As told by Jen & Gary .
What do you think?
To be fair, I have issues too but I tend to keep them to myself and I am working on them. I swear, I haven't killed someone for their liver since last autumn and that's pretty good going.
Anyway, the blog in question is entitled 'Jen & Gary' but I'm not convinced Gary does any posting. My hunch is that Gary probably doesn't even know about it.
The tagline reads: 'We are a young, vibrant couple who enjoy life', but from reading the post headed 'Are we spoiled?' I think it should really say 'I desperately want a baby. Like, NOW!'
"Having the extra time and energy to spoil the man I love makes the best marriage I can think of! [Ahh, shucks] We can devote all of our time to each other, instead of splitting our attention among three kids and their after school activities [which she so desperately wants to do].
I love making breakfast in bed for my husband and he likes to make breakfast in bed for me too!. [Aaahhh! int that cute?]
I rub his back several nights a week. [How romantic Jen. I hope it isn't on account of indigestion because when that trapped wind starts to move ...]
I make his favorite meals. I am truly interested in his hobbies ....for the most part (which we can indulge in because we don’t have kids to spend our hard earned cash on!) [Oh how she wishes she had kids so she doesn't have to spend her weekends fly-fishing or attending Star Trek conventions.]
And I am just as spoiled as he is [Really she is]. I get regular foot massages. Last night I asked for a squeeze of fresh lime juice in my water, and he happily obliged [Oh how lucky she is. Surely most men would not have honoured such an arduous request and instead rubbed the lime into her face James Cagney style.]
We love doing special things for each other that I don’t usually see parents doing, simply because their schedules get filled up with other things. But if we want to go to bed a little early for some “couple time,” [Oh my God! They actually call it 'couple-time'] we do it. [Moreover, I'd be worried if she did see 'parents' having 'couple-time']
If we want to take a long bath together on a Sunday afternoon, we can. We can be spontaneous without calling a babysitter. Marriage isn’t about each partner giving 50%. I’d say it’s close to 100%. [100% leaves no room for anything else sweetie.]
And it sure is easier to do when you don’t have kids. Yep, I guess you would considered us SPOILED! [I can think of far more appropriate words than 'spoiled' honey.]
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Saturday, May 20, 2006
(Herpes) Simplex in the city
Upsettingly, the coldsore continued to plague me all last week. On Monday it grew bigger. On Tuesday it grew scabbier. On Wednesday it turned greener and on Thursday I laughed and it got stuck to my top lip and was yanked off. Then it started to bleed. My discomfort was made worse due to the fact that I was in a meeting when this happened. Still it was better than the scab falling into somebody else's tea or - even worse - my own, which had been my primary concern all week.
By the time I landed at Newark on Saturday afternoon, my shameful pox was a rapidly dimming memory. This was partly due to my excitement at being in NYC again and partly due to the amazing powers of Tiger Balm. My Grandma always kept a little jar of Tiger Balm handy. It was administered to my chest when I was suffering with the Cold as a child. It was melted into a bowl of boiling water when my nose was blocked. It was applied to burns and scrapes and scratches, and, by my own hand, it was rubbed liberally around my eyes and nose when I wanted to skip school. Unfortunately, as anyone who has ever come within three feet of the stuff will know, it smells about as medicinal as anything can so my efforts to avoid school never actually succeeded.
Anyway because I'm nostalgic and because the stuff really works, I've always kept a little jar handy too. So, when a colleague at work recommended I use Tiger Balm on my coldsore I saw no reason not to give it a go. I swear this is true, during the course of a seven hour flight my coldsore shrunk to at least a quarter of its original size. Oh miracle balm!
I love New York. Within 10 minutes of walking slowly down the streets and staring up at every building I could, I was fighting the urge to be absorbed into its thronging masses and leave everything else behind. To be honest, this feeling pops up in almost every city I've ever visited, but it's always stronger in the Big Apple. I know I could live there; maybe not forever, but soon and for six months at least.
On Sunday something highly cool happened. First of all, I went to High Mass at St Patrick's (not so cool) where his eminence - el Cardinale - stopped to shake my hand and ask where I was from. I told him, we had a little chat and then he blessed me (This was highly cool - for my gran). Anyway, after Mass I hoofed it up to Times Square because I wanted to buy discount tickets for a show. I really wanted to see Wicked and was disappointed not to see it listed on the tickets board. On asking one of the representatives, they laughed and said they never got Wicked tickets. I decided to walk to the Gershwin where Wicked is playing to see if I could get tickets for the Sunday matinee. There was a queue of people so I got in line. I then overheard the man in front of me explaining to someone that this was the line for the 'lottery'. I asked him what he meant by the 'lottery' and he told me that every show is completely sold out for months and the best hope anyone had of getting a ticket was to enter this lottery. I went up to the desk, wrote my name on a slip of paper and handed it over. The names of the lucky 12 would be called at 1pm. As it was a quarter to, I decided to hang around.
