californian invasion
I need to admit to someone (can't possible tell my friends) that I've been doing very little during the daylight hours, aside from trawling the local food emporiums for yummy things which have been lacking from my diet due to Prat imposed Thai diet and attending spinning classes to compensate for all those yummy things. I think I've become addicted to the spinning thing - something about the release of endorphins, communal sweating, and I guess hot instructor with bulging Lance Armstrong-like quadriceps is drawcard too.
Dined on Monday night with the Prat. Our first encounter since my mysterious disappearance from Primrose Hill. Once the Prat had returned to London and realised that several "safety-blanket" items in my life were missing - eye mask, lip balm and vibrator he politely emailed me several days later to enquire if I was in New York, LA, Sydney or Wakefield. Fair enough, although if he'd checked his BA account on-line he would have worked it out eventually. Anyway Prat was in New York and wanted to see me in order to retrieve keys to the flat in London and exchanged Sydney house keys. He particularly wanted the set I had with window locks and didn't think I'd mind. True true. We ate at Lever House in a complete papaya-salad-free zone and had a great night.
Tuesday night I went for dinner with my friend the incredibly talented Philharmonic pianist and multi-millionaire software developer. Some people are far to accomplished. Emailed said boy to check what time we were meeting. I thought it was to be 9pm but couldn't remember what he'd said at time of organising; I'd killed off a few brain cells at a cocktail party at his house which were clearly short-term memory cells - not so important really. Anyway yes, my guess had been correct. Although he then offhandedly mentioned that we were to meet in the lounge of Spice Market (latest NY Meatpacking district hotspot) at 9pm but our dinner reservation wasn't until 11pm. I'm sorry but that is just ridiculous. My protests fell on deaf ears - well actually my follow-up email, suggesting this was so went unreplied.
Hence I appeared at 9pm absolutely starving; threw back a couple of champagne cocktails to take the edge off my appetite and way-hey it worked. Suddenly it was 11pm and we were being seated. I was not so drunk to realise that this was also not the last seating. Large parties of beautiful people were being shown to their sumptuous late night zones without mugs of warm milk and cookies.
The Software Pianist, who is always delightful company was on this night somewhat nervous and ended up the most drunk I've ever seen him. We chatted about my latest London departure, my lack of job prospects, my belongings strewn across the globe and basic directionless of my life at age 30. Of course this just made his smooth-flowing successful existence all the more glaringly obvious. He was just about to close on a five million dollar, seven bedroom house in the Hamptons with Ocean and Bay views, as well as ever screaming up the charts of American's most wealthy, single and charming. I wanted to puke - and it wasn't because of the Bolly quaffing.
We finished dinner and when the bill came without complimentary comforter (duvet for those who read English not American) I realised we weren't sleeping over. Software Pianist saw me to a taxi to dispatch me home. Ever the gentleman he then insisted on traveling with me and seeing me safely to my door. OK then....
I believe at about 40th and Third Avenue he then grabbed my hand and asked me if it would be an improper time and place to ask me to marry him. Oh my god! It wasn't an actual proposal - more a testing of the waters. At least this explained his nerves - and I thought it was just his upcoming solo performance in front of Bush. Actually no one is seriously nervous in front of that man - are they?
Yesterday, after lying in bed for an inordinate amount of time, mulling over my almost proposal I: eventually rose; did some shopping - found these amazing dried but still slightly squishy strawberries - v yummy with vanilla icecream; made a marinade for chicken which entailed me spending a silly amount of time looking for fresh guava juice and ancho puree and popped off to the gym to spin.
Returning home absolutely starving, Soy Boy who I had envisaged having a romantic, simple evening at home with informed me that one of his mother's best friends from high school, her two friends and one of these friend's son's were coming for dinner! They were all flying into NY from LA, arriving at about 7.30pm and would be with us by 9pm. Fucking hell another late night dining experience ahead of me but without marriage proposal, phew.
So, it's now Thursday afternoon and once again I'm still wandering around in my knickers with unbrushed hair. Teeth are clean and flossed and I've also managed to scrape blue cheese remnants off kitchen floor, pack the dishwasher (feel I'm easing into domesticity) and make list (thank you again Prat) of things which I need to pick up on the way home from spinning for supper tonight, which is also involving a number of Californians (not the same ones) amongst other imports.
