Third date and still no U-Haul

People of Blogland, what can I say, I’ve been too busy to blog. I’m a black sheep. The black sheep of Blogland. A renegade. A dissenter. A flake.
Now that we’ve go that out of the way, let me tell you what this black sheep has been up to.

1. Perhaps rather predictably, this corridor sex thing seems to have expanded to other areas of the house. My house. I do wish I had a proper couch, though. You just slip off this one if you’re not careful, and the floor is a bit hard.

2. I manage to silence the in-head shopkeeper for minutes at a time. Over my lover’s shoulder I can still see him, gagged, shake his head at my lust-driven behaviour.

3. The cat really, really likes her. To the point that he ignores me and goes to her instead.

4. The thing is, Blogland folks, I have another date lined up. On Saturday. With someone else. After how many dates with one person does it become morally wrong to have dinner with a stranger? Is there a Dating Etiquette somewhere I can refer to?

5. When the gag comes off, the shopkeeper sighs, and waves the List of Less Than Desirable Things at me. I wish he would go and sign a temporary contract somewhere.

6. I’m seriously underslept.

Second date and still no U-Haul

1.This is definitely the end of an 8-month hibernation, people of blogland. I thank Spring and its hormone-agitating influence, its light that wakes me up and its warmth that lures me out and gets me dates.. and follow-up dates, too.

2. Friday’s second date turned into an invitation to my part of London, very white and blonde and middle class, where very shorthaired, tattooed lesbians don’t exactly abound. We got some looks. I am not sure how I feel about that, besides wanting to glare back and ask ‘so, what? What do you want? A cookie?’

3. I wish I could switch off the little computing device in my head that adds up and subtracts, amazing eyes, but she smokes, and why does she have to like football? This, and that..There’s a tiny shopkeeper inside my head and I wish it would shut up. Still, the shopkeeper is rather lulled by her northern accent.

4. The cursor’s been blinking next to 4. for a few minutes and I can’t come up with the goods. So maybe I’ll mention the frantic mind-blowing earth-shattering sex in the corridor some other time.

Perverts.

Talk dirty to me or the kitty gets it

1. Situation:. Let’s say you’re all crushed out on some pretty lady.
2. Problem: she won’t return your affection, possibly throw out your flowers, hangs up on you, refuses to meet your parents or share your toothbrush.
3. Solution #1 : Stalking - so 2004, even though a restraining order is just another way to say I love you.
4. Solution #2 : a) kidnap her dogs b) demand sex as ransom.
5. She refuses? Compromise: demand phone sex as ransom.
6. Still won’t do it? Ok, then, fine, demand.. sex text messages as ransom.
7. Kick furniture, sulk , give up and return the dogs.

True story, people of blogland. Just not mine. I’m not all crushed out on anyone with a dog. A cat, she has.

Better rub me the right way

I’m aimless, for I don’t like waiting.
Well, a part of me enjoys being exquisitely tortured.
But after a while it’s just like the story of the genie in the bottle: at first, the genie who has been pushed in waits calmly for his master; but the master doesn’t come, so the genie gets increasingly more impatient and irate, and after a thousand years when the next random fisherman pulls out the stopper by mistake, the gene has become evil and all hell breaks loose.
Right?
So for the time being I’m being vacant, pissing about, waiting. I picked up the Primo Levi book I’m reading, then put it back; concentration camps don’t match my mood. I did some inane online quiz, then generated my Smurf name (it’s Queasy Smurf) . The mood is unmatched. Waiting. The part of me that enjoys being exquisitely tortured is getting more and more impatient. By Friday, all hell might break loose.

Roll on, Second Date. I need to know if I should book the U-Haul, you know?

Well, I did shake the tree

People of blogland, I don't know how else I can put this, but…I'm being courted.
Thanks to the technological age, I'm being courted from across London while I'm home, while I'm at work. I spent today's afternoon meeting with a surreptitious hand in my jacket pocket, poised over my mobile phone on 'vibrate'. Do you know how tricky it is to read text messages discreetly, especially when you're the one giving the presentation?
It's subtle, breezy; It's exactly tailored, and witty; but a courtship it is.
The cynic in me would like to discern in this only a sudden crystallisation of spring and hormones and base human aspirations; but the rest of me is letting me enjoy the whole thing, and glided all the way home singing a sultry little song.