On the hour, the guy spun the barrel and pulled out 12 tickets. There were about 200 people waiting in the hope that they'd hear their name. My name was the eleventh to be called out (Ok, that was the highly cool bit). There was a lot of cheering and congratulating. I showed my ID and collected two front row tickets at a cost of $25 each. Even the cheapest seats are usually $60 so this was a pretty good deal. To top all this, my mum stood in the cancellation line and got the last cancellation ticket - also with a fantastic seat. As I was waiting in the foyer, people kept coming up and saying "congratulations" to me and asking me how I felt. A few people who witnessed this then asked if I was in the show. I felt pretty good and was excited about seeing the show, but felt my response would have been more adequate had I managed to lay my hands on some 'completely-over-the-top-happy pills'.
One of the things I love most about being in America is that I can ham it up and be 'super-happy' and 'super-nice' and no one thinks I'm weird. I sometimes do this here, but people often think I'm taking the piss - which, admittedly, I often am.
The show was a big fat glorious pantomime and I loved every minute of it. It's the story of the Wicked Witch and Glinda the Good before Dorothy showed up in Oz. There weren't too many references or jokes about the film which was good, and when there were they were subtle and clever. Example:
Nessarose: (At party) "What's in this punch?"
Bok: "Apples and lemons and pears."
Nessarose: "Oh my!"
A perfect day was finished off with dinner in a revolving restaurant. I had one frozen raspberry and strawberry margarita and a blueberry and raspberry bellini before dinner, so it was a very, very good meal.
My other highlight was a trip to Serendipity for a Frrrrozen Hot Chocolate. Apparently, they are Oprah's fave and if you saw one you'd understand about the whole yo-yo weight thing. I swear all my efforts at the gym have been completely overwritten by just one these babies. It was so worth it though.
I got a fair amount of shopping in, and with an exchange rate that's just shy of $2 for £1 who wouldn't? I got a gorgeous pair of Cole Haan black thong sandals with $200 off and fabulous bag which I'm totally in love with. On a less pleasing note, I got railroaded by a beauty counter assistant in Bloomingdales who sat me in her chair and told me she knew I used face moisturiser on my delicate eye area (totally true, but who has time to switch moisturisers half way through?). She sold me (I know, I know) some clinical eye gel which she repeatedly assured me would combat the signs of aging. I had made no inquiry as to its anti-aging qualities. Then, while I was still in her chair, she tilted her head to the right and said: "and how are you doing with the rest of your skin care?"
I'm sat there with a smaller but still noticeable coldsore, a number of spots visible to someone in extreme close proximity and some dry patches I attribute to running myself slightly ragged before I left for NY. Still, I didn't want to be sold any more stuff so I mumbled "fine, thanks."
She tilted her head to the left, looked at me sadly and said very sweetly: "Really? You sure honey?"
I resisted and left with my eye gel and credit card intact. My self-esteem did not fare quite so well. However, one wolf-whistle, compliment and harassment for my room number later and I felt a good deal better.
And when I woke up this morning, my coldsore was gone.Unfortunately,the slight rash I discovered around my delicate eye area leads me to suspect that I may be allergic to the eye gel.
By the time I landed at Newark on Saturday afternoon, my shameful pox was a rapidly dimming memory. This was partly due to my excitement at being in NYC again and partly due to the amazing powers of Tiger Balm. My Grandma always kept a little jar of Tiger Balm handy. It was administered to my chest when I was suffering with the Cold as a child. It was melted into a bowl of boiling water when my nose was blocked. It was applied to burns and scrapes and scratches, and, by my own hand, it was rubbed liberally around my eyes and nose when I wanted to skip school. Unfortunately, as anyone who has ever come within three feet of the stuff will know, it smells about as medicinal as anything can so my efforts to avoid school never actually succeeded.
Anyway because I'm nostalgic and because the stuff really works, I've always kept a little jar handy too. So, when a colleague at work recommended I use Tiger Balm on my coldsore I saw no reason not to give it a go. I swear this is true, during the course of a seven hour flight my coldsore shrunk to at least a quarter of its original size. Oh miracle balm!
