…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.
…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.)
…menthol melodies
Affinity with tissues and melodic mellifluence last night has today has rendered me cured. hoorah. MR insists it was a the bucket of chocolove he forcefed me while we watched cop-show reruns and played junior monopoly (he purchased the game for his niece and has a rule that all games/DVDs/toys etc should be played with once to ensure their safety for with six year old windpipes), but it wasn’t the chocolate…it was the rum.
Friend-E has just returned from The Angeles and has a tan. Bitch. I am hating. He came over to show off his new record he has pieced together in the sunny vales. He sends me love from my mother, whom he was ordered to visit, and brought some of her home made liqueur chocolates. We listen intently to his music while drinking the most delicious tax-free rum, deconstructing the amorphous chords and busting the strings on my notoftenAIR(ed)GUITARuntil morning. I love that thing, but I love my nails also, and if I turn up to work with callusy fingers I will get fired…so I save it for the abuse of my more tunefully minded and talented members of my fettered clan. He plays, I sing…badly, I may as well have stuffed all the mentholated mucus ridden muck rags up nasal passages for all the acoustics my sinus were producing it would have been equally reverberant.
Friend-E and I have history. The kind of way I mention to my Gyno kind of history. He’s not so much a ‘high school sweetheart’ as a ‘high school drop out fuck fest’ kind of a friend. I hate to define him as such, it sounds so crude when I put it like that, but in truth with hormones on the cards we were hardly going to spend every day writing each other sonnets*. When I hit nineteen and ambitious and he was still scraping the fluff out from between his toes to pass the time of day we parted ways. It was beautiful while it lasted, and every now and then it is beautiful again….
When I’m not backed up with green/orange goo and the chocolate cakes my Love made me arn’t within easy view it might be beautiful again. But as for last night we just passed out on the couch after devouring the rum. He woke up with one of my yucksome tissues glued to his shirt and left it with a nice note and his first CD burn on my kitchen counter top.
“My record company thanks you kindly for my germs
…Totally worth it. As always.
Your ma says call more often. E x”
Rice krispie cakes, coffeetime and memories of listening to Ultravox during teenage sex in the back of a VW for breakfast.
*(In truth he did write me a sonnet once, but I’ve no idea where it is, I’ll see if I can search it out for you oh electronic confessional)
**Am I liking the newbloggy searchy facility a bit too much?
…blue suede shoes
For WHATIDO heals are a necessity. Looming is a fine art, and I am bad at it. I have never been one of the tallest women. In fact I am ‘down right petite’, or that is how MR describes me.
“I love them.” He said as I displayed my nice blue suede five inch towers at breakfast this morning. He knows just the right things to say, and actually means it too (Entering the following into Love list).
4)Last time we went shopping he stole into the changing rooms and tried on a pair for himself. He broke the shoes and had to pay for them. They now sit on my sill at ‘home’. I planted Cacti in them…(Cacti are excellent plant substitutes for a woman on the go).
We took an early breakfast in the hotel. Toasted Blueberry Muffins and OhJay because he had to get back. Taxi came. MR went. Le Sigh.
The cab came to fetch me four hours later. I get to THEOFFICE, today this is the top floor of a converted warehouse. I dislike the elevator, since being trapped in one at the age of six I have an irrational fear of strip lighting and the scent of urine. But I braved the beast, being careful my heal didn’t get stuck in the grille. I stood on point the entire journey upwards. On exit six mountainous creatures awaited me, all of whom commented on my blue suede Shoes. “Uh huh huh.”
Coffee break time came and went. As noted, this is my favorite part of the day. Except today. Except today. Everyone was ‘too busy’. My head was pounding, and only Miss LimeGreenPinnafore with her need for clean tables and her diabolically wonderful coffee could have possibly sorted me out. The healthy breakfast of muffins and juice (MR doesn’t drink coffee so when I am around him, neither do I) had taken its toll: five hours, no caffine, makes Missy a mess. Still, even the Caffine Shack was too far away. Instant. That’s what it had to be. And not an intern to be found.
Ever seen a woman growl?
In a bid for freedom I decided to fetch coffee(s) for the gathered mob, not the normal state of the nation, but I needed space. Ten or so people scratched their heads and wondered out loud if they were allowed caffine on whatever current diet they are on. Three finally raised their hands (one of whom I knew would, as her current diet is ‘Caffine only’ – rather her than me. She’s lost 10 pounds through insomnia alone).
One demands vitamin water. I remind them I not an intern, I’m offering out of the charity of my ample breast, not any bid for subservience and then politely told them to drink their own urine, “It’s full of nutrients,” I said, guarantee three of them at least will try it that evening. “I’m going for CoffeeCoffeeCoffee. If you want water, it comes from the tap.” I said and tottered out of the building in my heals.
I brought a jar of Nescafe Head Exploder and some cigarettes and headed back. In my heals. My lovely heals. My lovely lovely heals. Le Sigh.
