…preparation
A girl gets ready for a night out. She raids her deep cupboards for everything. Doors lie half off their hinges, across the room shirts and pants and tops and ties lie in knots on the shag pile. Hangers lay strewn Wooden, metallic, plastic with the sizes torn off in a fit of rage.
The music blares on her kareoke/ipod machine that she loves for when those parties happen. She has a ‘date’ playlist, because in this modern world everything has a soundtrack. The soundtrack for this scene is a quicky mix of modern classics, a little of the Beta Band, some Goldfrapp, The Band of Bees and the Postal Service; a smattering of Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, some Bloc Party, They Might be Giants and Madonna’s Immaculate collection tastefully finished off with some old school Daft Punk turned all the way up to eleven.
In order to test the vast array of heals which she abusively flings from the cupboard on the bed she even does a little dance. And finally settles on some 80s’ classics, a little Duran Duran as the sun goes down.
Nail Polish – 10 mins
Leg wax – 30 mins and a little powder, a pair of stockings with a beautiful seam all the way up to a pair of frilly pink numbers with something slightly rude on them.
Hair wash and curl, abuse of various cans of styling products – 60 mins
Getting abusive at the hair curlers - 5 mins
Brushing out and going for something simple (i.e. striaghteners) – 10 mins
Bikini Wax – professionally achieved with the aid of some emergency suck sweets and a friend who does last minute appointments.
Friend X with her magic wax sticks around for 30 mins and helps decide clothing options. Narrowing it down to three while drinking
Champagne that has been in the ice box since New Year - priceless.
Make up, eyes – 10 mins, foundation – 5 mins, covering up that scar she doesn’t remember getting – 2 mins, lippy – choice 1 – 2 mins, choice 2 – 3 mins, choice 3 – 2 mins, back to 1, 20 mins.
It is now 7pm. Thirty minutes to lift off and no closer decision has been made on clothing.
Three skirts beg for attention:
1) A skiny white number with a bit blue button, slightly nautical.
2) A long satin pink skirt that feels a bit too try hard.
3) A hippy flouncy flowery smock dress that makes her look cute but is more about fashion than sense.
She throws herself face down in amongst them, unable to make a decision and eventually goes for a Marimekko smock dress and up-do with earings that seem to be made out of the entire metalurgic content of Madagascar.
The perfume of choice is a light and fresh number, nothing overpowering, a little D&G on the wrists to accentuate and blend with his own choice of scent which is bound to be the ususal. She wonders what he will wear. The scent inspires her imagination. She turns the pictures of the smiling blue eyes of her other half away from her so that her past self is kissing the walls and surfaces of her appartment. That picture of the skiing trip in the Alps where everything was so perfect makes her feel bad but she turns it away and slips into her newly re-healed blue-suede shoes. They feel good to run her hands over and for a moment she stops an thinks again whether this is a good idea.
But the taxi has already arrived and shes out the door, her only worry that the falling rain doesn’t ruin her shoes.
I didn’t let myself believe this was me doing this until I got in the cab. I left my cell on the bed. I did it on purpose.
…ouchie
This is the hardest thing ever. You have to appreciate to post this on the internet is only possible because my anonymity is intact here. I haven’t even shared this with my mother. I really should call her…
My hand was shaking. It was Claire on the other end of the phone call. Her deep voice sounded slow and considered. I haven’t heard from her since we had coffee. I wasn’t entirely sure why she was calling. As one of my oldest friends however, and the woman who introduced me to the man I am supposedly meant to love, I had to answer her call. Though the disappointment that she was not the aforementioned Mr Right was apparent.
I was unashamedly blunt, I tried to make my voice sound chirpy. She was the LAST person I wanted to know about my relationship troubles.
“Hi. I’m at work.” I said hoping that this will lead to an, ‘I’ll call you back later,’ or an ‘Oh sorry. It’s not important.’ It was neither.
“We need to talk.” She said, with an equal amount of bluntness and control. There’s a hole in my stomach somewhere out of which all the fluid seemed to spontaneously leak.