I love New York. Within 10 minutes of walking slowly down the streets and staring up at every building I could, I was fighting the urge to be absorbed into its thronging masses and leave everything else behind. To be honest, this feeling pops up in almost every city I've ever visited, but it's always stronger in the Big Apple. I know I could live there; maybe not forever, but soon and for six months at least.
On Sunday something highly cool happened. First of all, I went to High Mass at St Patrick's (not so cool) where his eminence - el Cardinale - stopped to shake my hand and ask where I was from. I told him, we had a little chat and then he blessed me (This was highly cool - for my gran). Anyway, after Mass I hoofed it up to Times Square because I wanted to buy discount tickets for a show. I really wanted to see Wicked and was disappointed not to see it listed on the tickets board. On asking one of the representatives, they laughed and said they never got Wicked tickets. I decided to walk to the Gershwin where Wicked is playing to see if I could get tickets for the Sunday matinee. There was a queue of people so I got in line. I then overheard the man in front of me explaining to someone that this was the line for the 'lottery'. I asked him what he meant by the 'lottery' and he told me that every show is completely sold out for months and the best hope anyone had of getting a ticket was to enter this lottery. I went up to the desk, wrote my name on a slip of paper and handed it over. The names of the lucky 12 would be called at 1pm. As it was a quarter to, I decided to hang around.
On the hour, the guy spun the barrel and pulled out 12 tickets. There were about 200 people waiting in the hope that they'd hear their name. My name was the eleventh to be called out (Ok, that was the highly cool bit). There was a lot of cheering and congratulating. I showed my ID and collected two front row tickets at a cost of $25 each. Even the cheapest seats are usually $60 so this was a pretty good deal. To top all this, my mum stood in the cancellation line and got the last cancellation ticket - also with a fantastic seat. As I was waiting in the foyer, people kept coming up and saying "congratulations" to me and asking me how I felt. A few people who witnessed this then asked if I was in the show. I felt pretty good and was excited about seeing the show, but felt my response would have been more adequate had I managed to lay my hands on some 'completely-over-the-top-happy pills'.
One of the things I love most about being in America is that I can ham it up and be 'super-happy' and 'super-nice' and no one thinks I'm weird. I sometimes do this here, but people often think I'm taking the piss - which, admittedly, I often am.
The show was a big fat glorious pantomime and I loved every minute of it. It's the story of the Wicked Witch and Glinda the Good before Dorothy showed up in Oz. There weren't too many references or jokes about the film which was good, and when there were they were subtle and clever. Example:
Nessarose: (At party) "What's in this punch?"
Bok: "Apples and lemons and pears."
Nessarose: "Oh my!"
A perfect day was finished off with dinner in a revolving restaurant. I had one frozen raspberry and strawberry margarita and a blueberry and raspberry bellini before dinner, so it was a very, very good meal.
My other highlight was a trip to Serendipity for a Frrrrozen Hot Chocolate. Apparently, they are Oprah's fave and if you saw one you'd understand about the whole yo-yo weight thing. I swear all my efforts at the gym have been completely overwritten by just one these babies. It was so worth it though.
I got a fair amount of shopping in, and with an exchange rate that's just shy of $2 for £1 who wouldn't? I got a gorgeous pair of Cole Haan black thong sandals with $200 off and fabulous bag which I'm totally in love with. On a less pleasing note, I got railroaded by a beauty counter assistant in Bloomingdales who sat me in her chair and told me she knew I used face moisturiser on my delicate eye area (totally true, but who has time to switch moisturisers half way through?). She sold me (I know, I know) some clinical eye gel which she repeatedly assured me would combat the signs of aging. I had made no inquiry as to its anti-aging qualities. Then, while I was still in her chair, she tilted her head to the right and said: "and how are you doing with the rest of your skin care?"
I'm sat there with a smaller but still noticeable coldsore, a number of spots visible to someone in extreme close proximity and some dry patches I attribute to running myself slightly ragged before I left for NY. Still, I didn't want to be sold any more stuff so I mumbled "fine, thanks."
She tilted her head to the left, looked at me sadly and said very sweetly: "Really? You sure honey?"
I resisted and left with my eye gel and credit card intact. My self-esteem did not fare quite so well. However, one wolf-whistle, compliment and harassment for my room number later and I felt a good deal better.