;

An extremely brief date summary

I’m wearing my ‘I share a birthday with Jeffrey Damher’, she said. Your photos don’t do you justice, she said. I recognized you easily, still, shame you’re not wearing the peach frock you promised, she said. I was taught how to dance by a gay born again christian celibate priest, she said. You need your back done, you carry all you tension in your lower back; I know, I’m a massage therapist, and it’s not a line, she said. Well, it is a little bit of a line, she said.
What would you have done?
I had to lean over and kiss her, didn’t I.
I don’t know how I made the last tube home.

I wanted to call this post ' Spring's in my pants', but I am aware of how cheap and vulgar that makes me sound.

Now it’s time to go out and frolic in the sun. Still, Spring is in..

What do you get when you shake a palm tree?

People of Blogland, you know -this dating thing, it’s getting someplace. Possibly because Spring does thing to us humans, things involving hormones and overflow and surges of hope and optimism; and because yours truly has almost properly glued back her heart together, and therefore is not immune, yours truly has been chatting up strangers on the Internet, and deleting the history when staying at her mother’s, as chronicled earlier on.

1. The self-advertisement
…means it’s fun trying to squeeze your life into little internet boxes.
Who am I? A physically lazy person who walks too fast; I was the last one to be chosen for team sports at school, but therapy is giving some good results so far.
What am I looking for? Someone who can spell and who owns a corkscrew and a set of wine glasses that aren’t nutella jars. And quality sex, obviously. Eventually.
Add a picture. Step back and wait. Yes, they’ll come. They always do.

2. It’s a bit like setting a trap
… and they bite. Oh yes. Now, don’t pounce. Slowly does it.

3. The selection
..is ruthless. A few examples, purely for fun:

specimen #1 Interest in football is a must
I’m sure there’ll be plenty of nice ladies who will cater for you, but it won’t be me. My fetish isn’t oversized nylon shirts, nylon shorts and knee-length socks. (Although of course I might make an exception for knee-high socks, with the right outfit.)

#2 Must like Coronation Street as from Manchester originally.
That makes perfect sense. And you must profess a love for the Michelin man, cos he and I come from the same place. Still, I don’t have a TV. So, no.

#3 i like goin clubbin LOADS wi any1 up 4 a laugh. but it dont av2 all b about sex but it helps.. ha O yes i`m very sarki 2 but in a nice wayxxbut dont get me wrong i like stayin in n gettin all loved up just as much,romance is the boy!! god wot bollox dont u feel like your just sellin uself on ere ha .. luv it anwayxxxx if your a crazy mofo let me know!!!
So articulate, so subtle, so refined. Right. Lady, you’re not going to stay in and get loved up with me, that’s for sure. I’m so not a crazy mofo.

#4 i love to stay in bed the whole and have sex. As for breakfast, lunch and diner we will have strawberries, oysters and champagne. But i like also to do crazy things like in get in the car in the middle of the night and go for a drive to the coast and have a nice walk on the beach
Now that’s crazy. And strawberries and champagne aren’t at all tacky or clichéd. I’m starting to swoon.


4. and then what?
And then you while away the hours tap tap tapping to strangers, slowly easing into flirting, and you get phone numbers and offers of dates. No, I get phone numbers, and offer the dates. I have four promising leads, people of blogland.
The most promising of my potential dates shares a birthday with me; me and Jeffrey Dahmer. So it’s hit or miss, really, this star sign thing. Either she’ll turn out to be a fairly self-aware, adjusted and functioning woman, or a psycho fiend. Hell, I’d have dated Jeffrey Dahmer if he’d been willing to meet up in a public, well-lit place. Still, she’s agreed to go have coffee with me. Then I suggested fish and chips. She said yes. Then I offered dinner. She also said yes. I must come across as really really charming, and she obviously doesn’t know about Jeffrey Dahmer.
Fool.

