The one I want so badly it hurts? That job, which is housed in its own little village, with a basketball court and a full size football pitch, and a cinema and restaurants and coffee bars galore and the coolest ever job in the whole wide world? The one I have had 3 interviews for and haven't blogged about it because I didn't want to jinx it?
Well. Today I get a phone call. My man at the company leaves a message. He is my man inside. Saying he wants to update me on the situation as they've finally had a chance to talk.
And then. Then I can't get a hold of him for the rest of the day. Sneakily wandering away with my mobile tucked up my sleeve. How many messages can I leave before I'm a stalker? I leave 2.
Pace. Feel sick. And hot. And bothered. Pace some more. Try calling again.
Pace.
Try not to be distracted. Stare at my phone. Ring, dammit. Riiiiiiing.
And finally. My man calls.
Apologises. And then leaves me dangling... saying "It all went really positive, there are some processes that need to finalised tomorrow so I'm hoping I'll be able to call you at some point tomorrow with more news..."
What, pray tell, does that mean?!
Dear god.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Drink and dial
The Nurse reminds me of a time, when we were just legal and our Monday nights involved being down at the China Beach knocking back $1 glasses of green beer or Tuesday nights at Luvaffair or Thursday nights at Kits Pub or any other night from Monday to Sunday and we would wake the next day, stare at the wreckage that was my untidy bedroom, and there in the middle, amidst CD's and discarded outfits, it would sit. With a clear path around it, like a beacon.
My telephone.
And we would look at each other in horror, wondering which current or potential beau had received the phone call in the early hours, too hung over or too embarrassed to try to remember.
When I first moved to the UK, my phone bills were extortionate as a result of the drink and dial. Not to mention my complete inability to work out the 8 hour time difference in my inebriated state.
And then came the text message. The Nurse's mobile phone is now confiscated at an early stage of the evening, as she is a serial dialler.
I, a slave to my phone, cannot bear to be parted and therefore have admissions of drunken texting. Feeling the embarrasment the following day when checking my sent messages in order to piece together the evening. I try to refrain, my dignity seeming to be a much more important feature in my life these days but like everything, I tend to regress sometimes.
And then this. Samsung has taken it one step further, unveiling a phone that will lock you out if you are over the limit and therefore rendering you incapable of the drunken midnight phone call.
Drink and dial will never be the same.
My telephone.
And we would look at each other in horror, wondering which current or potential beau had received the phone call in the early hours, too hung over or too embarrassed to try to remember.
When I first moved to the UK, my phone bills were extortionate as a result of the drink and dial. Not to mention my complete inability to work out the 8 hour time difference in my inebriated state.
And then came the text message. The Nurse's mobile phone is now confiscated at an early stage of the evening, as she is a serial dialler.
I, a slave to my phone, cannot bear to be parted and therefore have admissions of drunken texting. Feeling the embarrasment the following day when checking my sent messages in order to piece together the evening. I try to refrain, my dignity seeming to be a much more important feature in my life these days but like everything, I tend to regress sometimes.
And then this. Samsung has taken it one step further, unveiling a phone that will lock you out if you are over the limit and therefore rendering you incapable of the drunken midnight phone call.
Drink and dial will never be the same.
Temporary meltdown
I seem to have taken a turn of temporary insanity, and in doing accidentally pressed SAVE on my new template design before I'd had a chance to copy over my links, and my counter. Another reason not to update your blog at work on the sly, kinda takes your eye off the ball.
So it's not that I don't love you anymore, I'm just internet less at home at the moment, and my weekend was spent recovering from Friday's excesses (the right amount of scandal and mayhem, involving a cameo from the Actor, a PVC clad policewoman, a bar crawl and of course, random snogging), escaping to my parents and trying to mediate between my family. Isn't dysfunctionality fantastic?
And I'm currently looking for a new place to live. Oh, and to work. So I'm keeping busy.
I'll be adding my links again soon, because, really, I miss you all.
So it's not that I don't love you anymore, I'm just internet less at home at the moment, and my weekend was spent recovering from Friday's excesses (the right amount of scandal and mayhem, involving a cameo from the Actor, a PVC clad policewoman, a bar crawl and of course, random snogging), escaping to my parents and trying to mediate between my family. Isn't dysfunctionality fantastic?
And I'm currently looking for a new place to live. Oh, and to work. So I'm keeping busy.
I'll be adding my links again soon, because, really, I miss you all.
Friday, July 07, 2006
One year later
One year ago today, I made my way from the house in Kentish Town in the early morning, through Kings Cross, laden with luggage and there I was sat at Gatwick Airport in the departures lounge, sipping coffee, having lent a sympathetic ear to a friend who had recently ended an affair, called my cousin to wish her a happy birthday, waited to board a flight back home to see my family.
The departures board flashed with a delay to my flight, and I sat back. Tired, apprehensive and unexcited about the prospect of the 10 hour flight, I flicked absent mindedly through a magazine. Leaned over to check the text that had just come in.
"... have a great flight. All hell breaking loose in London. Something about a bomb..."
Thinking it was a joke, I didn't think anything of it. Then my phone beeped again.
"Are you okay? Tubes are down. Some sort of power surge"
And again.
"Where are you?"
There are no televisions in Gatwick, and as my gate was finally confirmed, I started to feel a bit of dread. Calling L who confirmed that a bomb had indeed gone off, not too far from his office and they had been instructed to stay inside.
I called my office and my colleague Mike kept it simple, told me all they knew. 4 bombs, strategically placed around London, had gone off. That was all. Everyone in my office accounted for.
I tried to reach friends, spoke briefly to a stunned Tony in France, left messages with Knickers to try to reach my parents, knowing my mother would turn on the news and be concerned.