And when I woke up this morning, my coldsore was gone.Unfortunately,the slight rash I discovered around my delicate eye area leads me to suspect that I may be allergic to the eye gel.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Coldsore, warm heart
I was on the bus, on my way to collect the car I'd abandoned in favour of wine the night before. Slightly hungover, and with a whopping great coldsore on the right-hand side of my bottom lip, I'd quickly pulled my hair back and put on my specs. Neither looking nor feeling my best, the plan was to get the car as quickly as possible with as few people seeing me as possible.
As the bus neared my stop, I stood up to press the button and leave my seat. Just then, I noticed that the guy in front was moving his hand back - also to press the button I presumed. However, he ended up pressing my left breast instead.
This was something of a shock for us both.
He apologised immediately and I was mortified but said it was quite alright (how awfully British of me).
Now off the bus and walking along the road, I heard someone saying "excuse me, miss". I turned round and saw that it was my public transport groper. He informed me that he hadn't known the bus was going this way and could I tell him the best bus to get to Morningside. I told him that he was almost there and basically just had to follow the road for 10 minuntes. He asked if I was going his way and I said I wasn't. Then he asked if I was from Edinburgh. Not wanting to get into anything resembling a conversation, I said 'yes'. He asked me to guess where he was from. I told him that I'd guess somewhere in West Africa but didn't know exactly where. He pressed me (not quite like before, thankfully) for a country so I hedged my bets and picked the most populous one - Nigeria. And what do you know, I was right. He told me his name was Eugene and he was studying Engineering. He asked me a bit about myself and then, as I said goodbye and went to cross the road, he said:
"So when can I see you again?"
"Perhaps, you'll bump into me in the street or grope me on another bus journey," I replied, then feared he'd think it was an invitation.
"Oh no," said he, "the chances are too slim. Can I have your number?"
"Oh no," said I, "the number can never be given. Things are in God's hands now."
"I like that," he said. "It has been a wonderful pleasure to meet you miss and now I will let you go on your way."
"Likewise," I replied.
As I crossed the road I couldn't help but smile. I'm not saying I particularly like being felt-up by strangers (although there was that one time ... when I was feeling really low ...) and having to make small-talk with them is worse still, but I really wasn't looking my best and it cheered me up that some poor soul didn't seem to mind. And besides, at least he wasn't a stark raving loon like the person my friend Jen had the pleasure of meeting recently. She emailed me with the details of her encounter, which I will share with you now.
Hey Lisa.
As soon as this happened I immediately thought of you - not because you are a Scouse reprobate, but because I really wished you were there to share in the moment. Given your enjoyment of Liverpool's eccentricities, I knew you'd have appreciated it.
I was walking across town last week, having been sent to another building to get my photie took for my security pass (yes, I have started work, it's not just a strange hobby). It was a nice sunny day, and I was just strolling along minding my own business when I stopped at a pedestrian crossing.
A local gentleman struck up conversation with me, which went a little like this:
Scouse Gent: 'Don't touch that button!'
Me: 'OK...er, why not?'
Scouse Gent: 'Have you ever thought about all the people who have probably picked their nose and then pressed that button?'
Me: Well, no, not really...'
Scouse Gent: 'Yeah, picked their nose and then pressed that button! Picked their nose!'(By now - praise the Lord - the green man has deigned to make an appearance and I am defying everything I learned en route to my First Aid badge in the Brownies to get across the road)
Scouse Gent: 'And then you go home and tuck into a nice cream cake. After your fingers have been on that button!'
Me: (now running) 'Hahahahahahaha!'
Scouse Gent: 'A nice cream cake! Cream cake! CREAM CAKE!!'
Lisa, I swear, he kept shouting cream cake at me until he was a small speck in the distance.What the hell is going on in this city?!?!
Quite.
As the bus neared my stop, I stood up to press the button and leave my seat. Just then, I noticed that the guy in front was moving his hand back - also to press the button I presumed. However, he ended up pressing my left breast instead.
This was something of a shock for us both.
He apologised immediately and I was mortified but said it was quite alright (how awfully British of me).