“Erm.” I look at the Damned smokers in my eyeline, smiling and trying to make a face like I’m sorry I have to speak, isn’t it a drag, while also looking through my purse for more cigarettes (Brian my pursemonster informs me I’m all out). “Is it important only…” I hope, trying to fob her off again.
“It’s about you and MR.” She enlightened me. And then paused. I HATE that pause. That pause is laced with something I didn’t like the smell of. Even then. I travelled all the way up major motorways from Soho to the NORF. And it stank of scank.
“or…” And another pause. This one smelled even worse, like vomit mixed with cool superiority. “More specifically Me and MR.”
Suddenly all the things she said last time I saw her come tumbling out the sky like hailstones. Big bastard hailstones with the word ‘bitch’ carved in their icy hides.
I paniced. My breath became tight. My voice went up a whole octave. And yes, I started crying. In the middle of the smoking crowd. The Damned sheltered me from the wind in a haze of nicotine and I wanted to hang up.
“What do you mean?” I ask. What else could I say? It took me a few moments to come up with that witticism. This woman was implying…I couldn’t even face what she was implying. CDL is one of my oldest friends. We’re such good friends we hate each other. We’re jealous of each other in every way, but we’re alike in so many ways that it doesn’t matter. This is the woman who introduced me to MR. I can remember the moment right now. It wanted to make me smile but it didn’t succeed. And she’s …
“It happened before you guys fought.” She enlightened me. Oh I’m so grateful. “I kind of love him.”
“KINDOF!”
“More than you do I think.”
“NO! You’re lying.” I yelled. Obviously not keeping it very low key.
How could he! I mean I wouldn’t put it past Claire, of course I’m not stupid enough to not think she wouldn’t if she could get the chance. But MR! And she’s so very not right for him.
“We thought it better I tell you. He’s kind of hurting right now.”
Hell I’m welling up now thinking of it. I need to be clinical writing this otherwise I’ll never get to what happened next. But it’s taken me four days to come up with the words to express this moment. I need to come back to the pain of it later. Because it didn’t hit, not until dinner on Friday (I’ll get to that when I can. But this seems more important right now). At that very moment, juiced up on caffeine, hormones, guilt and nicotine the only feeling I could appropriately express was rage.
I hung up the phone locked myself in the disabled bathroom on the first floor (I didn’t really care about the people with diagnosed disabilities needing the facilities, relationships are disabilites as far as I am concerned now, so they could go pee in the bushes) and didn’t come out until I had stopped bawling my eyes out adn reapplied my make up. I tried to keep quiet but I’m sure everyone knew. It was that kind of bawling that makes you worried for yourself. The kind that makes you feel sick. I don’t get emotional. There was a lot of stuff coming out in that cry. I don’t think I’ll ever cry like that again, I think people have only one cry like that in them. That was mine.
I had to switch off my cell. Claire kept calling. I didn’t want to hear any more from her. I didn’t want details. I didn’t want to call MR and hear it from him. I didn’t want to hear anyone or see anyone or be around anyone. I wanted to go missing. Just for a bit. I wanted to go and run off into some fields Ophelia style and not have to smile and wave and be nice to people.
MR and I kept our relationship a secret. Or more specifically, I have, from work. I’ve said before I need to seem attainable in whatido, or at least that was my excuse. As I sat in the corner of the washroom I wished someone at work knew. I wished that out of all the mass of acquaintances I have, and colleagues, and crowds of attention seekers like me that there was one person I could confide in. But there wasn’t. It was me at my most lonely.
I took Thursday and Friday off sick. I drove back down to London and wished I had windscreen wipers for my peepers. i huddled up in my duvet and ate haribo and left over rice krispie cakes (that didn’t help matters). My phone didn’t get turned back on until lunch on Friday, when it told me I had 3 missed calls from D&G about Friday night.
I double confirmed. I needed someone.
I’m wondering if that makes me a bad person?
…reason
So it’s last Thursday and I was fretting. I was a mess.
Not a word from MR, and I was looking at my phone every five seconds. My mind wasn’t on my job, and my COWORKERS were very aware.