That was the longest flight of my life. I think I cried silently for the majority of my flight, fellow passengers, the stewardesses unaware. Knowing the underground like the back of my hand, I could only imagine what sort of destruction a bomb could cause in that small a space. Thinking back to 911 and to what had happened. To London. To my city.
Touching down for a stopover in Calgary, and finally able to get the full report. Text messages from friends checking in. My uncle, forgetting when I was to fly, leaving a worried voicemail. Finally reaching my father, his voice breaking down the phone.
An hour later, touching down in Vancouver. Rushing through Customs, and being ushered into a holding pen. My luggage opened, searched. Questions barked, I think I answered in a whisper. "Yes, I packed my bags...I am visiting family, I am Canadian..." . Thrusting my passport back at me and waving me on.
My mother is emotional, talkative. She has been bending the ear of the journalist sent to cover the arrivals. The TV crew trains its camera on her, she mentions my job. As I make my way into the Arrivals, a flash, a camera following my mother to me. I am home. And all I want is to be back at work, with the TV over my head, the wires coming in. All I want is to know how my city is.
I forget all the media training I have had, mumble and murmur responses, trying to hide my face from the camera. I break off, stunned disbelief on my fellow passengers. Most of them hadn't heard until then.
I spent the evening without sleep, reading blogs and watching BBC World. Trying to get my head around what had happened.
The day before, I had taken a bus past Trafalgar Square to catch the tail end of the Olympic celebrations. I remarked to my father sleepily, that they had chosen the wrong time. That London was so strong, that something like this couldn't break its back.
The following day, I went down to Kits beach, bought all the newspapers I could get my hands on. Turned the pages, my picture in black and white staring back at me. Images from the carriages, interviews with survivors and rescue teams. Sat and cried like my heart would break. I'm not sure my friends, nor my family understood why I took it so hard. I don't think I do either - I think because I could only watch it from afar. I wanted to be back there, wanted to be one of the thousands that poured onto the streets in memory.
When I flew back to London 2 weeks later, another bombing and confusion surrounding the shooting of an innocent man , I felt disjointed. Disconnected from the city that I loved. Riding the Thameslink past Kings Cross, there was nothing to suggest the violence that had marked it a few weeks prior. Walking past armed police and dogs and becoming much more aware of fellow commuters became a daily occurence. I had never liked taking the tube in summer, and so I stopped. Other than that, not much changed.
Although it took me a long time to get back into my old life, I had already made the decision that I would be returning back to Vancouver and to this day I know it has very little, if anything at all, to do with the bombings. I had been a few streets away when the Admiral Duncan was nail bombed, had learnt that bomb scares were a part of daily life.
Something inside of me had changed before then, I wanted to be part of my family again. It just took a little while for me to get there.
I have included some links to the stories I have been reading, there are some amazing voices out there.
Rachel North. Thanks to Pixel Diva who introduced me to her writing some months back.
Guardian Unlimited: Matthew Weaver and David Batty have recorded interviews with the survivors here.
Holly Finch
Mitch
July 7th is also the anniversary of the death of a very dear friend, who 13 years ago today fell asleep at the wheel of his car with 2 friends, who luckily survived. There are things that will always stay with you, Chad's death is one of them. It was the first time I have ever had to face my own immortality. At 19 we thought we were invincible.
I have lost a few other friends along the way, and it never gets any easier.
The departures board flashed with a delay to my flight, and I sat back. Tired, apprehensive and unexcited about the prospect of the 10 hour flight, I flicked absent mindedly through a magazine. Leaned over to check the text that had just come in.
"... have a great flight. All hell breaking loose in London. Something about a bomb..."
Thinking it was a joke, I didn't think anything of it. Then my phone beeped again.
"Are you okay? Tubes are down. Some sort of power surge"
And again.
"Where are you?"
There are no televisions in Gatwick, and as my gate was finally confirmed, I started to feel a bit of dread. Calling L who confirmed that a bomb had indeed gone off, not too far from his office and they had been instructed to stay inside.
I called my office and my colleague Mike kept it simple, told me all they knew. 4 bombs, strategically placed around London, had gone off. That was all. Everyone in my office accounted for.
I tried to reach friends, spoke briefly to a stunned Tony in France, left messages with Knickers to try to reach my parents, knowing my mother would turn on the news and be concerned.
That was the longest flight of my life. I think I cried silently for the majority of my flight, fellow passengers, the stewardesses unaware. Knowing the underground like the back of my hand, I could only imagine what sort of destruction a bomb could cause in that small a space. Thinking back to 911 and to what had happened. To London. To my city.
Touching down for a stopover in Calgary, and finally able to get the full report. Text messages from friends checking in. My uncle, forgetting when I was to fly, leaving a worried voicemail. Finally reaching my father, his voice breaking down the phone.
An hour later, touching down in Vancouver. Rushing through Customs, and being ushered into a holding pen. My luggage opened, searched. Questions barked, I think I answered in a whisper. "Yes, I packed my bags...I am visiting family, I am Canadian..." . Thrusting my passport back at me and waving me on.
My mother is emotional, talkative. She has been bending the ear of the journalist sent to cover the arrivals. The TV crew trains its camera on her, she mentions my job. As I make my way into the Arrivals, a flash, a camera following my mother to me. I am home. And all I want is to be back at work, with the TV over my head, the wires coming in. All I want is to know how my city is.
I forget all the media training I have had, mumble and murmur responses, trying to hide my face from the camera. I break off, stunned disbelief on my fellow passengers. Most of them hadn't heard until then.
I spent the evening without sleep, reading blogs and watching BBC World. Trying to get my head around what had happened.
The day before, I had taken a bus past Trafalgar Square to catch the tail end of the Olympic celebrations. I remarked to my father sleepily, that they had chosen the wrong time. That London was so strong, that something like this couldn't break its back.
