Cocktails with 'The Slave'
Last night I had drinks with 'The Slave'... For a couple of years now, I have had this friend who wants me to boss him around and make him clean my house, run errands, buy me chocolates, lick my feet... EEW. I won't do it of course. Not my thang!
We had this really long talk about how he never gets in to a proper relationship because of his desire for being submissive and subservient to women in charge is what 'drives' him - you know, sexually. He knows he jumps the gun by letting on to this fact right away, so he never really gets to know someone - or lets them get to know him before he lays on the slave crap. I told him he should hold off and see if he gets to know someone well enough that they would consider that role-play stuff with him.
Who knows what will happen to him. It's sort of a lonely life I guess. I mean, I have said this before, nothing would make me happier than getting a big strapping lad in to do the chores, clear out the garden and then bring me croissants in bed. But I sort of have my own fantasy - that someone who does all that for me would be doing that because they like being in my life and doing things that enrich my life. Someone who would appreciate having some attention back from me. You know, someone who loves me.
Not someone who wants me to boss them around just for kicks!
At this point, you're probably asking - why do you still have drinks with 'the slave'? The answer is - because he's ALWAYS a nice guy and a good friend. And when he's not hot for some dominating female to order him vacuuming and scrubbing the tub, he's a considerate and kind person. He called on Father's day to make sure I was OK. Just wanted to touch base on a day that he knew would be hard for me. A good guy. So, I try to make an effort to meet up with him occasionally and be a supportive friend.
Usually we discuss the above issues and I think he appreciates having someone who listens without judgment. I mean - I don't judge him, but can't stomach details of the domination stuff. eew.
Anyway - I was looking super hot last night and had 'it' - whatever that is - and a bevy of hottie Commission guys were marking the territory around my table at Ralph's, offering many glasses of plonky wine, making eye contact, flirting - (Aussie Girl would have loved it) Until - my 6'5, strapping 'Wannabe Slave' showed up and they sort of scampered. Darn.
For some reason I have a headache this morning. Perhaps someone can bring me some aspirin...hmm. Who would do that for me ...lets see...
Puppy Good
Happy Father's Day Dad.
Though you have been gone for 7 months I can't quite believe it.
I talk to you every day as I did before you died.
You knew what was going on. You always knew what to ask, what was relevant and what to share.
You made me know that the adventure was about finding myself and learning about others.
You knew that an experience like this would help me see how important my family and friends are and not to take them for granted.
Take nothing for granted.
Work hard on your profession and harder on life.
People matter.
Mom has been clearing out your desk. She's keeping the cards and notes I sent you over the years. She's especially fond of a birthday card I sent 25 years ago. You were so sentimental!
You kept everything - little shreds of articles torn from magazines, pictures of weird things - like a picture you once took of a TV in your hotel in China - featuring a Chinese game show. That was more interesting to you. Cultural perceptions, trends, attitudes, life of the living people - all mattered to you.
Me, and my friends mattered to you and you couldn't wait to soak up my stories of travelling somewhere new.
I am so proud of you.
You were so proud of me.
You gave me love and support and a wonderful life.
You give me a legacy of grace
I only hope I can make you proud forever Dad
I love you very much
You were Puppy Good - which is very good indeed!
Frankenstein Shoes and Some Good Advice
How to make your own Frankenstein Shoes:
Take one pair of high heeled espadrilles (which are the rage in Europe this summer) Wear them because the day starts out sunny and pleasant. Add a massive thunderstorm which dumps 3 inches of water on you in 10 minutes. Let espadrilles soak up 7 lbs of water per shoe and continue walking. Frankenstein shoes.
Good Advice
When someone shows you their true colours (true self) you should believe them. Save yourself a lot of time.
Have a wonderful weekend
A Bad Day and a Good Day Dream
I want my holiday back. Let's rewind to last week. Please. Last week - when life was relatively simple and the hardest thing to do was go to the market and buy more cheese and butter.
Since I came off holiday, things at work have gone from bad to just plain stupid. Yesterday was crappy, today is awful.
A theft issue with one of our temps at an Amsterdam site - started badly and just got worse the more details I knew. And today, to make my misery complete, I found
£245,000 of outstanding debt owed to us by one of my customers. YA - that's a quarter of a million GBPounds! Like WAY a lot of dosh.
This is aged debt that should have been cleaned out by the last Account Manager - who was fired for non-performance of course. Just when I got the customer working on clearing debt, I found this huge hunk and I have to hit them with it. Not a good day. I have spent weeks building this customer's confidence in our data integrity - and in one day - crash - bang.
As I wait for the UK back office gurus - over in Kingston - to rework yet another spreadsheet so I can send it to the dragon lady customer, I start to day dream. It's the only way to deal.
My mind plays with thoughts of the 'Stig'. I imagine I can hear the bangs and thrusts of his motorcycle engines whooshing down Boulevard Adolphe Max and coming to an exciting stop outside my office building. I imagine I hear the sturdy footsteps of the 'Stig' climbing the 6 flights up to my lonely office at the top of this old Belgian office building - a former house. No one has an office up here but me. All alone. (In my daydream the 'Stig' is not breathless from the many flights of stairs like everyone in real life).
I try to keep Roasted Chicken out of my day dreams most of the time - today is a good day for no roasted chicken in my day dream - doesn't fit.
The 'Stig' enters my office - well, there's no door, he simply gets to my floor and he's pretty much there. Helmet on - Visor down. Silent, strong, mysterious. Broad shouldered. Pretty damned scrumptious.
