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I have three laughs.
The first one, the one you'll hear more often than not, is light, a little bit throaty, and I'm told quite pleasant. This one means I'm happy, or contented, or pleased with something. Normal people seem to like hearing this laugh, although in my neighborhoods - both the one where I live and the one where I work - I do have to keep reassuring people that I'm not laughing at them. People from the wrong side of the tracks tend to be a bit paranoid about stuff like that.
Laugh No. 2 comes from deep down in the belly, and comes out either as a goose's honk or a witch's cackle. My mother loves this laugh - she says it really sounds like something's tickled me. This is the laugh that comes when I think something's really funny. When this laugh comes I am totally unfeminine; my mouth is wide open and all my teeth (including the fillings) are visible, and my eyes crinkle up and my nostrils flare. It's not a pretty laugh, but it's honest.
The third laugh is what people refer to as my Muttley laugh. I can't say how true this is, because I've never seen the cartoon (I think it's called Dastardly Dick? Sheesh, that's a dodgy thing to say on this site). But everyone who hears this laugh comments on it, and tells me I sound just like Muttley, so there must be some truth in it. This laugh is rare. It's completely uncontrolled, and almost silent, because I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe. It makes my sides hurt. It makes my eyes stream tears till I can't see. It makes me gasp for breath. It's the kind of laughter that makes me glad for every moment of ballet training in my childhood, because if I hadn't learned excellent control of my muscles I'd be lying on the floor peeing myself.
The Muttley laugh has come out several times in the last couple weeks, mostly because of things I saw (either for the first time, or things that ALWAYS tickle me) on this site:
~ MGC's blog post Idiotic Signs, featuring a Japanese sign where the hand of God is shaking its finger at a man peeing on the street, and which I have so kindly Romaji-d up for you in the title of this post (Koko wa toire dewa arimasen! Dame! = This is not a toilet! Bad!) although I did put in the punctuation myself; kana is sadly lacking in exclamation marks.
~ Bard's words of wisdom on Kid's hijack post (HJT.....The plane crash was is so not being pinned on me....) about what men really think of pelvic-floor exercises: "You just need to do those kegger exercises.. I am not really sure how they work but I think you squat over a keg and practice picking it up with your cooter."
~ Thom's joke about the agnostic dyslexic insomniac. (I can't remember which post it was in, it was awhile ago.) I think this will be my new test for potential dates: if they don't get the joke, I don't want to go out with them.
~ Arty's post about snow puns: Let's Name This Bitch. I'm particularly taken with Chersnowbyl and Snow, the Humanity!
So all is not bad. I discovered my sense of humor recently. I know I've gone on about this a few times, here and in comments on your blogs, but it really is such a huge discovery for me.
*tired smile*
Thank you for the messages. They are much appreciated. I really am fine - well, sort of. If FINE is an acronym. In any case, none of this fading gray is going to kill me. I'll be around.
[And since you can't link to the other posts from this version of the blog:
Bard's words were already given. Thom's joke was, "What does an agnostic dyslexic insomniac do at night? Lies awake and wonders if there's a Dog." Arty's post was all about names for the giant blizzard that raged across the East Coast and the Midwest and included suggestions including but not limited to Snowprah, Snowtorious B.I.G., Snow My God, Eddie Blizzard, Snowmageddon and You're Taking The Blizz, in addition to my two favorites up there (Chersnowbyl and Snow, The Humanity!)
And MGC's sign?
That nearly made me pee myself.]
I can't remember quite how any of the movies went.
In the last week or so, I've totally lost my mojo. My spark, my pizazz, whatever it is that makes me me. My personality, if you like. I can't write anything decent. I can't even SAY anything decent. None of my words come out right, and even simple sentences sound flat and boring. The amount of times in the last week that I've started an IM conversation with someone, and then immediately wished I hadn't, because the way things are now I just know that they'll talk to me and wonder what they saw in me...oh hell, I don't even want to think about that right now.
Thank God I haven't been making phone calls as well.