Dinner last night with all the Californians was absolutely delightful, even if son of friend was a little kooky. He'd just returned from 10 days in Australian outback making a cross between The Bachelor and Survivor and had fallen in love with the Australian make-up artist. He is now busy planning the rest of their lives together in Melbourne. Yes, he was v nice, but I know Australian women and my guess is this kook is going to prove a little tooo Californian. He also confessed to having to break up with his Romanian girlfriend tonight who conveniently for the Australian angle is docking today on the Queen Mary(??). He'd met that love of his life on the cruise ship as he sat across from her dealing on the Black Jack table; Australia chick was probably less-than thrilled when he received a phone call from his fiancee and it was broadcast over tannoy to entire film crew; but then again love is blind.
Dined on Monday night with the Prat. Our first encounter since my mysterious disappearance from Primrose Hill. Once the Prat had returned to London and realised that several "safety-blanket" items in my life were missing - eye mask, lip balm and vibrator he politely emailed me several days later to enquire if I was in New York, LA, Sydney or Wakefield. Fair enough, although if he'd checked his BA account on-line he would have worked it out eventually. Anyway Prat was in New York and wanted to see me in order to retrieve keys to the flat in London and exchanged Sydney house keys. He particularly wanted the set I had with window locks and didn't think I'd mind. True true. We ate at Lever House in a complete papaya-salad-free zone and had a great night.
Tuesday night I went for dinner with my friend the incredibly talented Philharmonic pianist and multi-millionaire software developer. Some people are far to accomplished. Emailed said boy to check what time we were meeting. I thought it was to be 9pm but couldn't remember what he'd said at time of organising; I'd killed off a few brain cells at a cocktail party at his house which were clearly short-term memory cells - not so important really. Anyway yes, my guess had been correct. Although he then offhandedly mentioned that we were to meet in the lounge of Spice Market (latest NY Meatpacking district hotspot) at 9pm but our dinner reservation wasn't until 11pm. I'm sorry but that is just ridiculous. My protests fell on deaf ears - well actually my follow-up email, suggesting this was so went unreplied.
Hence I appeared at 9pm absolutely starving; threw back a couple of champagne cocktails to take the edge off my appetite and way-hey it worked. Suddenly it was 11pm and we were being seated. I was not so drunk to realise that this was also not the last seating. Large parties of beautiful people were being shown to their sumptuous late night zones without mugs of warm milk and cookies.
The Software Pianist, who is always delightful company was on this night somewhat nervous and ended up the most drunk I've ever seen him. We chatted about my latest London departure, my lack of job prospects, my belongings strewn across the globe and basic directionless of my life at age 30. Of course this just made his smooth-flowing successful existence all the more glaringly obvious. He was just about to close on a five million dollar, seven bedroom house in the Hamptons with Ocean and Bay views, as well as ever screaming up the charts of American's most wealthy, single and charming. I wanted to puke - and it wasn't because of the Bolly quaffing.
We finished dinner and when the bill came without complimentary comforter (duvet for those who read English not American) I realised we weren't sleeping over. Software Pianist saw me to a taxi to dispatch me home. Ever the gentleman he then insisted on traveling with me and seeing me safely to my door. OK then....
I believe at about 40th and Third Avenue he then grabbed my hand and asked me if it would be an improper time and place to ask me to marry him. Oh my god! It wasn't an actual proposal - more a testing of the waters. At least this explained his nerves - and I thought it was just his upcoming solo performance in front of Bush. Actually no one is seriously nervous in front of that man - are they?
Yesterday, after lying in bed for an inordinate amount of time, mulling over my almost proposal I: eventually rose; did some shopping - found these amazing dried but still slightly squishy strawberries - v yummy with vanilla icecream; made a marinade for chicken which entailed me spending a silly amount of time looking for fresh guava juice and ancho puree and popped off to the gym to spin.
Returning home absolutely starving, Soy Boy who I had envisaged having a romantic, simple evening at home with informed me that one of his mother's best friends from high school, her two friends and one of these friend's son's were coming for dinner! They were all flying into NY from LA, arriving at about 7.30pm and would be with us by 9pm. Fucking hell another late night dining experience ahead of me but without marriage proposal, phew.
So, it's now Thursday afternoon and once again I'm still wandering around in my knickers with unbrushed hair. Teeth are clean and flossed and I've also managed to scrape blue cheese remnants off kitchen floor, pack the dishwasher (feel I'm easing into domesticity) and make list (thank you again Prat) of things which I need to pick up on the way home from spinning for supper tonight, which is also involving a number of Californians (not the same ones) amongst other imports.