Now off the bus and walking along the road, I heard someone saying "excuse me, miss". I turned round and saw that it was my public transport groper. He informed me that he hadn't known the bus was going this way and could I tell him the best bus to get to Morningside. I told him that he was almost there and basically just had to follow the road for 10 minuntes. He asked if I was going his way and I said I wasn't. Then he asked if I was from Edinburgh. Not wanting to get into anything resembling a conversation, I said 'yes'. He asked me to guess where he was from. I told him that I'd guess somewhere in West Africa but didn't know exactly where. He pressed me (not quite like before, thankfully) for a country so I hedged my bets and picked the most populous one - Nigeria. And what do you know, I was right. He told me his name was Eugene and he was studying Engineering. He asked me a bit about myself and then, as I said goodbye and went to cross the road, he said:
"So when can I see you again?"
"Perhaps, you'll bump into me in the street or grope me on another bus journey," I replied, then feared he'd think it was an invitation.
"Oh no," said he, "the chances are too slim. Can I have your number?"
"Oh no," said I, "the number can never be given. Things are in God's hands now."
"I like that," he said. "It has been a wonderful pleasure to meet you miss and now I will let you go on your way."
"Likewise," I replied.
As I crossed the road I couldn't help but smile. I'm not saying I particularly like being felt-up by strangers (although there was that one time ... when I was feeling really low ...) and having to make small-talk with them is worse still, but I really wasn't looking my best and it cheered me up that some poor soul didn't seem to mind. And besides, at least he wasn't a stark raving loon like the person my friend Jen had the pleasure of meeting recently. She emailed me with the details of her encounter, which I will share with you now.
Hey Lisa.
As soon as this happened I immediately thought of you - not because you are a Scouse reprobate, but because I really wished you were there to share in the moment. Given your enjoyment of Liverpool's eccentricities, I knew you'd have appreciated it.
I was walking across town last week, having been sent to another building to get my photie took for my security pass (yes, I have started work, it's not just a strange hobby). It was a nice sunny day, and I was just strolling along minding my own business when I stopped at a pedestrian crossing.
A local gentleman struck up conversation with me, which went a little like this:
Scouse Gent: 'Don't touch that button!'
Me: 'OK...er, why not?'
Scouse Gent: 'Have you ever thought about all the people who have probably picked their nose and then pressed that button?'
Me: Well, no, not really...'
Scouse Gent: 'Yeah, picked their nose and then pressed that button! Picked their nose!'(By now - praise the Lord - the green man has deigned to make an appearance and I am defying everything I learned en route to my First Aid badge in the Brownies to get across the road)
Scouse Gent: 'And then you go home and tuck into a nice cream cake. After your fingers have been on that button!'
Me: (now running) 'Hahahahahahaha!'
Scouse Gent: 'A nice cream cake! Cream cake! CREAM CAKE!!'
Lisa, I swear, he kept shouting cream cake at me until he was a small speck in the distance.What the hell is going on in this city?!?!
Quite.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
The art of ...pleasing oneself
This is perhaps the hardest art of all to conquer - especially if you'd like to remain on speaking terms with people. It's taken me many years, but I now consider myself a master.
It feels wonderful to skillfully avoid ever again being caught in the 'I so don't want to be here but can't ever say' trap that has dogged me most of my life.
On Friday night I was doing some work for my "uncle".
OK, so actually he is really my uncle. I just added inverted commas to make it sound more exciting. Hey, I said it was the "hardest art", not the most exciting one.
Anyway, I was looking over and editing his biography for his CV. You might think this doesn't sound much like someone who is pleasing herself, but the fact that I told him I could either invoice him for £60 (family discount rate) or he and my aunt could take me out to dinner is a big step forward for me.
By Saturday I'd really gotten into the swing of things. I took myself off the gym at 10am, enjoyed (no, seriously) a vigorous workout (pulse rate of 80%. Burn that chunk baby) and was getting changed when Mog called me. I fumbled about in my bag and finally answered my phone.
Me: "Hey. Hi. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Hello?"
Me: "Yeah. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Oh, hi, sorry did I wake you?"
Me: "Did you what me? Wake me? No! I'm at the gym. I've just finished my work out!
Mog: "Oh!"
Me: "Oh yes!"
After a somewhat stilted and mildly offensive start, Mog explained the arrangements for her birthday night out. For a change, she wanted to keep things informal and low-key (must be her age kicking in). She'd decided to go to the 7 o'clock showing ofThe Squid and the Whale at the Cameo, which pleased me greatly as it was a film I've been eagerly anticipating, followed by food at Coconut Grove (I've never had a bad night in there yet). So, with Saturday evening taken care of, I took myself first to Waterstones for a good old browse and then to Celeste for a luxury manicure.