The following day, I went down to Kits beach, bought all the newspapers I could get my hands on. Turned the pages, my picture in black and white staring back at me. Images from the carriages, interviews with survivors and rescue teams. Sat and cried like my heart would break. I'm not sure my friends, nor my family understood why I took it so hard. I don't think I do either - I think because I could only watch it from afar. I wanted to be back there, wanted to be one of the thousands that poured onto the streets in memory.
When I flew back to London 2 weeks later, another bombing and confusion surrounding the shooting of an innocent man , I felt disjointed. Disconnected from the city that I loved. Riding the Thameslink past Kings Cross, there was nothing to suggest the violence that had marked it a few weeks prior. Walking past armed police and dogs and becoming much more aware of fellow commuters became a daily occurence. I had never liked taking the tube in summer, and so I stopped. Other than that, not much changed.
Although it took me a long time to get back into my old life, I had already made the decision that I would be returning back to Vancouver and to this day I know it has very little, if anything at all, to do with the bombings. I had been a few streets away when the Admiral Duncan was nail bombed, had learnt that bomb scares were a part of daily life.
Something inside of me had changed before then, I wanted to be part of my family again. It just took a little while for me to get there.
I have included some links to the stories I have been reading, there are some amazing voices out there.
Rachel North. Thanks to Pixel Diva who introduced me to her writing some months back.
Guardian Unlimited: Matthew Weaver and David Batty have recorded interviews with the survivors here.
Holly Finch
Mitch
July 7th is also the anniversary of the death of a very dear friend, who 13 years ago today fell asleep at the wheel of his car with 2 friends, who luckily survived. There are things that will always stay with you, Chad's death is one of them. It was the first time I have ever had to face my own immortality. At 19 we thought we were invincible.
I have lost a few other friends along the way, and it never gets any easier.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Cimetière Montmartre
There's a great shot of a tombstone as part of this series which I am trying to find (I think it's with the rest of my freight which is still missing) for a gentleman by the name of Louis Bastard.
Classic.
Classic.
Mood shots
Taken a few years ago when I was making plans to move back to Vancouver.
Sadly I lost the rest of the series in *The Divorce*
Sadly I lost the rest of the series in *The Divorce*
*Blip*
I just wanted to inform you that I am premenstrual (which is probably far too much information for my male readers but as this is a blip I'm afraid it has to be acknowledged) and as a result...
I am having an identity crisis.
Not to mention, I am frantically questioning what I want to do with my life.
I am not anamoured at all, nor am I motivated or stimulatd by my current job and it's only the fact it is paying the bills and allowing me to play that I have not shoved PIM's into faces on the "Can you bind this?" request and marched out the door. Whatever it was that I signed up for, it certainly wasn't to be an admin assistant to an office of alpha males. I have had to swallow my pride on several occassions, and bitten my tongue when orders are being barked at me or menial tasks dropped on my desk.
Okay. So I used to be Personal Assistant to the Editor in Chief of the best daily newspaper on the world wide web. (The Webbys are there to prove it)
We all have choices and I think I may have chosen unwisely this time. But we all need to pay the rent.
I also blame the film, "The Devil Wears Prada"on my ensemble today which I have to admit, I do love. Even if the IB's are a bit taken aback to the blatant use of accessories today. And the film, if you are a clothes junkie, fashion whore or media tart could be the greatest film of all times.
Well, in parts.
Other parts made me throw my hands in the air, look skywards and say *why oh why oh why*
a) Can't I have those Choos? b) Can that jacket/, that handbag, that scarf (I did spot my Vivienne Westwood which almost made me pee) not be mine?
c) Did they have to ruin a great story line by making the woman have to choose between man and career? Shouldn't we be able to have it all? Why does there always have to be a throw away ending?
So just to let you know, I am having another little meltdown. Although I know I should be patient about the fact I have only been back less than 3 months, I'm not that patient a person when it comes to my life and I really really don't know what I want to do next.
In the 3rd interview yesterday morning for the job I am covetting, I was asked what drove me, what inspired me, where did I see myself a year from now? And in that heartbeat, I froze. (and subsequently bollocks'ed the entire interview up, I'm sure of it)
What do I want to do with this great ole life of mine?
Schooling is an option, definitely and I'm looking at a variety of schools for Fall Term now. But then again, what do I want? Where do I see myself in 5 years? Looking at the big picture, it is actually an exciting prospect. But at the moment, it has triggered a severe bout of self doubt from some not so fun PMS.
One thing I am damned sure of though, I don't want to be here in a year with a knot in my stomach in case I make a mistake; regardless of the paid overtime.
And now that I have had my little outburst. whinged a little and shown you all my shallow side, I shall resume regular activity tomorrow.
Thank you.
I am having an identity crisis.
Not to mention, I am frantically questioning what I want to do with my life.
I am not anamoured at all, nor am I motivated or stimulatd by my current job and it's only the fact it is paying the bills and allowing me to play that I have not shoved PIM's into faces on the "Can you bind this?" request and marched out the door. Whatever it was that I signed up for, it certainly wasn't to be an admin assistant to an office of alpha males. I have had to swallow my pride on several occassions, and bitten my tongue when orders are being barked at me or menial tasks dropped on my desk.
Okay. So I used to be Personal Assistant to the Editor in Chief of the best daily newspaper on the world wide web. (The Webbys are there to prove it)
We all have choices and I think I may have chosen unwisely this time. But we all need to pay the rent.
I also blame the film, "The Devil Wears Prada"on my ensemble today which I have to admit, I do love. Even if the IB's are a bit taken aback to the blatant use of accessories today. And the film, if you are a clothes junkie, fashion whore or media tart could be the greatest film of all times.
Well, in parts.