Dinner last night with all the Californians was absolutely delightful, even if son of friend was a little kooky. He'd just returned from 10 days in Australian outback making a cross between The Bachelor and Survivor and had fallen in love with the Australian make-up artist. He is now busy planning the rest of their lives together in Melbourne. Yes, he was v nice, but I know Australian women and my guess is this kook is going to prove a little tooo Californian. He also confessed to having to break up with his Romanian girlfriend tonight who conveniently for the Australian angle is docking today on the Queen Mary(??). He'd met that love of his life on the cruise ship as he sat across from her dealing on the Black Jack table; Australia chick was probably less-than thrilled when he received a phone call from his fiancee and it was broadcast over tannoy to entire film crew; but then again love is blind.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Prat-free but not really single - dabbling in new something
Have been absent from the blogging world due to necessary skiing holiday and dreamy new boy (well not new-new). Day after I set Maya on course for weekly house chores I popped off to Whistler with Squidy and en famille. What a shame when this wee vacance was organised Prat couldn't come with! Thus I had 11 glorious Prat-free days with good friends and referred above boy who now has new name - was the soybean omlette lover - now Soy Boy.
Am now somewhat loved up with Soy Boy. Not only is he a hot skier but he cooks, cleans and adores me. I know all this because I have kind of moved in. Much of course to his friends and family's distress. But I think so long as the sex is spectacular he won't be wanting to get rid of me just yet.
Decided on my return to London from Whistler that I was going to do the last runner from Prat. Thus less than 24 hours later I was back on BA and en route to New York. Am now tappy-tap typing from Soy Boy's computer in his upper east side apartment. I have the East river and Queensboro Bridge on my left, Guastavino's - our dining room, when Soy Boy isn't whipping up something incredible for me and my friends below, cable car above and sun streaming on my face.
Was concerned with how to address the egg vs soybean product issue, but I delicately talked it through with Soy Boy and he now lovingly poaches me organic real eggs. The other major concern is what will I moan about now that Prat is no longer?
Am now somewhat loved up with Soy Boy. Not only is he a hot skier but he cooks, cleans and adores me. I know all this because I have kind of moved in. Much of course to his friends and family's distress. But I think so long as the sex is spectacular he won't be wanting to get rid of me just yet.
Decided on my return to London from Whistler that I was going to do the last runner from Prat. Thus less than 24 hours later I was back on BA and en route to New York. Am now tappy-tap typing from Soy Boy's computer in his upper east side apartment. I have the East river and Queensboro Bridge on my left, Guastavino's - our dining room, when Soy Boy isn't whipping up something incredible for me and my friends below, cable car above and sun streaming on my face.
Was concerned with how to address the egg vs soybean product issue, but I delicately talked it through with Soy Boy and he now lovingly poaches me organic real eggs. The other major concern is what will I moan about now that Prat is no longer?
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Not born to vacuum
Thought I'd do the right thing yesterday and clean the flat. Cleaning in one of my least preferred activities. Do not understand how anyone feels euphoric after removing limescale from a bathtub. Notwithstanding I dragged the vacuum cleaner out and began. It didn't last long. Within two minutes of sucking up two months worth of dust (Prat doesn't clean either) I thought, fuck it.
After letting my fingers do the trawling I found in the easily navigated Ham & High 04 colour pages a delightful little ad for Homeclean. Happy little picture of a bright yellow washing up glove with the quip "Why not let someone else do the dirty work", my sentiment exactly.
After speaking with Theresa for all of two minutes, begging her to send someone immediately - Maya appeared less than an hour later. Hallelujah. I immediately put Maya to work, following the less than grand tour of a grubby two bedroom flat; noting no words of "nonsense" as Maya surveyed the filthy nest I forewarned Homeclean it was. Three hours later Maya had removed all dust, grime, limescale, paper and other crap which somehow ends up inside one's home without notice.
Fortuitously Prat turned up about 10 minutes after Maya's exit. Sooooo glad I'd not wasted three hours of my time spicking and spanning. His only comment before plopping in front of the TV for a cosy evening With Botham and The Windies - "oh you've cleaned up a bit". My God, the place was sparkling. Not that I corrected him in his assumption.
Instead I picked his coat pocket for £20 quid - the cost of Maya's three hours, called her boss and booked her again for this morning. I'm now sitting at a dust-free laptop and basking in Maya's amazing handiwork. Today I asked her to organise for two hours. She's absolutely brilliant. Prat's wardrobe has never housed such neat piles of t-shirts, nor have single socks ever met their significant other. Can't wait to see if he notices - am almost willing him to come home early. Well maybe not, the test match is still on after all.
