George's arse, wedding blues, psychopaths and the Google conundrum

I am not saying a thing. Nothing. Rien. Nada.

Chloe's great advice for dealing with the office psychopath.
Good thing I've just bought a new skillet.

It doesn't look good for us ladies, first there was post partum depression and now... post wedding blues. (Maybe we should get out more)

And how much does Google know about us? Frightening when you see the statistics.

Meet the Bloggers (shameless plug for my dear friend Anna)

And my spanking new Mac Book Pro arrived the other day. (It is beautiful and I think I am having an unhealthy love for it. Is it bad when you speak lovingly to it, wake up in the middle of the night just to watch it charging?)
I do miss having tech minded bodies in the house, I felt a brainless fraud trying desperately to get my head around talking routers and wireless connections at Future Shop.

Sadly, Internet man doesn't come to my new place until Sunday morning so I shall be without internet for 3 whole days... and when he is done, I will crawl back into my new bed with a cup of coffee, ignore the cardboard boxes scattered around me and spend an idyllic lazy morning in bed with my new love.

Oh. Argh. Eeep. Bloody hell.

An email this morning.

From that great company.

Again.

In regards to the interview I had 3 weeks ago.

*Dear Lady,

Apologies for the delay in getting back to you. The Producer has still not made a final decision, you are on the short list and as soon as I hear anything more I'll be in touch.

Thanks again for your patience!

Your Recruiter*

Oh bollocksy hell. Here we are again.

In the meantime, I am off to the Post Office as it appears my colleague wishes to send 12 packs of Kraft Dinner to his brother in Australia.

I kid you not.

Just don't get me started on the no Diet Coke in the fridge scenario, we're all still a little shaken by the fact the world stopped rotating.

Only the frustrated...

Sunday afternoon my phone rings.

"Lady," a panicked voice down the phone, "I need to book a flight tomorrow and I don't know who to call."

A few days earlier, an email from another colleague, on holiday in Europe.

"Lady, a favour? Can you tell me how long the train to Florence from Rome is?"

And earlier still.

"Lady, I've misplaced my plane tickets. Please can you call them and get them to fax me a copy to my hotel so I can rebook?"

The same colleague who looks at me with a straight face and asks me to get him tickets to a sold out show. I would not be surprised if at one point he was to ask me to step into his shoes when he gets married, or at the very least ensure his shoes are tied and his underwear is clean.

I am frustrated beyond belief with hierarchy and staid business attire, talk of golf and hunting, being a visible minority because of my sex and treated as such. And so when I am called back once, twice, three times for interviews at that great company where I know I will shine, I jump at the opportunity.

And so, 2 months, 3 seperate positions and 6 interviews later it is with a sinking heart when I get the email from that great company about that perfect job to say that I'm not really so perfect for that job after all. But it sure was great to meet me.

There is still rent to pay, and so I smile back at the bankers. Say yes, no, how high, of course, whatever you need...
Make determinations to find another job as soon as I can, head back to the drawing board, put myself back out there.

Because with each setback we all need to pick ourself back up, dust ourselves off, keep ducking and diving until one day it all falls back into place.

The Jake: Part 2

He is grinning, as he steps out of the cab. Catches my eye, grins wider.

There is no bravado in his swagger as he walks up to meet me, waiting outside Johnny Fox's. Leans in and kisses me on the cheek, his hand resting on my arm a fraction longer than neccessary, the simple kiss burning against my skin.

I watch his hands, his slender figures busy as he speaks, tapping at the table, rolling his beer mat across the table.
He is frankly honest, refreshingly unapologetic. He has no qualms about who he is, confident without arrogance.

All he wants, he says, breaking away and smiling at the cheery bartender as he delivers our drinks, is that beachfront property in South America. All he wants is to be able to walk out his front door and surf. Has worked hard, makes sure that everyday a certain amount of energy goes into having fun.
He leans forward, absent mindedly reaches out and wraps one of my curls around his finger, softly kisses me. Pulls away grinning.

I am trying to slow my heartbeat, remain calm and collected.
He remains a perfect gentleman, not rushing anything. Flagging down a passing cab to see me safely home.

Later, when we reach my flat I invite him up for one beer, on the patio. We stay up late, talking about fate and buddhism, my impeding move, job interviews and a list of things new and upcoming.
That ex who once, I laughingly recall, told me I wasn't conventionally attractive - there was just something *about me...*
He looks at me for a minute, suddenly uncertain and says I am the prettiest girl he's seen all night. I try to remain calm, when he leans over to kiss me again. Holds my face, gently brushes his thumb across my bottom lip.