Other parts made me throw my hands in the air, look skywards and say *why oh why oh why*
a) Can't I have those Choos? b) Can that jacket/, that handbag, that scarf (I did spot my Vivienne Westwood which almost made me pee) not be mine?
c) Did they have to ruin a great story line by making the woman have to choose between man and career? Shouldn't we be able to have it all? Why does there always have to be a throw away ending?
So just to let you know, I am having another little meltdown. Although I know I should be patient about the fact I have only been back less than 3 months, I'm not that patient a person when it comes to my life and I really really don't know what I want to do next.
In the 3rd interview yesterday morning for the job I am covetting, I was asked what drove me, what inspired me, where did I see myself a year from now? And in that heartbeat, I froze. (and subsequently bollocks'ed the entire interview up, I'm sure of it)
What do I want to do with this great ole life of mine?
Schooling is an option, definitely and I'm looking at a variety of schools for Fall Term now. But then again, what do I want? Where do I see myself in 5 years? Looking at the big picture, it is actually an exciting prospect. But at the moment, it has triggered a severe bout of self doubt from some not so fun PMS.
One thing I am damned sure of though, I don't want to be here in a year with a knot in my stomach in case I make a mistake; regardless of the paid overtime.
And now that I have had my little outburst. whinged a little and shown you all my shallow side, I shall resume regular activity tomorrow.
Thank you.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
The Pint Sized Postman
"I haven't been single for a long time... " The Pint Sized Postman looks down at his pint, "and now... " he spreads his small hands on the table nervously, "...here I am."
Fixing blue eyes on me, I can't help thinking that he does indeed resemble a leprechaun. I think it could be his beard. Or maybe that he has taken to mimicking my accent at every opportunity.
I excuse myself, rush to the loos and send off a quick text to the Nurse.
*Please rescue me!*
I have never had to do this before, never resorted to the tactical emergency that most daters have at one point or another conjured up to get out of a bad date. And granted, I have never been handed an emergency card - several years ago I was simply and quite bluntly, stood up. (A choice selection of Mature Woman porn sent to his work address in a clear cellophane envelope several weeks later may or may not have been my quid pro quo. Hell hath no fury like a Lady scorned.)
I wonder, as I'm stood there, phone in hand what I am really doing there? He had seemed charming and funny, and I tend to have streamlined a pretty good vetting procedure for the easily disturbed or manically depressed.
I make my way back to the table. I don't know what to do when the smiling waitress returns with another round he had ordered in my absence, I was hoping to make my excuses and dash out the door as soon as the last dregs of ale had been emptied.
"So where do you go to pick up men?" He deadpans across the table to me. I am hoping the ground will open up and, oh... I don't know. Swallow me? Swallow him? Swallow the table of teenagers beside us to give us something else to talk about?
I hum and haw, and then stop. I can't remember the last time I went out to *pick up men*. I think I was in my late teens.
I've now started to question whether I am a Sim U Date. Or a rebound. Or if, in truth, he has been single for such a short time that the dating field has upset his meridians.
"I was talking to my buddy the other day, and we were saying we don't know where single men can go to meet single women..."
I think about suggesting the corner of Seymour and Nelson but I don't think he'd understand my humour. So instead, I bite my tongue and make a mental note to make a few more tweaks to that vetting procedure I seem to have so much faith in.
"And I'll bet you like tall men, don't you?"
I can't lie, can I? I mean, The Ex was 6ft7. I like tall men. Always have.
I nod.
He looks a little angry. "Why is that? You're shorter than me!"
I take this opportunity to look down at my phone, feign concern and stop a clever little retort along the lines of "Not when I'm in heels...". But I don't. I am trying to get out of this with dignity.
"I'm sorry", I say, downing my pint. "But look at the time, I do really need to get going...".
He looks disappointed as I try not to run out of Hell's Kitchen with my feet flying. When he leans in for a kiss as we are saying goodbye, I can only do a duck and dive, pull out of a quasi hug with his lips floating in mid air and chalk the whole night up to experience gained.
Fixing blue eyes on me, I can't help thinking that he does indeed resemble a leprechaun. I think it could be his beard. Or maybe that he has taken to mimicking my accent at every opportunity.
I excuse myself, rush to the loos and send off a quick text to the Nurse.
*Please rescue me!*
I have never had to do this before, never resorted to the tactical emergency that most daters have at one point or another conjured up to get out of a bad date. And granted, I have never been handed an emergency card - several years ago I was simply and quite bluntly, stood up. (A choice selection of Mature Woman porn sent to his work address in a clear cellophane envelope several weeks later may or may not have been my quid pro quo. Hell hath no fury like a Lady scorned.)
I wonder, as I'm stood there, phone in hand what I am really doing there? He had seemed charming and funny, and I tend to have streamlined a pretty good vetting procedure for the easily disturbed or manically depressed.
I make my way back to the table. I don't know what to do when the smiling waitress returns with another round he had ordered in my absence, I was hoping to make my excuses and dash out the door as soon as the last dregs of ale had been emptied.
"So where do you go to pick up men?" He deadpans across the table to me. I am hoping the ground will open up and, oh... I don't know. Swallow me? Swallow him? Swallow the table of teenagers beside us to give us something else to talk about?
I hum and haw, and then stop. I can't remember the last time I went out to *pick up men*. I think I was in my late teens.
I've now started to question whether I am a Sim U Date. Or a rebound. Or if, in truth, he has been single for such a short time that the dating field has upset his meridians.
"I was talking to my buddy the other day, and we were saying we don't know where single men can go to meet single women..."
I think about suggesting the corner of Seymour and Nelson but I don't think he'd understand my humour. So instead, I bite my tongue and make a mental note to make a few more tweaks to that vetting procedure I seem to have so much faith in.
"And I'll bet you like tall men, don't you?"