Celeste is aptly named. Every single appointment is a heavenly experience. As the nice lady was massaging my hands in such a way that I was on the cusp of doubting my sexuality, I was reading their brochure to see what else was on offer. And they do Decleor. Oh yes. Decleor facials, Decleor massages and, best of all, Decleor tanning. Bring on the summer.
Looking over the waxing options on offer, I got a fit of the giggles. (Technically, it's not a good thing when someone is painting your nails and your shoulders start going like a road-digger.) There were those old tried and tested chestnuts, as follows:
REGULAR BIKINI WAX (£14)
The area around and under the pant line is waxed. A basic wax if you wear regular knickers.
BRAZILIAN BIKINI WAX (£26)
By far the most popular. A landing strip is left neat. A must for all who wear thongs.
BOLLYWOOD (£30)
In between Brazilian and Hollywood. Not all off but nearly.
HOLLYWOOD BIKINI WAX (£36)
The whole area is waxed. We guarantee it will be the best and most thorough wax you've ever had. Our most popular and requested treatment ever.
Plus one ridiculous addition:
TIFFANY BIKINI WAX (from £40)
This is a whole Hollywood wax with diamontes artistically placed for that special date!
Yes, that special date when you want to scare him half to death. Can you imagine?
Him: "Jesus Karaoke Star Christ! There's spiky things all over your ...you know ... thing."
Her: "That's right darling."
Him: "They spell out something. Yeah, it looks like your ... you know ... thing is trying to tell me something. I'll need to get closer to make out the words."
Her:"Go right ahead darling."
Him: "I... told you ... not ... to put your ... wet towel on ... the bed. You bastard."
Her: "That's right darling. And remember, these babies cut through glass. Any wrong moves and you could be in big trouble."
Yet again, Diamonds prove they really are a girl's best friend.
After my indulgent experience, I went to the Cameo to buy tickets for the film we were going to see that evening. I did so and noticed that a French film called Hidden (Cache) was about to start. I decided just to go ahead and buy a ticket as my day was open to go exactly as I desired.
The film was very French in that it had lots of scenes that added nothing to the plot. French films are funny like that. If an American film showed someone getting undressed for bed, closing the curtains and lying down you'd probably expect them to be murdered, or at least to die peacefully in their sleep or something. Not so with the French film. It also ended abruptly with almost no resolution, which I enjoy because I get to spend the rest of the day pondering over what happened, why it happened and what the future looked like for the characters involved. It was very, very good. Afterwards, I took myself off to a little deli called 'Made in France' where I did my pondering over a goat's cheese and saucisson baguette. It was sheer bliss.
Annoyingly I arrived at the Cameo that evening at 10 past seven. I had all the tickets and everyone was waiting. I'd had a nightmare with taxis and ended up having to drive. I got grid-locked at the bottom of Lothian Road and then had to park almost on Strathern Road because there were no spaces nearer to the cinema. I hate, hate, hate being late for films so I was really pissed off with myself. I had to hot-foot it across the links, going back for my shoe twice. Anyway, we took our seats in time for the last trailer, which was pretty good timing considering it was actually so woefully bad.
The Squid and the Whale was excellent and I highly recommend it. Jeff Daniels' pompous assertions on literature, people and more are worth the ticket price alone. I now want to describe everything as "the fillet (pronounced 'fill-ay') of the neighbourhood" or "the fillet of Dickens' work".
The Coconut Grove was also fantastic with plenty of atmosphere and even better food. It was a most fitting start to Mog's 28th year.
It feels wonderful to skillfully avoid ever again being caught in the 'I so don't want to be here but can't ever say' trap that has dogged me most of my life.
On Friday night I was doing some work for my "uncle".
OK, so actually he is really my uncle. I just added inverted commas to make it sound more exciting. Hey, I said it was the "hardest art", not the most exciting one.
Anyway, I was looking over and editing his biography for his CV. You might think this doesn't sound much like someone who is pleasing herself, but the fact that I told him I could either invoice him for £60 (family discount rate) or he and my aunt could take me out to dinner is a big step forward for me.
By Saturday I'd really gotten into the swing of things. I took myself off the gym at 10am, enjoyed (no, seriously) a vigorous workout (pulse rate of 80%. Burn that chunk baby) and was getting changed when Mog called me. I fumbled about in my bag and finally answered my phone.
Me: "Hey. Hi. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Hello?"
Me: "Yeah. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Oh, hi, sorry did I wake you?"
Me: "Did you what me? Wake me? No! I'm at the gym. I've just finished my work out!