I am sober enough to remember this, to feel everything. Yet it still feels too surreal, enables me to think differently this time.

To make the decision to take this slow, and call him a cab.

The next day I cannot eat, fight my insecurity off and remind myself that I am entitled to happiness. Try to stop myself from questioning why and what and how he sees in me, quell the panic in my stomach.
When he signs off his mail with *good luck with everything new*, he is gone again for 10 days, I clench my fists against my fear, try not to read it as something negative but simply for what it is.

Good luck with everything new.

And then. Life.

"What you need to do," the taxi driver looks back at me through his rear view mirror and nods "... is find yourself a rich man.

Then you no have to go to work...!"

He chuckles, and grins revealing a gap in his front teeth.

"And then", he says, "you get yourself pregnant. You make yourself a million dollars."

I stifle a half repulsed giggle.
He is Italian, the crucifix dangling from the rear view mirror. I cannot find it in myself to let him know I am not in the least maternal. Nor the least bit inclined to be a gold digger.

"So do you know any then?" I quip back to him, laughing as our car speeds across the bridge.

I am late for work again this morning, the alarm not waking me from my slumber until almost 7:00. Dashing around the Gorgeous's flat, trying to iron and makeup, hair, shoes, hastily gather up bedsheets and pillows from the sofa where I have slept the last few months and be out the door quarter to eight.

The Gorgeous always says to me *Stay current, Lady*.
And so I am struggling to find a routine amidst all this uncertainty; it is when I step away and start looking at the big picture that the doubts start chipping away at my sanity, when my impatience overtakes rationality.
When I am too hard on myself and wonder why my life still feels far too fluid for my liking, it is hard to remind myself that I have been back only 4 short months. When all those dreams and adventures I came back for have been left somewhere on a shelf, now it is time to dust them off and make them real again. Amelia fixes me with a long hard stare and questions why my writing has not yet materialised into something more, why my focus has been on anything but my dreams for far too long.

I need my own space, need to see past those insecurities and fears that kept me surrounded by friends and flatmates since I left the Ex 3 years ago, need to be able to feel comfortable being alone, not be afraid of silence and my own company.
Now the confirmation I will be on my own, a brightly lit studio in the West End amongst diversity and colourful acceptance, just 3 blocks from the beach.

I am making a list of all that I need then, for this new sanctuary and space, I feel as if I am making a wedding list. I am having to start from scratch, I own very little these days thanks not only to the move but to the moving company who have lost my freight and with it, all my furniture and paintings.

cheesegrater
blender
wineglasses
duvet
pillows

It is only when I look it over do I realise my own randomness.


martini glasses
corkscrew
champagne flutes
ice cube trays

(At least I have my priorities straight...)

sofa
bedframe
cutlery
dishes


It is all fairly overwhelming, rushing through IKEA today with the Nurse, all my indecisiveness laid bare. It takes me 45 minutes to decide on cutlery and less than 5, on my limited budget, to choose a sofa. My bedframe bought on a whim passing a Granville street store, it is identical to the one I lost in the move. Colour schemes are now taking shape, I lose myself in daydreams of cream textiles and bright cushions, a Japanese screen to seperate living space from my sleep space and where am I to find that *Breakfast at Tiffany's* movie poster...

I order my Mac, work overtime every night, pack myself back into a suitcare to housesit for a friend for a few weeks. Get called into that fabulous company yet again for yet another interview for a role I know, this time, is perfect for me, at their offices a few short blocks from my new flat.

Life is never static, its only consistency its fluidity, its viscosity constantly weaving and bending. Yet somehow, now, I feel as if I am almost there. That life is about to deliver up the gifts I have been waiting my whole life for, that for the first time life will start to speak a language I can understand.

The Jake: Part 1

"And then" he says, his blue eyes flashing, his hands animated, "...all my mother can see is these 2 felt legs sticking up in the ditch."

I cannot help it, I am enchanted.

Later when we make our way through the throngs of leather clad men and beautiful boys with their exqusiite cheekbones the conversation never lulls. Continues, with nods and smiles, shyly sneaking glances at one another. When I talk, he leans in, his long legs slowing to match my pace, his gait in rythym with my own.

He stands, at the jukebox, looking at me. The tired waiter, immaculate and beautiful touches my hair. Brings us kitsch cocktails and battered menus.

I cannot stop looking up at the man smiling at me from across the room, my chin resting in the palm of my hand. He smiles back, shakes his head, makes his selection. Crosses the restuarant to our table, boyish grin brighter.