I can't lie, can I? I mean, The Ex was 6ft7. I like tall men. Always have.
I nod.
He looks a little angry. "Why is that? You're shorter than me!"
I take this opportunity to look down at my phone, feign concern and stop a clever little retort along the lines of "Not when I'm in heels...". But I don't. I am trying to get out of this with dignity.
"I'm sorry", I say, downing my pint. "But look at the time, I do really need to get going...".
He looks disappointed as I try not to run out of Hell's Kitchen with my feet flying. When he leans in for a kiss as we are saying goodbye, I can only do a duck and dive, pull out of a quasi hug with his lips floating in mid air and chalk the whole night up to experience gained.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Esoteric Part III: The Formula and The Finale
The Nurse looks over at me, after her perfectly genteel date with the Hot Doctor and a promising kiss has resulted in his disappearance from the face of the earth.
And all the right signals she is sending out to the Other Boy have only been caught half heartedly. And believe me, I have seen the body language, and the body language is good. But that's another story.
So what gives?
I'm stumped. Truly I am. I wonder if it really is me. After an equally promising date with Esoteric, I'm now in a quandry.
Usually I can tell, can see the signs before they happen and manage to excuse myself from the table before the final blow. Save face and teeter out the back door with my head held high and my pride, oftentimes wounded, but never scarred too badly, still intact.
This time, I hold back from rushing in too quickly. I feel like a teenager, holding hands, an innocent sleepover with just the right amount of fireworks in case I want to overstep that line. I do, believe me I do, but I'd also like to know this strange young creature a little better before things get tangled up in bedsheets.
In the morning, he tugs at my curls. Pulls me closer for a kiss and wakes me with "Good morning, beautiful..."
I know I am not falling, I know that the young man curled up beside me with the smile on his face will never grow old with me, never help me host a dinner party or choose bedlinen, never walk the dogs or borrow my car, will never get far enough under my skin that he leaves a mark on me whenever he walks away.
And it takes me a while before I know for certain that I have already written the formula. After his initial first contact, his subsequent volley of emails and IM's, when he was stalling in asking for that elusive date and I took the initiative, called him and asked him out for drinks, I put down the first few numbers of the equation.
I already knew when he was asking me to stay, just a few minutes more, and kissing me goodbye without asking when he would see me next that any further movement in this would likely result in my having to lay further groundwork. That should this result in a subsequent date, and then another it will be my follow through, not his. And as days go by, I am distracted by work and trying to find time to see friends and family, that his attempts at communication are random IM's with no promise or substance is when my interest wanes.
Shaking her head over Saturday morning cappuccino, The Nurse asks... "So where do you draw the line between having fun and finding a match...?"
I know I'm only there for the fun, at the moment; I have nothing more that I can give. And when an invite to the beach with some fabulous new friends for a Sunday afternoon BBQ seems like a perfect opportunity to extend an invitation, Esoteric accepts.
Then subsequently flaps and faffs down the phone "Where did you say it was again?", repeating myself the fourth time, and he forgetting to call until exactly the last minute to say to go on, he'll call me later and meet me there. And that, then, is the last I hear. The finale. Le fin.
I realise that I have made all the moves, written down all the sums and am left holding nothing. That the first few moves determines the formula for the remainder of this relationship, that should I persevere I will be making all the moves. The theory is thus, if you are always the one chasing, making the dates and taking initiative you've already played your cards. Relinquished a little control, because it's been established you don't mind doing a majority of the leg work from the get go.
And that is a position I feel somewhat uncomfortable with.
I am not willing, nor am I interested in chasing something less than tangible.
And I am most definitely rewriting the formula next time.
And all the right signals she is sending out to the Other Boy have only been caught half heartedly. And believe me, I have seen the body language, and the body language is good. But that's another story.
So what gives?
I'm stumped. Truly I am. I wonder if it really is me. After an equally promising date with Esoteric, I'm now in a quandry.
Usually I can tell, can see the signs before they happen and manage to excuse myself from the table before the final blow. Save face and teeter out the back door with my head held high and my pride, oftentimes wounded, but never scarred too badly, still intact.
This time, I hold back from rushing in too quickly. I feel like a teenager, holding hands, an innocent sleepover with just the right amount of fireworks in case I want to overstep that line. I do, believe me I do, but I'd also like to know this strange young creature a little better before things get tangled up in bedsheets.
In the morning, he tugs at my curls. Pulls me closer for a kiss and wakes me with "Good morning, beautiful..."
I know I am not falling, I know that the young man curled up beside me with the smile on his face will never grow old with me, never help me host a dinner party or choose bedlinen, never walk the dogs or borrow my car, will never get far enough under my skin that he leaves a mark on me whenever he walks away.
And it takes me a while before I know for certain that I have already written the formula. After his initial first contact, his subsequent volley of emails and IM's, when he was stalling in asking for that elusive date and I took the initiative, called him and asked him out for drinks, I put down the first few numbers of the equation.
I already knew when he was asking me to stay, just a few minutes more, and kissing me goodbye without asking when he would see me next that any further movement in this would likely result in my having to lay further groundwork. That should this result in a subsequent date, and then another it will be my follow through, not his. And as days go by, I am distracted by work and trying to find time to see friends and family, that his attempts at communication are random IM's with no promise or substance is when my interest wanes.
Shaking her head over Saturday morning cappuccino, The Nurse asks... "So where do you draw the line between having fun and finding a match...?"
I know I'm only there for the fun, at the moment; I have nothing more that I can give. And when an invite to the beach with some fabulous new friends for a Sunday afternoon BBQ seems like a perfect opportunity to extend an invitation, Esoteric accepts.