Somehow, in just those few days, I've gone from being someone who's fun and charming and sparkly - at least on a good day, in good company - to someone who's awkward, and worse, dull. Everything I say to people sounds like one of those generic "So, how are you doing?" emails that all of us here have gotten far too many of. And let's face it, nobody likes those emails. In a way, even the obnoxious ones are better, because at least they're good for a giggle. The way I am right now, I'm just a shadow that barely registers on a person's radar. Watchers are dropping off (and no, that alone doesn't worry me, it's just in combination with other things), FB friends are falling off my lists, comments aren't showing up on blogs and statuses and posted links, IM conversation partners are signing off in the middle of conversation because they forget that they're talking to me. And not just on FB, which is glitchy enough that it happens at the best of times - on here, on msn, everywhere.
I'm just kind of fading away, right before my own eyes.
I don't know what's happened to me - I'm hoping it's just a combination of hormones and lack of sleep. I feel gray. Like an iceberg that's been sliced off just beneath the surface, or like a pretty, empty shell, or like a meringue - sweet on the outside, and with absolutely nothing inside.
I make friends easily. Always have, probably always will. I can, and have, moved to a brand new city - even a new country - where I know nobody, with no fear whatsoever, because I know that people will like me. I'm generally inoffensive, moderately pretty, quite sweet, and my naivete and my ignorance and my strangeness - and even my vanity and my occasional arrogance and my lack of humor - are things that people find easy to forgive, because they can sense that I truly, genuinely care about them. Perhaps it's this ease with which I get to know people that's such a curse as well as a blessing; perhaps it's the fact that I don't have to work hard to meet people that causes this grayness in me now. A thing that came to you easily can always leave you easily. The majority of the time, I feel comfortable in my own skin, but I do go through phases where I feel incomplete, as though I am not a real person at all but merely a simulacrum that looks and walks and talks like a real girl, that reads and eats and has sex and laughs with her friends, but is ultimately hollow.
These periods have been happening since I lost my memory five years ago. I don't know if they happened before that, because I can't remember. For a year after I lost my memory, I kept lists about myself that I updated every couple of days. Books I read. Foods I like. Foods I dislike. CDs in my collection that I enjoyed, and ones I didn't. I built a whole new person up from scratch, and I fought so hard to make that person dimensional and multifaceted. Slowly, painfully, I built this person you call Sati Marie Frost, this person who loves Japan, and is scared of bug larva, and will choose a good hamburger over any other food, and wears bright eyeshadow every day, and thinks you can never have too many pairs of pale pink stilettoes, and reads romances voraciously, and laughs at word puns, and loves any sport where she can cheer for a team, and decorates her room with carved African masks.
After a year I started recovering some memories; after two years I had eighty percent of them back, but even though those memories evoke emotion in me, too often they are like things I've seen on a television screen or in a book, things that happened to a character I like.
And even five years later, I still go through periods where I feel, deep down - or as deep as I go down - that people will sense this in me. That sooner or later, the spell wrought by my superficial charm will wear off, and my friends - especially the smart, perceptive ones, like you all that I've met here - will realise that underneath the easy smile and the friendly manner and the veneer of intelligence and wit, there is nothing but a swirling mass of emptiness.
This is why I choose not to associate with certain people on the site, and also why I don't bitch about them. I don't trust them, but I empathise. I understand why a person would lie about themselves, about their job or their looks or their family or their friends. I understand what it's like to feel like a shell of a person who's surrounded by real ones, and I understand the temptation to make-believe like you're more than you are, although I haven't indulged that temptation in a very long time.
I can understand Pinocchio's wish, to be a real live boy. I do wonder if he was secure when he got it, though, or if he wondered constantly if people would realise that once he was made of wood.
Do you ever really stop being made of wood, though?
Again, none of these words are coming out right. I want so much to be understood, but even I can't entirely understand what it is that I'm trying to say here. I do so want to meet you, all of you, to be a part of your community, but I am scared that when I do, you will recognize the hollowness in me, and even those of you who have met and liked me will realise that all of the things that you liked are as fragile and insubstantial as the saran wrap covering those meringue cases, and once you peel off the protective layer you will find that all you're left with is sugar and air.