I want to sit him on my desk and slowly, slowly remove his boots and mighty thick gloves. I want to unzip the full body leathers one zipper tooth - tic-tic-tic - at a time - slowly. First around the ankles, wrists, then waist and legs...Like I am performing detailed surgery. I want to carefully and ever so slowly peel the leathers off his shoulders and pull the arms to reveal the 'Man'. Heat rising. The mystery still in tact because his heavy helmet is still shielding his face, eyes, soul.
My damned phone rings and ruins my day dream. It's dragon lady - I will give her a special customer promotion - to Lizzie Borden - because I think she looks like Lizzie Borden the axe murderer. Oh, I know that's mean - it's not like I even know what Lizzie Borden looks like.
I digress.
Anyway - basically I want to ravage the 'Stig' and pour a cool Vodka lime and soda for the two of us and chill.
Time to go home.
Holiday with Buttery, Cheesy and Stig
I took my 80 year-old Mother and two cousins to France for the week.
Mom's been many times before, but she sort of turns off her power switch when she visits me in Europe - which is fine - except when she wants to decide what and when everyone does anything. She was even dictating when people go to bed and who uses which toilet first - you know that kind of Mom thing. Drives me crazy. But hey, all parents do stuff that drive their children mental.
Mom has a tendency to speak VERY loudly in restaurants in France. I cringe when she proclaims - in stereo sound no less - that she 'just LOVES watching French people eat, they REALLY love their food!'. This is usually when she thrusts her head over to the next table and inspects what the neighbours are eating, inches away from their plates with a huge smile.
But let's get real. Mom came to Normandy for one thing and one thing alone. Sorry Bunny Dog, it wasn't you and it certainly wasn't me. Mom came to visit so I would take her to Normandy and she could eat the best butter in the world - and a lot of it. Tubs of it in fact. She was so shiny after 24 hours of being in Normandy I had to wear shades. She smeared butter on top of butter on top of butter on her slices of baguette. Once she missed the bread and liberally buttered her thumb - I swear! She was unapologetic when she licked her fingers at the table. She slathered butter on her all butter croissants. I caught her sopping up the melted butter we had for our langoustines with great big hunks of soft French bread until they were golden yellow sponges dripping with her nectar of choice - butter. Buh ter. Buh Buh Butt ter.
Cousin Dorothy got hooked on the butter thing too. The beach house was like a butter crack den. But Dorothy developed a second addiction even more powerful. Cheese.
Never, ever, ever (not even Matt Blakey with a wheel of brie in book group) have I ever seen anyone put away so much cheese. She became a cheese snarfer of the highest order. And she ate every type of cheese out there. Even those cheeses that could get up and slap you they were so strong. Cheeses that make chopped liver and onions smell like roses. To her credit, Dorothy - who had never been to France or Europe for that matter - learned all of the famous cheeses and everything about them while here. She tried plate after plate of cheese, accepted samples at markets, shops and stores. She turned in to a fromagier. We suggested that she open a cheese shop when she retires from the California State Government. She should get vanity license plates that say 'Fromage' and drive around Sacramento.
My cousin Norio was great. He rode in the front seat down to Normandy. Mom and Dorothy and Bunny Dog in the back seat. Mom snoring away and Dorothy rummaging around for cheese and nibbles she had acquired on the transatlantic flight the night before, stashed in her ample purse. Norio stayed alert by and large - but I quickly learned that he couldn't read a map to save his life. He had issues with the north-south, east-west thing so I thought I shouldn't ask his opinion when I had to navigate around Amiens - a poorly signed section of the journey. Later in the week, he and Dorothy took the car off to explore the D-Day beaches and toot around - blissfully. Dorothy can read a map so it wasn't too bad, they only missed a couple major exits during the week. All part of the adventure.
The week was turning out to be crazy - my family were becoming round, cheesy butterballs and driving me nuts - the cousins were asking a million questions all day long: How do we get to Omaha beach?, Where can we buy cherries?, What is Calvados?, Where does the trash bin go?, How do I work the dishwasher?,
What's the rule for passing on a two lane highway in France?, Why are the cows whiter in France? What kind of shells are these? Is that a sailboat or a house in the middle of the sea?'(no joke)..What kind of meat is this anyway? What's the weather forecast? Are we there yet? And Mom deciding what we will have for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next 3 days at what times, all the while leaving loads of laundry in the hallway for me to do and announcing to everyone that it was her nap time. etc etc.
So, it was with a huge sigh of relief that a hot sexy man on a hot sexy Triumph motorcycle appeared at the gate in the pouring rain. He looked like the 'Stig' from Top Gear all kitted out in helmet and leathers, dark visor down. Mysterious and strong - Just the sight of him and my stomach was doing back flips with excitement. So hot. In fact, here's nothing sexier than a man when he dismounts from a bike after a journey and starts to take it all off. (Unless he's got a roasted chicken strapped to his chest - but hey, that would be gross).
So, I was going a bit nuts to say the least. He had a swagger in his reinforced kevlar suit with hard leather-covered patches in all the right places and superman speed racer boots. One super glove off, another super glove off, then the helmet. It was like watching strip tease at NASA. Once the helmet was off, I was ready to pounce. But you know what? Before he came near me, he smiled and bent down to say hello to Bunny Dog first because he knows dogs. A good 'Stig'.
Once the Stig got in to civilian clothes, he saved me from the insanity of family. After lazily sunning on the beach with me, walks and a few manly performances - My faith was restored in humanity.
A couple of days later, the 'Stig' suited up for the ride back to Cherbourg ferry to Portsmouth. I wanted to attach myself to a bungee cord at the back of his bike and be dragged away from the whining butter and cheese addicted family. As the last grumble of his Triumph faded in to the distance, I heard Mom's voice drifting out of the window asking 'Where's the butter?!'