Sits opposite me and tilts his head.

Frank croons in the background, and he sings along softly off key.

I watch his lips move as he speaks, his leg brushes up against mine and stays there. It is too natural and fluid, spontaneous and reassuring, I feel dizzy, disorientated.
I have forgotten what this feels like, have spent too much time rushing in blindly with lust and unforseen consequences that somehow, I have forgotten that the beginning is supposed to be just like this. Have forgotten what it feels like to be left with a lingering kiss that reduces my worldy knees to liquid, lips burning and the feel of his hand against my cheek as he waves me goodbye and sees me off; my cab winding through Friday night revellers to take me home.

Naked men on my BLOG!

In no way is this intended as a gratuitous exploitation of the Vancouver Nudist Organisation, nor a blatant attempt to increase my traffic.

But yes, indeed. They are nude.

*willy*

snicker

*balls*

giggle

*penis*

collapses in heap of own immaturity...

Oh alright then, if you're easily offended I apologise.
Now here are some men in little hotpants...

Random outpourings

Because I am far too busy at work and would rather be blogging... but instead some random outpourings.

Bobbie on Girl With a One Track Mind getting outed.
After Esoteric's revelation he read my blog, I am going to be ever more careful in future.

Trying to decide how I feel about "World Trade Centre" and whether I want to see it or not.

Falling in love with A Beautiful Revolution.

Finally a sense of closure for Damiola's family.

And in closing, a determination to start researching and writing that book proposal after a sound talking to by the divinely beautiful and talented Amelia over ahi tuna and far too many bottles of overpriced Viognier.
As well as the phone call yesterday to let me know my application for a lovely little bright and sunny studio in the West End had been approved.

I'll be moving in September off the sofa and into a place of my own. Bliss.

Seattle or Bust

I am a bit rubbish. My post about Seattle still remains unwritten. I have several excuses. Really.

So I am going to point you in the direction of the divine Miss D, the story is here.

And because this weekend was full of Pride parad'ing, dancing until the wee hours, bumping into an old friend (whom I've dearly missed) and who decided my date was good enough for me after all, eating at some fabulous new restaurants and wine bars (where there were sabered bottles of Laurent Perrier Rose), a lingering kiss at the end of the date Friday night which left my knees weak, rushing across town to put an application in for a lovely little studio in the West End, a wedding (not mine), losing my bankcard and far too many hangovers for one Lady in a weekend the post has remained unwritten and the photos languish pre - photoshop.


However, all is not lost. More pictures will be uploaded soonish.

I kiss you.

LMM
x

These Crazy Blues ain't no musical

I have been blind sided, did not see it coming. Counting back days to know that this is not just hormonal. That despite my best intentions, my fighting, there are some things I can't control.

I knew it yesterday, felt that sour bitterness, metal in the back of my throat, my stomach bunched in knots so fierce it took me a moment to get up from my desk and try to walk it off. My heart beating against my chest so fast I was dizzy, my hands shaking, struggling to take a breath.

When all I wanted was to rush home and throw the covers over my head and not have to be anyone or anything, if only for a few hours or a few days. That all my careful planning, ignoring every little symptom countless times and carrying on, just to hold it at arms' length for another week, another day so successfuly that I'd convinced myself of its absence from my life.

That when it hits, I am winded by its ferocity, its violent grip on me.

I know that this is only temporary, I am better at reacting. Know the right steps to take, acknowledge and respect these challenges. I am better at talking through them but in the meantime I have lost my words, am left feeling uninspired and overwhelmed. The last few months have taken their toll, have left me with little to draw on.

And so I carry on, try to refocus my energy, continue to look for a challenging new job, traipse through West End flats trying to find my safe space, take each new day individually. Take long walks and deep breaths. Find my place in this city, put down something tangible and real...

An email from Tony

"Not quite in keeping with my blog but perfect for yours I thought. You may
be dating midgets and body odour afficionados but you at least haven't dated this guy..."

No, indeed.

(And this post is no way intended as a filler for the uber fab Seattle post still coming... Really.)

I wish it was a 9-5...

Seattle post coming. Really.

But in the meantime, although work does not permit me alot of blogging time, it does permit me the odd scan of t'internet.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
This has made me so angry I am beyond words.

At what point do we think enough is enough and start safe guarding the rights and safety of our children? How many warning signs must there be, a first? A second offence? A cry for help?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ben Hammersley in Afghanistan, blogging here and posting pictures here.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Teasing you...