5. To be continued.

Quick, call the RSPCA

Key into lock, and finally home.

Miaow!
Nice to see you too, Chavo.
Miaow!
What do you mean, you haven’t been fed since I left?
Miaow….
You mean J didn’t feed you at all?
Miaow..
And he beat you every night with a stick?
Miaow!
And he locked you up in the cupboard, as well? Is that how you got so fat?
Miaow…
What do you mean, you’re a poor neglected moggy and I’m an irresponsible owner leaving you here with him?
Miaoooow.
Oh, and the only thing I can do to make amends is to feed you the entire tin of Kitekat right now?
Miaow!
Fine. Just let me shut the door and take my shoes off.

(Such a lesbian.)

Henri Bergson (1859-1941) claimed that the purest, simplest form of happiness was to drink a glass of water when thirsty.
I would have agreed until today.
But now I know that the purest, simplest form of happiness is when you’ve been stuck on the Eurostar (running 30 minutes late) for 2 hours, that two 16 year olds are sitting right behind you, and that they have been discussing every aspect of their new shoes/hairbrush/the personalised licence plates they want for their 17th birthday for the said two hours, in loud, high-pitched voices, seemingly without catching their breath; when you’re seriously considering banging their hands together to make them shut the hell up but you know that you’d probably go to jail for assault so you don’t but you hate them with all your might and mutter shutupshutupshutup under your breath- and then! you remember.

In the little pocket in your bag, there’s a tiny little round box.

And in that little box, there is a pair of earplugs.

That’s happiness.

I’m easy, you see.

tap tap tap tapping

This is the situation this week at thome:

- three (3) women heavily dependent on internet chatrooms
- one (1) computer
- rationed internet access by decree of My Mother, owner of said computer.

Just imagine.
We have to take turns.
We have to be sneaky, surreptitious, cunning even.
My mother gets up very early.
I’ve been known to get up during the night to have the computer all to myself.

My friend Zabélie and my mother share tips, since they both frequent the same internet site for desperate (straight) singles.
There are tips to be shared : what descriptions in strangers’ profiles actually mean, how to spot the psycho that will cheat on his wife, steal your savings and disappear.

Zabélie and I also share tips, although the site I favour caters for desperate defnitely non-straight singles.

My mother and I do not under any circumstances share tips, because of my own boundaries. Mainly, I get a rash as soon as she mentions any of it and I have either to switch the subject to the referendum for the European constitution, or leave the room.

I’m doing well, people of blogland. I have two dates planned for the end of the week.
I have to go now; everyone else’s gone to bed, I get the computer all to myself.

(A is for annus horribilis

What is it about anniversaries and dates that I cannot ignore? Yesterday was 'a year ago today', 'two years ago at this time’, and I could not stop the stream, only sit and stare into space and and be submerged by faces and gestures, things I do not want to write about anymore, not here, or think about, it's only a date, it's only a fucking man-made-invented calendar a convention it's easy to ignore instead of feeling those memories and gestures and faces and events and things, a stream of wishy washy hateful wasteful sentimentalism stop it and smile but forge ahead instead, I was doing so well.
Only occasionally queasy. Normal service will be resumed very soon.)

The snow has stopped.
Soon, I'll be back with an update on the wonderful occurrences in Ysengrin's world of dating.

Prickly

I had found a new heroin, a role model, an egeria.
For two days I watched her from my window, wondering, marveling. For two days and two nights she was holding her ground, stoic.
First the harsh rays of the sun; then came the hailstones, and the freezing winds; yet she did not move. Torrential rains, and snow. Still she was there, seemingly imperturbable.
And still this morning - holding onto the cactus.
A cactus?
I called her Mildred the willful ladybird and asked her how she was getting on, and why she had chosen a cactus? when there were so many, leafier, options on my window sill.

And then this afternoon, a sudden moment of horrible clarity :
Cactus.
What if she was not stoic but impaled?

I de-impaled Mildred the ladybird; and I needed a pair of tweezers to operate on the bits of cactus still stuck into her ladybird body, then I showed her that convalescence was to take place on the nearby tomato plant.

What's the moral of the story then?