Then subsequently flaps and faffs down the phone "Where did you say it was again?", repeating myself the fourth time, and he forgetting to call until exactly the last minute to say to go on, he'll call me later and meet me there. And that, then, is the last I hear. The finale. Le fin.
I realise that I have made all the moves, written down all the sums and am left holding nothing. That the first few moves determines the formula for the remainder of this relationship, that should I persevere I will be making all the moves. The theory is thus, if you are always the one chasing, making the dates and taking initiative you've already played your cards. Relinquished a little control, because it's been established you don't mind doing a majority of the leg work from the get go.
And that is a position I feel somewhat uncomfortable with.
I am not willing, nor am I interested in chasing something less than tangible.
And I am most definitely rewriting the formula next time.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Esoteric Part II: Cocktails and Mulligans
Friday morning, 7:53am. Day 10 of my new job, bleary eyed at my desk.
The analysts, the Directors, the Associates, none of them have quite made it in yet. I am gripping my coffee and praying that, after the 4th shot last night, I did not make too much of a fool out of myself, but somewhere, sometime between leaving the bar and making my way across town to funky Gastown club to dance the remainder of the night away, my memory has taken an unexpected relapse. And I am fairly confident it is never coming back.
The event was NOG, a networking and social affair much feted in Vancouver's circles and all for the benefit of those young people in the banking business; bring in the lawyers, the investment bankers, the analysts, the suits and coiffed hair. The Nurse says that it was an unfair test on me. I'd had a long week, I knew the guys who owned the bar from my old partying days, I needed to let my hair down. And there were men in suits; and although I have not really been one to be attracted to power, I certainly felt a little weak knee'ed when the bar started to fill.
Granted, I wasn't even supposed to be there what with my lowly position in the banking business but as my company was behind the organization; I was there to uhh... collect tickets and represent my colleague who begged off with a headache. So when my new boss handed me a shooter, I was faced with a dilema.
Whatever is a gal to do?
Politely decline and make her way home?
Or knock it back with a smile and show those bankers how to party?
I am a proud woman. And there are few things that I can do, and do well. Drinking is one of them.
Tact, discretion, logic all fall far from grace.
And Friday afternoon when Esoteric rings to push our date back an hour, I know I am buggered. I am knackered. I am hung over, and as I am about to pack up for the weekend a project lands squarely on my desk. To be completed, the Associate says in a panic, by Monday am. As I eventually manage to leave the office, fall into an awaiting cab to rush home and find the energy to muster up the wit, the charisma, the charm I luckily get my second wind.
And when he smiles and says he's not at his best tonight and cheekily announces as he takes my hand, that tonight shall be a Mulligan; I am eternally grateful.
Even though I did have to have some clarification. At least I've another dating term to add to my lingo.
As well as the right card to pull when I'm feeling less than fabulous.
The analysts, the Directors, the Associates, none of them have quite made it in yet. I am gripping my coffee and praying that, after the 4th shot last night, I did not make too much of a fool out of myself, but somewhere, sometime between leaving the bar and making my way across town to funky Gastown club to dance the remainder of the night away, my memory has taken an unexpected relapse. And I am fairly confident it is never coming back.
The event was NOG, a networking and social affair much feted in Vancouver's circles and all for the benefit of those young people in the banking business; bring in the lawyers, the investment bankers, the analysts, the suits and coiffed hair. The Nurse says that it was an unfair test on me. I'd had a long week, I knew the guys who owned the bar from my old partying days, I needed to let my hair down. And there were men in suits; and although I have not really been one to be attracted to power, I certainly felt a little weak knee'ed when the bar started to fill.
Granted, I wasn't even supposed to be there what with my lowly position in the banking business but as my company was behind the organization; I was there to uhh... collect tickets and represent my colleague who begged off with a headache. So when my new boss handed me a shooter, I was faced with a dilema.
Whatever is a gal to do?
Politely decline and make her way home?
Or knock it back with a smile and show those bankers how to party?
I am a proud woman. And there are few things that I can do, and do well. Drinking is one of them.
Tact, discretion, logic all fall far from grace.
And Friday afternoon when Esoteric rings to push our date back an hour, I know I am buggered. I am knackered. I am hung over, and as I am about to pack up for the weekend a project lands squarely on my desk. To be completed, the Associate says in a panic, by Monday am. As I eventually manage to leave the office, fall into an awaiting cab to rush home and find the energy to muster up the wit, the charisma, the charm I luckily get my second wind.
And when he smiles and says he's not at his best tonight and cheekily announces as he takes my hand, that tonight shall be a Mulligan; I am eternally grateful.
Even though I did have to have some clarification. At least I've another dating term to add to my lingo.
As well as the right card to pull when I'm feeling less than fabulous.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Esoteric Part I: A Mishap, An Anecdote and the Urban Myth of the Naked Beauty Queens
"You're not going to write about me, are you?"
Esoteric looks a bit concerned as we settle ourselves down at Lucy Mae Brown for mojitos.
I can't say no. Really. But I can't say yes either because I'm never sure. Who gets written about, and who doesn't. There are still a few stories out there unwritten; the Pocket Sized Barrister for one. The FIB for another. Pierced Andy, the Bad Ass, The Lecturer. None, despite their interest, quite made it here.
There's no real selection process. Mainly the criteria centres around my dating mishaps, the whole mantra of it’s better to laugh at yourself than cry.
And you would think that after all the dating I have done and still do, I'd be well versed in all this.
A dating Guru. The Oracle of the Date.
Needless to say, if I was, I wouldn't be writing. Because you see, I have landed on the most bizarre dating scene I have ever encountered. Not with Esoteric himself. Just Vancouver in itself.
The single women I know moan about the lack of eligible men; at a party the other night I overheard a conversation between two very beautiful and very successful women in their early 30's compare dating notes. The conversation summed up when one, a former beauty queen, turned to the other and said *I could walk down the road naked and still not get noticed...*. The other agreed.