I was going out for ‘coffee’ (read ‘cigarette’) every thirty minutes. My hands were shaking. I’m not generally a very impulsive person and every time I think of the argument between me and the man I truly adore I was breaking out in a hot flush. The argument with MR has shaken me so badly. It surprised me. We’ve managed to survive an entire relationship without a major bust up and now one crept upon us out of the blue. I don’t think I was paying any attention to the world around me. I got my coat stuck in the elevator. I spilled my coffee down my nice white Karen Millen blouse. I left the hotel room without my key. I got in a cab without my bag (kerb side – had to go back to collect it). Little Missy Absent Minded.
I couldn’t BELIEVE I said yes to dinner with D&G.
But I did. I took out my phone to cancel the date. What had I been thinking? I was my tenth cigarette break of the morning and I smelled like KACK, and outside in the cold holding the cell in my shaking hand amongst the rest of THE DAMNED shuddering under the eaves. And then there he is, drifting past me in a wave of intoxicating Dolce & Gobana scent. I didn’t know he was going to be here today. I’m destroyed. And what do I do?
Options were the following:
1) Ignore him and send the text to cancel dinner, because I’m in love with a wonderful man who despite our argument is beyond fabulous and will no doubt call me later, or turn up outside my hotel room so we can have mind bending make-up sex.
2) Smile nonchalantly, don’t text and decide last minute tomorrow whether I will do him the favour of showing up or not.
3) Run on him and sex his face off outside the office building, it will mean nothing, it will be raw and goddamn dirty…and then I can get it out of my system and go back to being in love.
4) Denial. Good old fashion denial. What argument? What lust? Everything is just fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.
Reason would point me in the direction of one of the above.
But reason had abandoned me. I am Reason’s Dumpster Baby.
I waved back LIKE AN IDIOT.
And what did this heavenly man do? He smiled with confidence, a knowing nod of his head and wafted inside the building. His blonde hair all ruffled and tousled in a way I wanted to chew! And those eyes…regret meant nothing for a minute. My cell in my hand was something to squeeze in place of his thighs. MR who? What IS it about this man that makes me act like a teenager? I’m a strong woman. I intimidate people, it’s what I do. I don’t do it on purpose, it just happens. I’m the Addams family (yes I still had that song in my head). I am as cold as stone and the only person who has ever been able to get blood out of me is MR. He is the one that I am meant to go wibbly for. He is the one who I committed to. Mr Right. The One. The Yin to my Blah. Yet I spend the next ten minutes swearing and playing with my hair the adrenaline in my glands swooning.
I smoked the last three cigarettes in my pocket and clutched at my cell as if it wass a grenade I needed to keep hold of to stop blowing me to KINGDOMCOME…I’m begging the Shoe Gods to send me a sign. A blessed sign to tell me I shouldn’t feel this way.
And then it rang. My phone in my hand started trilling like a crazy thing. My fellow Damned in the shade of the building give me evils, apparently I missed the memo that suggested we needed to smoke in silence. I don’t even contemplate apologising and answer the call.
…weakend
Wow.
I have no words to describe it at the moment. I’ve just come down from a three day high.
D&G. Impromtu Weekend away.
I’ve gone all bubbly in the knees.
I will report back when I have regained the ability to describe it all…
…Coulrophobia
I had a virtual fight. Unfortunately not of the Street Fighter kind. I got K.Oed by mac mail.
