Note: Not me, I just relate to the face.

Yesterday I was really tired from a tedious Sunday flat-cleaning, still nursing a tinge of hangover from a weekend wedding, and my left eye was studiously applying itself to the development of an infection via clogged oil glands.  The main reason this was different from a typical Monday was that I had a hot job interview scheduled this morning (Tuesday) with the COO of a company in which I’m quite interested.

In preparation, I spent time reviewing their website and sector, but was admittedly feeling mentally fuzzy and physically icky.  Saturday champagne and Sunday bathtub-scrubbing make for dreary Mondays, especially combined with client tantrums and not enough rest.  Obviously, I needed to whip myself into interview-ready shape, like a Cosmo article for your most fab, fearless self, but without the ice cube enemas or whatever it is they prescribe.

The one thing for it, I sensibly decided, was a solid night’s sleep, especially given that the interview was at 7:30 am and I needed to get up extra early to anchor-bob my hair and pretend to be someone who is professionally pert at the ass-crack of dawn.  I was home from work Monday by 7:00 pm, ate a high-protein dinner, painted my nails, and ironed made my boyfriend iron my blouse in readiness.  By 9:30 pm, I was tucked into bed with a “demanding” Sudoku puzzle and an Introduction to Venture Capitalism.  Normally, that would be sufficient to dull my senses towards comatose, but I wasn’t taking any chances.  A refreshing sleep was crucial, so I took a quarter of Clonazepam to aid my efforts.  Ahem. (more…)


So lately I have been seeing someone. He started it; I was minding my own business and just doing my job but he doggedly pursued me in a very charming and engaging way. Before I met him, I was quite happy not putting myself out there to meet new men, and really not willing to enter into the world of dating at all. My three-times-a-year booty call with the kind and devoted SatinBalls was enough.

But this dashing guy wore me down, and I have sort of fallen for him.

And now I live in terror. Since the courtship began, we have been in almost steady contact via e-mail or text message. The other night, he disappeared, and it was bad for me. Even though he’d told me what he was doing that night and that he was out for a Christmas drinkup with his office mates, the old fears returned: He’s lying. He’s fooling around. He doesn’t like me anymore. He’s got other chicks; I’m just one in a cast of dozens. I’ve done something to turn him off.

Thankfully, I didn’t do anything stupid — IE, I refrained from sending any pathetic messages — and just went to sleep. I woke up to several affectionate messages at the end of his night. We saw each other later that day, and everything was marvellous and filled with fun and laughter. But when I sent him an e-mail last night telling him to drive carefully back home for the holidays today, I did the cool thing and said: “Enjoy your time with your family. Don’t be obliged to be in touch!” And he basically replied: “OK, thanks!”

And now I am quietly freaking out again. I actually think I said it to begin with to give him an out so that if I DON’T hear from him, I can say: “Well, I did tell him not get in touch!” because it would be too painful if he just simply wasn’t in touch. I don’t know if I was hoping he’d reply: “Don’t be silly, you daft cow (he’s British). Of course I’ll be in touch.” But what I wasn’t expecting was an “OK, thanks!”

Do I have a Daniel Cleaver on my hands? Was it the chase, and now that I’ve been caught, the thrill is gone? Or am I completely over-reading all of this?

And this is why I HATE HATE HATE HATE dating. All the fears and self-doubts! All the ghosts of relationships past coming back to fuck with your head!! All the anxiety!! I don’t know how you young’uns do it; I just have no stomach for it at all.

p.s. How hilarious is that Bridget Jones photo above. You know what my lifelong problem is? I am always, always more turned on by the Daniel Cleavers than the Mark Darcys.

messy_suitcase_blogThis Friday, I am going on a trip to Turkey for a week.  I am looking forward to Turkish baths, the market, some culture and history, and most of all, some sun.  The Boy Person and I booked an all-inclusive resort for what I can say was a seductive price, and we are primed and ready for a week off of work and some serious B&B time (Booze & Beaches). 

The only fly in the sunscreen, which is not really a snag but sort of an inconvenience, is my little “anxiety attack.”  In more clinical terms, I mean my “spells,” those wee dashes of the vapors I get when it comes to packing.  While I am somewhat prone to spells in general, and have a glass pill bottle of modern remedy in urgent hand, I don’t understand exactly why the act of packing for a trip – any trip – sends me into a swoon. 

I understand that when other people have a weekend away (I’ve witnessed this), they gaily toss two pairs of socks, a toothbrush, some fresh undies, and a travel guide into their bag, and declare themselves ready for action (I have found this sort is typically male, and they will readily borrow your deodorant and clean tee-shirt when they have none, which your nostrils usually regard as worth the sacrifice).  There are also people, like my friend Kadinsky, who have packing down to an art form, and are miraculously prepared for any situation – be it dinner at the Ritz or mountain rescue – by the virtue of one smartly-packed bag,

I think of these two types as the Nonchalant (the former), and the Superhero (the latter), and however much I might wish to emulate either, it is a psychological impossibility for me.  I have read articles on packing; I make pre-trip lists that document exactly how many band-aids I will need for my blisters and AA batteries I will need for my camera; I attempt to pack a week in advance, for a trial run:  And yet, none of this helps.  (more…)