Mog: "Oh!"
Me: "Oh yes!"
After a somewhat stilted and mildly offensive start, Mog explained the arrangements for her birthday night out. For a change, she wanted to keep things informal and low-key (must be her age kicking in). She'd decided to go to the 7 o'clock showing ofThe Squid and the Whale at the Cameo, which pleased me greatly as it was a film I've been eagerly anticipating, followed by food at Coconut Grove (I've never had a bad night in there yet). So, with Saturday evening taken care of, I took myself first to Waterstones for a good old browse and then to Celeste for a luxury manicure.
Celeste is aptly named. Every single appointment is a heavenly experience. As the nice lady was massaging my hands in such a way that I was on the cusp of doubting my sexuality, I was reading their brochure to see what else was on offer. And they do Decleor. Oh yes. Decleor facials, Decleor massages and, best of all, Decleor tanning. Bring on the summer.
Looking over the waxing options on offer, I got a fit of the giggles. (Technically, it's not a good thing when someone is painting your nails and your shoulders start going like a road-digger.) There were those old tried and tested chestnuts, as follows:
REGULAR BIKINI WAX (£14)
The area around and under the pant line is waxed. A basic wax if you wear regular knickers.
BRAZILIAN BIKINI WAX (£26)
By far the most popular. A landing strip is left neat. A must for all who wear thongs.
BOLLYWOOD (£30)
In between Brazilian and Hollywood. Not all off but nearly.
HOLLYWOOD BIKINI WAX (£36)
The whole area is waxed. We guarantee it will be the best and most thorough wax you've ever had. Our most popular and requested treatment ever.
Plus one ridiculous addition:
TIFFANY BIKINI WAX (from £40)
This is a whole Hollywood wax with diamontes artistically placed for that special date!
Yes, that special date when you want to scare him half to death. Can you imagine?
Him: "Jesus Karaoke Star Christ! There's spiky things all over your ...you know ... thing."
Her: "That's right darling."
Him: "They spell out something. Yeah, it looks like your ... you know ... thing is trying to tell me something. I'll need to get closer to make out the words."
Her:"Go right ahead darling."
Him: "I... told you ... not ... to put your ... wet towel on ... the bed. You bastard."
Her: "That's right darling. And remember, these babies cut through glass. Any wrong moves and you could be in big trouble."
Yet again, Diamonds prove they really are a girl's best friend.
After my indulgent experience, I went to the Cameo to buy tickets for the film we were going to see that evening. I did so and noticed that a French film called Hidden (Cache) was about to start. I decided just to go ahead and buy a ticket as my day was open to go exactly as I desired.
The film was very French in that it had lots of scenes that added nothing to the plot. French films are funny like that. If an American film showed someone getting undressed for bed, closing the curtains and lying down you'd probably expect them to be murdered, or at least to die peacefully in their sleep or something. Not so with the French film. It also ended abruptly with almost no resolution, which I enjoy because I get to spend the rest of the day pondering over what happened, why it happened and what the future looked like for the characters involved. It was very, very good. Afterwards, I took myself off to a little deli called 'Made in France' where I did my pondering over a goat's cheese and saucisson baguette. It was sheer bliss.
Annoyingly I arrived at the Cameo that evening at 10 past seven. I had all the tickets and everyone was waiting. I'd had a nightmare with taxis and ended up having to drive. I got grid-locked at the bottom of Lothian Road and then had to park almost on Strathern Road because there were no spaces nearer to the cinema. I hate, hate, hate being late for films so I was really pissed off with myself. I had to hot-foot it across the links, going back for my shoe twice. Anyway, we took our seats in time for the last trailer, which was pretty good timing considering it was actually so woefully bad.
The Squid and the Whale was excellent and I highly recommend it. Jeff Daniels' pompous assertions on literature, people and more are worth the ticket price alone. I now want to describe everything as "the fillet (pronounced 'fill-ay') of the neighbourhood" or "the fillet of Dickens' work".
The Coconut Grove was also fantastic with plenty of atmosphere and even better food. It was a most fitting start to Mog's 28th year.
Monday, May 01, 2006
'Two shags'
is what John Prescott has been re-christened following the revelation of his two-year affair. This was one of two things that made me laugh out loud this week. The other was a Chinese takeaway menu that landed on the carpet beneath my letterbox on Saturday morning. Alongside the always amusing photographs of extravagantly yet unappetisingly displayed food (when was the last time your chow mein arrived in half a pineapple? And would you ever want it to?) were the words 'Alcoholic Takeaway' - brilliant. "I'll have one jakey in stained clothes and two neds 'oot their heids' on buckie please."