In case you were wondering I paid her today with the piles of loose change lying about. Prat has a thing about small change - it's no good you know. Seems to be a male thing - I've encountered it before. Hence there are hundreds of pounds in two, fives and ten pence pieces lying about - which Maya now has, weighing down her pockets (I wouldn't advise swimming) or else are waiting in jars ready for her next week's appointment.
After letting my fingers do the trawling I found in the easily navigated Ham & High 04 colour pages a delightful little ad for Homeclean. Happy little picture of a bright yellow washing up glove with the quip "Why not let someone else do the dirty work", my sentiment exactly.
After speaking with Theresa for all of two minutes, begging her to send someone immediately - Maya appeared less than an hour later. Hallelujah. I immediately put Maya to work, following the less than grand tour of a grubby two bedroom flat; noting no words of "nonsense" as Maya surveyed the filthy nest I forewarned Homeclean it was. Three hours later Maya had removed all dust, grime, limescale, paper and other crap which somehow ends up inside one's home without notice.
Fortuitously Prat turned up about 10 minutes after Maya's exit. Sooooo glad I'd not wasted three hours of my time spicking and spanning. His only comment before plopping in front of the TV for a cosy evening With Botham and The Windies - "oh you've cleaned up a bit". My God, the place was sparkling. Not that I corrected him in his assumption.
Instead I picked his coat pocket for £20 quid - the cost of Maya's three hours, called her boss and booked her again for this morning. I'm now sitting at a dust-free laptop and basking in Maya's amazing handiwork. Today I asked her to organise for two hours. She's absolutely brilliant. Prat's wardrobe has never housed such neat piles of t-shirts, nor have single socks ever met their significant other. Can't wait to see if he notices - am almost willing him to come home early. Well maybe not, the test match is still on after all.
In case you were wondering I paid her today with the piles of loose change lying about. Prat has a thing about small change - it's no good you know. Seems to be a male thing - I've encountered it before. Hence there are hundreds of pounds in two, fives and ten pence pieces lying about - which Maya now has, weighing down her pockets (I wouldn't advise swimming) or else are waiting in jars ready for her next week's appointment.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Too Good To Last - He's Def A Prat
Knew the love couldn't last. A week tomorrow night and I will have been back in London for one week. The Prat and I have been hanging out, since Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday he came back from Germany with a Dior mascara for me. For whatever reason he called from one of the duty free cosmetic candy stores asking if there was anything I needed. "Well, actually yes - mascara". Hence I got mascara. V unlike Prat behaviour - I was v suspicious.
So, he comes back mid afternoon - decided not to go to the office as he wanted to spend quality time with me. More suspicion. We go to the pub. There was the suggestion of Thai, but I decided to push my good luck and nix that pronto. We have a great time - as great as it can be with a Prat.
Following couple of days are fine. I don't see him - I've other stuff going on. Friday night, well Saturday morning at about 3am my Soho House mischief-making friend (he's a permanent fixture - you'll see him practically stuck to the bar by whiskey residual sugars - just don't touch - he's really really sticky) decides to answer my phone. How he heard it ringing I have no idea. Until that point I was having a riotous time with Gweebeart, some Welsh Rarebit Gweebeart has pulled and Soho House sticky-fixture boy.
Suddenly Soho House hands me the phone - "I think it's the Prat", he announces.
Of course I'm thinking oh fuck - I did kind of say that I was going out for a drink and possibly something to nibble with Gweebeart and that I probably wouldn't be late. This wasn't a lie, but time got away, we got pissed, Gweebeart met the Welsh Rarebit and Soho House and I got increasingly drunk and more and more funny - well we think so.
Reality check - Prat is furious. He's pissed at me because I'd told him I'd go to the country with him on Saturday to look at country pads. Now he knows and I know that I'm going to be miserable, tired and hungover. Not great for property viewing, nor for Prat and I relations.
The good thing (always look for the good thing) is that Soho House (the actual house) is closing. Once again the lights go on. We all squint, realise how drunk we are, stumble out and I eventually get a minicab. Finally I'm back in Primrose Hill. I've called Prat several times from the car, but each time he answered, he also promptly hung up on me. Why fucking answer at all?!