It was then my cell began to ring. I looked at the display, ‘Private’, so I ignored it, and slipped it in the niche of my underarm while I negotiated the jar of HeadExpolder, the Tarsticks and the industrial locking mechanism of the warehouse door.
I wondered absently whether I was actually going to smoke one of the Tarsticks I had purchased (I buy a packet a week as a comfort but rarely, if ever, smoke one).
The “canteen” for this converted warehouse is on the bottom floor. When I say canteen I mean a table with used stirrers and a domestic abuse victim of a kettle, laced with so much limescale you could carve an Adonis out of it and sell it to the Tate. The discarded cups around it were last washed when Twiggy still hadn’t any hips. I ‘do the honors’: Three steaming cups of instant joy in hand I return to the elevator to find it has finally run its last journey and refuses to move. Share and enjoy? As a claustrophobe I am not disappointed, then I realise:
Six flights of stairs.
Three Cups of coffee.
One pair of Five Inch healed Blue Suede Shoes.
Oh… and a grey pencil skirt.
“LOGISTICALLY UNSOUND IDEA.” My pursemonster Brian would have said, if he had been there (I hadn’t intended to be long so my purse was upstairs)
Three cups of coffee quickly becomes one. The two people who ordered would have to make do with chewing on napkins. I was considering how good this climb would be for my core muscles and my ass while I carefully negotiated each step in my pencil skirt and five inch heals, a golden chalice of Nescafe in one hand and my packet of Cancer in the other.
Then, midway between the third and forth floor, my phone rings; the phone I had put under my arm, the phone on vibrate, the phone that sends a very surprising hum down my arm all the way to the remaining cup of steaming hot coffee, the iPhone that iCost me a small fortune and I am desperate not to drop down three flights of concrete steps. The result of which is that the coffee, which I was desperate to protect from my white shirt, spilt on the concrete floor because I stumbled and threw out my arms in order to stop my face from breaking.
The face thankfully did not break.
The shoes, however were not so fortunate.
Rest In Peace Blue Suede Shoes.
You have served me well.
I smoked a cigarette on the steps in their honor. Finally answering my phone (third redial, it must be important) when due respects have been paid.
The call, as it turns out, was from someone trying to sell me insurance. They are now blacklisted; and I am sending them the bill for my shoes being rehealed…which makes me feel a little better.
…Red Hot Chili Peppers
What I wouldn’t have given for a slice of cheese on toast last night. With Pepper. But nooooooooooooooooooooo
Thai food. MR is a big fan.
I ate a massive hunk of raw chili by accident that made half my face go NUMB.
Nibbles were off the menu last night. We got home and I accidentally put my finger in my eye. My eye went numb. Then the earlier plan began aplomb. Oh my….if only we had recognized the warning signs.
Needless to say that Chili is a difficult acid to remove from the mouth and fingertips.
“Surprising.”
Is how I would describe the events of procreation. MR concurred.
“Definitely surprising.”
Things were red raw this morning. Smokin’
…Vegan Mafia
There are nuts in my icebox.
I didn’t know there were nuts in my icebox. I discovered the bag of during a ritualistic clean.
( R.I.P One Tomato slightly soiled, Mar-2008 to Apr-2008; Two nubs of ginger 5 months senior and incapable of looking after themselves; and a pint of milk, unforgivably neglected)
These are not my nuts.
Through my immense powers of deduction I draw the conclusion that only one other person can be the owner of the nuts. The nefarious nut owner* is the only other person to have access to my icebox.
Conversation with NefariousNutOwner is as follows:
MISSY:
…oh that reminds me, I have your nuts.
NNO:
My nuts?
MISSY:
I don’t like the things and I have a bag of them in my icebox.
NNO:
They’re not mine.
MISSY:
Well whose-else would they be?
I don’t eat nuts. No one else would put nuts in my icebox.
NNO: (through laughter and incredulity)
I don’t know. The fairies?
MISSY:
The fairies don’t have access to my icebox. You do.
NNO:
When exactly would I have put nuts in…
MISSY:
Christmas.
.
.
.
NNO:
It’s Easter.
MISSY:
You must have put them in there at Chrismas.
They look like Chistmas Nuts.
NNO:
They’re yours.
MISSY:
You’re going to give me a complex.
I swear they aren’t mine…maybe someone broke into my house and put them in my icebox.
A really efficient, technically-able Squirrel? Or the Mafia.
NNO:
.
.
.
MISSY:
Like that horse’s head in the Godfather (was it the Godfather? I really need to see that movie).
But they’re Vegan. I’ve been marked for death by a bag of cashews.
If you wake up in the morning and there’s a Macadamia perched on the top of the TeeVee…buy a gun.
Nefarious Nut Owner* later realized …nuts were his.
One-Nil I win.
*Mr Right