News from the front

Today I hugged my mum.
She's so tiny!
Tiny and shorter than me and so thin.
It's not right.
How can I possibly rant about her complete lack of boundaries, rave about her opening bathroom and bedroom doors without knocking, complain about her not taking me seriously? How can I, people of blogland? How can I blame my mother for everything that's obviously wrong with me when she is so...small?
I just can't.

---

This afternoon I saw my brother. We strolled around the city centre, running errands. A feeble attempt at bonding, but under separate umbrellas.
And then - then, he spat on the pavement.
I cringed, but kept my mouth shut.
Then he spat again. My blood instantly reached boiling point.
'Gross!' I exclaimed.
'I do what I want' was the sophisticated reply.
I could feel my idealized vision of him crumple into a messy heap, a little puddle of spit. What to do? Lecture him and risk damaging the already tenuous link that exists between us? Or swallow up my disgust and bourgeois disapproval? What argument besides 'No you bloody well don't' do you oppose to the infantile 'I do what I want'? Respect and manners and tuberculosis rushed to my mind; those, too easy to dismiss with a snigger, wouldn't have done any good. Better to just lose my shit and use anger - real and inflated for effect - to give my argument the weight it deserved.
No more spitting for the rest of the afternoon.

---

Finally, daily existence is grim for me right now.
I was expecting blue skies, enthusiastically high temperatures and a hammock under the cherry tree, summer skirts and new flipflops, strawberries for breakfast and cold beer at sunset. Well that ain't happening, for the weather forecast is snow on the mountain I see from my bedroom window, and this morning I woke up to a deluge.
Finally, my internet connection is being rationed, hence this messy, straight-out-of-the-packet post. Sorry.

Homophobia and my mother

1. 1987, April, Kitchen at home
A stranger told me she liked my style!, I chirp excitedly.
Really? You should be careful; it was probably a lesbian. my mother replies.

2. 1989, September, same.
Mum, if I’m understanding properly the theories in Introduction to psychoanalysis, and if we consider the lack of positive male role models in our family, [my brother] and I should both be gay homosexuals. I blurt out.
Where did you read that drivel?
It’s only Freud. I reply, with a detached air of superiority.
She sniggers. What rubbish. Go finish your homework and stop being so disgusting.

3. 2004, December, on the phone
What you need is to meet someone else. I don’t care if it’s a man or a woman, but you need someone. she said as a feeble and frivolous attempt to galvanise me out of depression.

4. 2005, April, on the phone after a week holiday with a long time friend of hers
She’s nice, but so close minded, and she says such stupid, offensive things..
like what? , I prod.
A slight pause. Well, like ‘he’s such a fucking fag’, ‘bunch of faggots’, you know.. she trails off, embarrassedly. I know she won’t have challenged her friend. She won’t. Not just yet.

But don’t you think she’s really made an awful lot of progress?

A life-time of self-help books for people like me

Now, me, I believe everything I read, so that makes me a more selective person than those who read but don’t believe anything.
(David, in This is Spinal Tap)

These are the pillars, past, present and future, of my existence, the foundations of my beliefs and experience, the nets that caught me as I was falling overboard… well, almost.

Let me know if there’s anything you can recommend.

1. Fun Four-Letter Words to Know and Share (kids’ press)
2. The Pop-Up Book of Human Anatomy
3. Strangers Have the Best Candy
4. The A bomb and your school desk (anon.)
5. The Secondary school student’s Guide to sulking, scowling and rude graffiti
6. The perfect Goth Manual (with makeup kit)
7. Journey to Amsterdam
8. Who to call when you get busted for marijuana
9. Meditation in very small places (free from a man in orange on Oxford street)
10. How to not let everyone know you’re having a panic attack, by Dr Nubb
11. Women love it if you’re funny (advertisement)
12. How to seduce women by being withdrawn, mysterious, poetic and moody
13. Using hypnosis to eliminate the word ‘like’ from your vocabulary
14. Relationships for dummies
15. Relationships for idiots
16. Relationships for sub humans
17. Britain’s favourite love poems, collection.
18. Romeo and Juliet, William.
19. Romeo and Juliet (Cliff notes)
20. Lesbian Wedding Magazine Spring Special (with set of matching garters)
21. Looks like if some women are from Venus, some are actually from Mars.(gift)
22. Fingers intertwined: a path to mutual understanding in times of war
23. Love in the time of cholera (I’d misunderstood the title)
24. How to survive the loss of a love
25. You’ve been dumped, now what?
26. Mourning is your best friend
27. Get over it yesterday!
28. 12 step programmes to everything
29. Diagnostic Manual of Mental disorders, British Psychiatric Association
30. La Redoute Lingerie, Autumn-Winter collection, 2004
31. Leaving your house again, one step at a time
32. You too can lead a Rich and Varied Life
33. Failed dates and your hair.
34. Mnemonic Devices for Remembering Waitresses’ names