Following on from Jeff & Dev's Sunday lunch, Keith & Ashley hosted us last Sabbath day. Dinner was delicious and dessert was the most amazing banoffee pie I've ever tasted. My enthusiatic critique caught Keith's attention and he spent the duration of dessert apologising for his inappropriate comment. It really was good pie though.
Another heavenly pudding was sampled on Thursday night at
Black Bo's with Leanne. It was chocolate and chilli brownie with vanilla and hazelnut ice cream. Oh, it was class. Catching up with Leanne is always good. Whereas I give advice by way of endless analogy, Leanne can put things immediately in perspective with one sentence; and it's never a patronising one either. I don't know why, but I'm always surprised when my friends say something that makes clear just how well they really know me. It was like this with Leanne on Thursday when she said: "I don't think you'll get any answers from it. In fact, I think it'll do you more harm than good. But I know you're still going to do it anyway." Bang on the money.
I had a half day at work on Friday and took myself off to the gym at 1pm. I feel compelled to go every day since the instructor assessed my body fat situation and looked like she was amazed I'd managed to squeeze out the door of my flat. Needless to say, I could hardly move for the first four hours on Saturday morning (this was made worse by another visit to the gym). Mog and I had lunch in the sunshine followed by a big ice cream and a little walk.
At 7pm we caught the train through to Glasgow to celebrate Katie's birthday. It was a most ambient affair with generous helpings of curry and an excellent crowd. Around Midnight, we headed, quite literally, round the corner to a club. We walked straight in - sans entrance fee - and proceeded to have a cracking time. A night in da club wouldn't be the same for Katie and I without at least one dance-off. This time the tune was 'Don't cha' by the Pussycat Dolls and my demure wrist-flick sent someone's bottle of beer raining across the dance floor. Bonus points.
We headed home around 3am and Mog and I headed straight to bed. I was truly knackered and my muscles were truly aching by this point. The rest of the party stayed up chatting until 6 or so which meant Mog and I were annoyingly bushy-tailed the next morning. A truly scrumptious brunch of French Toast, bacon and Maple syrup was scoffed before Mog and I caught the train home.
Good times.
Following on from Jeff & Dev's Sunday lunch, Keith & Ashley hosted us last Sabbath day. Dinner was delicious and dessert was the most amazing banoffee pie I've ever tasted. My enthusiatic critique caught Keith's attention and he spent the duration of dessert apologising for his inappropriate comment. It really was good pie though.
Another heavenly pudding was sampled on Thursday night at
Black Bo's with Leanne. It was chocolate and chilli brownie with vanilla and hazelnut ice cream. Oh, it was class. Catching up with Leanne is always good. Whereas I give advice by way of endless analogy, Leanne can put things immediately in perspective with one sentence; and it's never a patronising one either. I don't know why, but I'm always surprised when my friends say something that makes clear just how well they really know me. It was like this with Leanne on Thursday when she said: "I don't think you'll get any answers from it. In fact, I think it'll do you more harm than good. But I know you're still going to do it anyway." Bang on the money.
I had a half day at work on Friday and took myself off to the gym at 1pm. I feel compelled to go every day since the instructor assessed my body fat situation and looked like she was amazed I'd managed to squeeze out the door of my flat. Needless to say, I could hardly move for the first four hours on Saturday morning (this was made worse by another visit to the gym). Mog and I had lunch in the sunshine followed by a big ice cream and a little walk.
At 7pm we caught the train through to Glasgow to celebrate Katie's birthday. It was a most ambient affair with generous helpings of curry and an excellent crowd. Around Midnight, we headed, quite literally, round the corner to a club. We walked straight in - sans entrance fee - and proceeded to have a cracking time. A night in da club wouldn't be the same for Katie and I without at least one dance-off. This time the tune was 'Don't cha' by the Pussycat Dolls and my demure wrist-flick sent someone's bottle of beer raining across the dance floor. Bonus points.
We headed home around 3am and Mog and I headed straight to bed. I was truly knackered and my muscles were truly aching by this point. The rest of the party stayed up chatting until 6 or so which meant Mog and I were annoyingly bushy-tailed the next morning. A truly scrumptious brunch of French Toast, bacon and Maple syrup was scoffed before Mog and I caught the train home.
Good times.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)