I have been warned that there is a lack of single men, that dating is hard. But according to a recent story by Gloria Chang, the urban myth that single women far outweigh the single men is revealed to be, frankly, pure bobbins.
So what is it about Vancouver? Do all cities have this same urban myth, that there are no men? In London, the city was teeming yet I am the first to admit that getting a date was incredibly difficult.
Here I have found no problems - I think mainly due to the fabulous marketing machine that is LavaLife, along with a very different attitude to single life.
Here dating seems like a chore that women need to get through in order to reach that *relationship* trophy. I can feel the urgency to couple up here, I can't remember the last time I had actually felt the pressure from the young women and men around me to be part of that elusive club. Where else can you find a company that acts as a head hunter for your love life?
I notice glances down at my left hand, subtle questioning to discover my status and the shocked, almost pitying glance when I reveal my singledom, feel them shrink back in case I may be catching.. This I still find amusing, I have been single for 3 years and if anyone would be worried, surely it would be me? Or should I be worried that I am not worried?
Granted, there are times when I think that it would be nice and maybe I am still healing from the trauma the Ex and I inflicted on each other. Maybe I am not ready, and maybe I am too damned scared. But I for one am not concerned right now, it's just not happened to cross my path yet.
And when it does, I am sure I will be ready to take it in open arms.
In the meantime, I hope there are still mishaps and anecdotes. Because surely that's what life is all about?
Esoteric looks a bit concerned as we settle ourselves down at Lucy Mae Brown for mojitos.
I can't say no. Really. But I can't say yes either because I'm never sure. Who gets written about, and who doesn't. There are still a few stories out there unwritten; the Pocket Sized Barrister for one. The FIB for another. Pierced Andy, the Bad Ass, The Lecturer. None, despite their interest, quite made it here.
There's no real selection process. Mainly the criteria centres around my dating mishaps, the whole mantra of it’s better to laugh at yourself than cry.
And you would think that after all the dating I have done and still do, I'd be well versed in all this.
A dating Guru. The Oracle of the Date.
Needless to say, if I was, I wouldn't be writing. Because you see, I have landed on the most bizarre dating scene I have ever encountered. Not with Esoteric himself. Just Vancouver in itself.
The single women I know moan about the lack of eligible men; at a party the other night I overheard a conversation between two very beautiful and very successful women in their early 30's compare dating notes. The conversation summed up when one, a former beauty queen, turned to the other and said *I could walk down the road naked and still not get noticed...*. The other agreed.
I have been warned that there is a lack of single men, that dating is hard. But according to a recent story by Gloria Chang, the urban myth that single women far outweigh the single men is revealed to be, frankly, pure bobbins.
So what is it about Vancouver? Do all cities have this same urban myth, that there are no men? In London, the city was teeming yet I am the first to admit that getting a date was incredibly difficult.
Here I have found no problems - I think mainly due to the fabulous marketing machine that is LavaLife, along with a very different attitude to single life.
Here dating seems like a chore that women need to get through in order to reach that *relationship* trophy. I can feel the urgency to couple up here, I can't remember the last time I had actually felt the pressure from the young women and men around me to be part of that elusive club. Where else can you find a company that acts as a head hunter for your love life?
I notice glances down at my left hand, subtle questioning to discover my status and the shocked, almost pitying glance when I reveal my singledom, feel them shrink back in case I may be catching.. This I still find amusing, I have been single for 3 years and if anyone would be worried, surely it would be me? Or should I be worried that I am not worried?
Granted, there are times when I think that it would be nice and maybe I am still healing from the trauma the Ex and I inflicted on each other. Maybe I am not ready, and maybe I am too damned scared. But I for one am not concerned right now, it's just not happened to cross my path yet.
And when it does, I am sure I will be ready to take it in open arms.
In the meantime, I hope there are still mishaps and anecdotes. Because surely that's what life is all about?
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Total hours of sleep since Thursday night: 8
Last time I went to bed: Saturday morning at 6am
Units of alcohol consumed, on average each night since Thursday: 18
My body feels battered and bruised.
Last night's party started at the Arts Club, clad in a blonde afro and false lashes, go-go boots and a black sheath dress with the Gorgeous and Ms R, progressed to Doolin's , a series of bars later with the dashing young Birch and friends, and ended with us laying on the beach and watching the sun come up over the Burrard Inlet. A dash back home to have brunch with my parents meant that somehow I seem to have missed out on going to bed yesterday and my bed is calling.
The weekend has passed by in hangovers and vodka induced fugs, a date with Esoteric, inappropriate snogging, 70's parties, a severe lack of sleep and more fun than I have had in a long time.
It appears Mme Mojo has awoken, taken interest in our surroundings and decided to come back out.
I am not so sure I can handle her.
Units of alcohol consumed, on average each night since Thursday: 18
My body feels battered and bruised.
Last night's party started at the Arts Club, clad in a blonde afro and false lashes, go-go boots and a black sheath dress with the Gorgeous and Ms R, progressed to Doolin's , a series of bars later with the dashing young Birch and friends, and ended with us laying on the beach and watching the sun come up over the Burrard Inlet. A dash back home to have brunch with my parents meant that somehow I seem to have missed out on going to bed yesterday and my bed is calling.
The weekend has passed by in hangovers and vodka induced fugs, a date with Esoteric, inappropriate snogging, 70's parties, a severe lack of sleep and more fun than I have had in a long time.
It appears Mme Mojo has awoken, taken interest in our surroundings and decided to come back out.
I am not so sure I can handle her.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
I should be in the pub
...which incidentally was my first thought as I woke up this morning.
At 6am.
And not because I have a problem. Really.
Because of this.