I’m also thinking of purchasing the following opus: (opei?) for later (but fairly imminent) use:

35. It’s time to leave childish humour behind
36. Life begins at 25; where were you at the time?
37. How methadone can cure your chap-stick addiction
38. Glasses, contacts or surgey?
39. You don’t need two knees anyway
40. Ringing in the ears (pamphlet)
41. Arthritis!
42. Arrhythmia can be fun
43. Tics you can look forward to
44. The user’s guide to prescription drugs
45. Final exit (Hemlock Society)

Lover letters straight from the heart
[Please see disclaimer at the bottom of the post.]

Dear A,
This will be the last letter I write to you. I know it must be hard fro you right now, but still I think we have made the right decision. Thank you for your love. I want you to know that our time together will live inside a special place in my heart, and it’s definitely best if we do not phone or write or anything.
Love always,
Y.

Dear A,
I called you last night because I finally found that brownie recipe and I thought you’d like to have it. Anyway, while I was leaving a message I accidentally punched in your message-retrieval code. So sorry about that. So clumsy of me. Who’s Melinda? Just wondered.
Y.

Dear A,
I realised I still had that copy of ‘ Relationships for dummies’ I got for you that day and I was wondering when might be a convenient time to drop it off. Give me a call at the usual number. This will be my last letter.
Regards,
Y

Dear A,
It was a lucky coincidence that my cat speed-dialled your number last night, as it gave us a chance to talk again. Afterwards, I was wondering what you meant by ‘it’s over, Y, get that into your head’. So many different interpretations. Just wondering. You know. Oh, I found myself on your street last night and I noticed a silver mini with rainbow flags that I don’t remember belonged to any of your neighbours. Is this the mysterious Melinda I’ve heard rumours about? No big deal, just curious. What was that loud music?
With respect,
Y
PS- do you have my red pentel pen? I really, really need it.

Dear A,
This will be the last letter I write to you. I’m quite upset that you changed your phone number so suddenly. Anyway. I hate to hurt you like this, but I’m seeing someone else. Her name is Alfreda and she’s also an Aries, like you. But the real reason I’m writing (and this will be my last letter) is that I’m still in possession of all your back issues of On Our backs Magazine, before it went glossy. I know they must be precious to you, since we bought them together that day we met up with your mother and she was raving about me, saying I was ‘pleasant’. Please come and pick them up. Alfreda is giving me a hard time about them and I don’t want your stuff to damage my new relationship. By the way, there’s someone called Melinda on the internet who’s trying to pick up girls. Mmm…
Y.

Dear A,
Your birthday is tomorrow, and I hope you don’t mind me throwing this little note through the window. The post would be far too slow. The rock it’s tied to comes from our trip to Cowsville! I was wondering if you’d like to get together for a birthday dinner, you can bring Melinda if you want. I would also like my letters back from you, could you bring this one too? I’ll also bring your copy of ‘Relationships for dummies’. Can you let me know soon? I’m waiting outside on the lawn. This will be my last letter to you.
With respect,
Y.


Disclaimer: I have to insist on the fact that this post is in no way based on real events or persons. Moreover, I would never give back a copy of ‘Relationships for dummies.’ And I would never stalk an ex, even telephonically, especially one on a different continent; it’d be far too expensive. Also I never even met her mother, so there.