Mr Right and I had an argument last night, via email. My heart is breaking. Being away from each other so much is difficult. He down there. Me up here, under there, in out in out shake it round about…
It’s hard to share those ins and outs of the day to day. I spend so much of the day talking the last thing I want to do in the evening is gas about it, and so long at whatido that when I finally get through to the other side of the day I can’t talk about it, not about work, not about play, not about doing what I want to do. Saying what I want to say becomes the last thing I have to achieve and the first thing I forget to do. Too many people to see, too little time to see them. Living how I want to live is hard on the people I claim to Love (he says, hence the fact I have had MC Hammer in my head since last night). That was what started it. Not MC Hammer. He said, “Living how I want to live is hard on the people I claim to Love”
He think’s I’m condescending. I’m not. It’s all in his head. He’s just…hummm…I don’t know, jealous? MR isn’t what people would call confident, or sociable. He doesn’t like company (typical writer) except of the people he stakes a claim on. He won’t propose, and I don’t want him to, but he has staked a claim on me, planted a flag between my butt cheeks for me to wave at him as I pass by. HAILTHECONQUORINGHERO. When he’s here, with me, he is my world, every last gorgeous bit of him. Truth is though that I have to be shared. I have to see other people. I might have a burning brand saying ‘property of Mr Right’ on my soul but my work forces me to be pleasant and sociable, flirtatious, to make friends and influence people. I don’t talk about MR with them because I need to seem attainable.
I know I’m the one in the wrong here. I know I am. I’m not a nice person. I should be with him more often. I shouldn’t flirt. I should tell the world I am in love because I am. My beautiful Mr Right, who I love and adore and who …
Love List entry #6) wrote a love note and got PA to deliver it me on Monday in amongst the morning mail. (the PA is interesting, will tell you all about HIM asap.)
So we had a fight. I said things. He said things. I may have mentioned I was toying with the idea of fucking a professional clown…
As far as nails in the coffin of an argument go, admitting to crushes on children’s entertainers who smell of sex and make your knees tremble is sort of a period point. Especially given that it turns out MR has an irrational fear of clowns. Who knew. It’s called Coulrophobia.
And so I made a decision. Love be damned.
I called D&G. Friday, dinner at a prominent London restaurant. Clowning is paying (if all the desperate housewives knew what he was spending his money on). Should be interesting.
…mouthjoy
Mouthful of toffeecrisp chocolate bar + mouthful of juicy braeburn apple = mouth orgasm
Try it.
Tell me I’m wrong.
(For those of you expecting porn. Ha Ha.)
…receipt
I am currently parked up in stupidsville in the NORF of England (I’m not suggesting there aren’t Hicksville and Dumbsbury in the SAAF – though I’m a hardened Shandy these days) buying rasberries, dried mango and feta salad (and Cancersticks, it’s been one of those days) from local major super market chain. I pay by credit card because change is scarce and debit card is AWOL. It is an old school AMEXthat requires a signature. Pursemonster Brian points out I’m an idiot for never carrying cash and I agree WITH A SMILE as I hand over the plastic.
But you know what, it brightened my day. Why?
She put an ‘X’ on the receipt to tell me where to sign.
sign here_______________________________
| |
| errrrrrr |
_______________________________________
An
X
That there is three seconds of our lives we’ll never get back. Her writing the X. Me looking at it, looking back and realising that the poor girl may very well have had a lobotomy working such a SHITJOB day in day out.
I want to say “I KNOW WHERE TO SIGN. And look I have opposable THUMBSANDEVERYTHING too.”
But Brian hushes me with a soft pink finger. I close up my purse and smile, signing with pleasantry. It’s not her fault that very well all her customers have the kind of neanderthallic intellect that requires people to point out where to sign on a piece of paper with no where but a big white space to sign on. (it they are stone age enough to turn up with cards which require signatures, like me)
Every X on a piece of paper will herby remind me of that poor till-girl.
I’m starting up a charity. It will hire immigrant workers to put X’s on her receipts for her, thus reducing the pressure on poor till-girls in stupidsville everywhere, increase immigration enough to annoy the Rightwing, and providing a service to the thick.
…commution
“I love to drive.
La la la la.
Loud and fast and clear.
I love drive.
La la la la.
Don’t care what time of the year.
The more i drive,
the more I fill with glee
and the more the glee
the more I’m a merrier me
Some people drive awful skodas
And they sound something like this
“ra ra ra ra ra ra skoda….ra” (dreadful)
Some people drive bent out Beatles
Hissing and fizzing like snakes-ss-sss-sss-ss-ss
(not at all attractive to my way of thinking)
Some drive too fast
Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrom Bang”
That’s me. I had a supermarket scrape. Car bruised. Shouldn’t have been listening to show tunes.