If you missed it, I'd consider reading this. Which is by far the best way to recap.
And I can consider myself lucky enough not to have to listen to Ian Wright these days, and instead I'm going back to bed and not the pub.
Oh, and Happy Birthday Tiki.
At 6am.
And not because I have a problem. Really.
Because of this.
If you missed it, I'd consider reading this. Which is by far the best way to recap.
And I can consider myself lucky enough not to have to listen to Ian Wright these days, and instead I'm going back to bed and not the pub.
Oh, and Happy Birthday Tiki.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Tuesday. Urghhh...
Today was my 3rd day of work. Urgh.
Not work. Work is okay. Despite the fact that as the new girl I'm out to impress, even if it means finishing work at 8:42 pm tonight. So there goes the grocery shopping and the cleaning of the bathroom and posting a proper post and catching up on email and all those other chores I meant to do on the weekend but I er, was far too hungover.
And then there's that litte fact that fabulous shoes HURT.
They HURT.
LIKE.
HELL.
There.
I've said it. Limped my way out of work today. But damn they're fabulous, and I like shoes.
And so the really good post I had every intention of writing will have to wait. There's some good stuff. Including details of the 2 dates I had, 2 count 'em... I love Vancouver. Dating here is so, well... it's so bloody easy. And I'm looking forward to the little Devyl to join me for some much anticipated debauchery. Just as soon as I get a grip on life and nail down some dates. What fun! You are all, of course, invited too!
In the meantime, I miss London just a tad this week, which is good as I haven't really missed it all that much, I mean when you have the North Shore mountains, the beaches and Granville Island it's a toughie. But this week I miss the little peeps at GU Towers.
And my Lovelies. I miss them, my non-bloggie Buddhists.
I miss Soho and Sunday mornings at Bar Italia. So I shall leave you with this...
Not work. Work is okay. Despite the fact that as the new girl I'm out to impress, even if it means finishing work at 8:42 pm tonight. So there goes the grocery shopping and the cleaning of the bathroom and posting a proper post and catching up on email and all those other chores I meant to do on the weekend but I er, was far too hungover.
And then there's that litte fact that fabulous shoes HURT.
They HURT.
LIKE.
HELL.
There.
I've said it. Limped my way out of work today. But damn they're fabulous, and I like shoes.
And so the really good post I had every intention of writing will have to wait. There's some good stuff. Including details of the 2 dates I had, 2 count 'em... I love Vancouver. Dating here is so, well... it's so bloody easy. And I'm looking forward to the little Devyl to join me for some much anticipated debauchery. Just as soon as I get a grip on life and nail down some dates. What fun! You are all, of course, invited too!
In the meantime, I miss London just a tad this week, which is good as I haven't really missed it all that much, I mean when you have the North Shore mountains, the beaches and Granville Island it's a toughie. But this week I miss the little peeps at GU Towers.
And my Lovelies. I miss them, my non-bloggie Buddhists.
I miss Soho and Sunday mornings at Bar Italia. So I shall leave you with this...
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Under the influence...
Urgh. They say never to drink and dial. My theory is not to drink and blog.
My head is swimming, it seems that after one day of work the philosophy of working hard and playing hard veers strongly to the philosophy of playing hard.
"It won't be a late one..." I say to the Gorgeous as I'm walking out the door to meet the Nurse for a cocktail Friday night, "I have a date tomorrow morning."
Coffee with the Belgian Accountant.
Unfortunately, my best intentions found me at 2am in the company of rugby players downing Jager bombs at the bar while The Nurse flirted outrageously with the Hot Doctor. As it started to get light, I made my way down Broadway, extracting myself from the cab and quietly sneaking into the house.
Last night, however, was the Gorgeous' fault. Mountgay before we left the house, ordering shots of black sambucca as soon as we got to the bar. She was on a mission, I was just her wingwoman, smiling at the waitress and nodding the order back. Spying a young man in cowboy boots and a hat across the bar, a displaced Texan in Vancouver, I couldn't help but flirt and smile, accept a date to go horse backriding one weekend. A cheeky smile and a little drawl sending me on my way out into the darkened streets of Granville with The Gorgeous, in search for our dancing feet.
So this morning, I am staying curled up in bed trying to soothe my aching body, gather my thoughts back together. Reply to emails, catching up on blogs and watching the rain fall outside...
Anna tells me Mimi is apparently creating havoc in me old abode in London. God rest that kettle, it was time for a replacement anyway.
My head is swimming, it seems that after one day of work the philosophy of working hard and playing hard veers strongly to the philosophy of playing hard.
"It won't be a late one..." I say to the Gorgeous as I'm walking out the door to meet the Nurse for a cocktail Friday night, "I have a date tomorrow morning."
Coffee with the Belgian Accountant.
Unfortunately, my best intentions found me at 2am in the company of rugby players downing Jager bombs at the bar while The Nurse flirted outrageously with the Hot Doctor. As it started to get light, I made my way down Broadway, extracting myself from the cab and quietly sneaking into the house.
Last night, however, was the Gorgeous' fault. Mountgay before we left the house, ordering shots of black sambucca as soon as we got to the bar. She was on a mission, I was just her wingwoman, smiling at the waitress and nodding the order back. Spying a young man in cowboy boots and a hat across the bar, a displaced Texan in Vancouver, I couldn't help but flirt and smile, accept a date to go horse backriding one weekend. A cheeky smile and a little drawl sending me on my way out into the darkened streets of Granville with The Gorgeous, in search for our dancing feet.
So this morning, I am staying curled up in bed trying to soothe my aching body, gather my thoughts back together. Reply to emails, catching up on blogs and watching the rain fall outside...
Anna tells me Mimi is apparently creating havoc in me old abode in London. God rest that kettle, it was time for a replacement anyway.
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