Of course I'm so pissed by this point - that's what happens - the night gets longer but the drinking gets faster. So I decide to call a few people in New York. No one was around to answer their phone. I know I called Soybean Omelet Love interest, and left him an incredibly gooey message - can't remember what I said but that's my style. Will be v embarrassed when we next speak. Actually also knew he wouldn't answer as he was skiing and there isn't mobile reception at Mt Snow. If I find out otherwise I'll be pissed. Phew. Called a few others but gave up when there was no one around for me to slur my words at.
I miraculously rallied on Saturday. Fueled on icy, icy, sugary cold things. Lots of chocolate milkshakes and frozen chocolate covered bananas sorted me out-ish. I almost fooled Prat that I was OK, but he dryly commented that I surely couldn't be if I was wearing sunglasses during Britain's worst storm for the year - rain was pelting down from a horizontal trajectory and the wind was ripping Cotswold stone tiles off houses yet I seemed perfectly happy to stand out in it all jittery, hyperative and hiding behind shades. Still very nice to get out into the country; we stayed at a delightful Inn in Bibury - guests were cosy couples and one odd pair of bickering ex-marrieds.
It's now Sunday night and the Prat and I came back from the country earlier today than anticipated. Prat got huffy with me because I didn't agree on his house of choice. He said that he was so mad because my reasons for not liking his preference were so esoteric that he couldn't even be bothered to argue with me and would rather come back to London and watch cricket. Hence forth that's what we did. Such a Prat!
So, he comes back mid afternoon - decided not to go to the office as he wanted to spend quality time with me. More suspicion. We go to the pub. There was the suggestion of Thai, but I decided to push my good luck and nix that pronto. We have a great time - as great as it can be with a Prat.
Following couple of days are fine. I don't see him - I've other stuff going on. Friday night, well Saturday morning at about 3am my Soho House mischief-making friend (he's a permanent fixture - you'll see him practically stuck to the bar by whiskey residual sugars - just don't touch - he's really really sticky) decides to answer my phone. How he heard it ringing I have no idea. Until that point I was having a riotous time with Gweebeart, some Welsh Rarebit Gweebeart has pulled and Soho House sticky-fixture boy.
Suddenly Soho House hands me the phone - "I think it's the Prat", he announces.
Of course I'm thinking oh fuck - I did kind of say that I was going out for a drink and possibly something to nibble with Gweebeart and that I probably wouldn't be late. This wasn't a lie, but time got away, we got pissed, Gweebeart met the Welsh Rarebit and Soho House and I got increasingly drunk and more and more funny - well we think so.
Reality check - Prat is furious. He's pissed at me because I'd told him I'd go to the country with him on Saturday to look at country pads. Now he knows and I know that I'm going to be miserable, tired and hungover. Not great for property viewing, nor for Prat and I relations.
The good thing (always look for the good thing) is that Soho House (the actual house) is closing. Once again the lights go on. We all squint, realise how drunk we are, stumble out and I eventually get a minicab. Finally I'm back in Primrose Hill. I've called Prat several times from the car, but each time he answered, he also promptly hung up on me. Why fucking answer at all?!
Of course I'm so pissed by this point - that's what happens - the night gets longer but the drinking gets faster. So I decide to call a few people in New York. No one was around to answer their phone. I know I called Soybean Omelet Love interest, and left him an incredibly gooey message - can't remember what I said but that's my style. Will be v embarrassed when we next speak. Actually also knew he wouldn't answer as he was skiing and there isn't mobile reception at Mt Snow. If I find out otherwise I'll be pissed. Phew. Called a few others but gave up when there was no one around for me to slur my words at.
I miraculously rallied on Saturday. Fueled on icy, icy, sugary cold things. Lots of chocolate milkshakes and frozen chocolate covered bananas sorted me out-ish. I almost fooled Prat that I was OK, but he dryly commented that I surely couldn't be if I was wearing sunglasses during Britain's worst storm for the year - rain was pelting down from a horizontal trajectory and the wind was ripping Cotswold stone tiles off houses yet I seemed perfectly happy to stand out in it all jittery, hyperative and hiding behind shades. Still very nice to get out into the country; we stayed at a delightful Inn in Bibury - guests were cosy couples and one odd pair of bickering ex-marrieds.
It's now Sunday night and the Prat and I came back from the country earlier today than anticipated. Prat got huffy with me because I didn't agree on his house of choice. He said that he was so mad because my reasons for not liking his preference were so esoteric that he couldn't even be bothered to argue with me and would rather come back to London and watch cricket. Hence forth that's what we did. Such a Prat!
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