I don't know, I guess I need a break. I'll be around. Maybe reading blogs now and then, or you can find me over on Facebook - there are only two of me there, and they're both me, although the one with the black and white eyes is a work profile that I rarely use.
I'm not gone forever, unless I blow away on the wind. I'll be back once I feel a bit more substantial.
[This is one of the few posts that I decided to leave off in its entirety, not because it could violate privacy, but because I really felt rotten for writing it. In general, I am not comfortable with deleting or editing past posts that I feel rotten about; perhaps it's a result of suffering from the life reboot that comes with amnesia, or perhaps it's just that creepy Orwellian feeling that I suffer from sometimes, but I have never been comfortable with rewriting history to make myself look cleaner and better than I was. When you say or do a thing, it's said or done, and whether you regret it or not, you made the choice to say / do it, and you need to own that decision.
So choosing to omit a post of mine, even one that is painful to read, is an unusual choice for me. All I can say is that there are some things that I find it appropriate to say to strangers but not to friends, and this post - along with a few other posts that I don't feel comfortable bringing up - was written on a site where there is at least a veneer of anonymity, a site where nobody knows any of my friends and family and most likely nobody will ever meet them.
Sometimes a person needs to rant, I think, and when you care a lot about the people who are driving you round the bend, it can be a lot easier to rant to people who will never have the chance to condemn them (at least not in person) based on the things you say. Rants are, by nature, one-sided and unfair. For the most part, everything in me struggles against injustice, or perceived injustice, and I don't find it easy to say negative things about the people I love, especially when they are not there to defend themselves. I have never got the hang of that teenage girl habit of bitching about friends to other friends, because even when I am at my angriest - and that can be very angry indeed - my moral compass indicates to me that trying to influence a mutual friend against someone is horribly, digustingly wrong. Hence my occasional habit of taking grievances to outside sources who will hopefully give me a (more) objective perspective on the situation - and failing that, at least will never cause me to feel like I've turned people against each other. This is why I blog. This is why, for the last four or five years, I've blogged anonymously. And this is why, now that my blog - or a near-enough carbon copy of it - is open to friends and family members, I have made and will make the occasional choice to omit a post that I know would cause hurt feelings over a thing that was over and done with a long time ago.]
I feel so loved.
Yup, opened my inbox today to find an email with the title, "£300", and inside it said something along the lines of, "Petrol money to come to Uxbridge for NSA sex right now."
They like me. They really like me. *cries*
And that's all I'm sharing tonight, since my connection is kicking me off every three minutes, and it's driving me freakin' nuts.
Sorry about the rant last night. I lost two watchers from it, so perhaps it wasn't a good idea. And I know that aside from leaving the site, there's very little good that I can do by whinging. But it did make me feel better.
So, you want the rundown of my day?
Well, of course you do, that's why you're here. 
Unless it's with the hope of seeing goofy pictures or random thoughts. I'm all out of those for today.
All benevolent powers be blessed, I slept well last night. "Well" being a relative term, of course, but I was asleep by 4am, which is fairly good for me. No checking FB or here all night. No compulsive blog writing. Let's just hope tonight goes as well.
So, I was up in the late morning. Beautiful morning, sunshine everywhere, birds quacking (gimme a break, this isn't Disney), everything really feeling like spring. Mom was restrained and only whispered happy birthday when I came downstairs, instead of making a big production like I expected. Papa and Stepmama texted me, but that's to be expected since I didn't tell them about the May thing. Christie sent me a big excited "Whoop whoop, hope u get loads of prezzies!!!" text and I didn't tell her to fuck off.
My dress arrived. It's beautiful. The only thing redder than this dress is my bank balance. So I tried it on, and it's too freakin' short! This is what comes of buying clothes made for normal girls when you're built like an Amazon.
(LOL, I just wrote "made FROM normal girls" - WTF?)
Possibly I can wear it with tights, or what do Americans call 'em, panty hose? I hate the things, but it's a possibility. Or stockings. If I have to wear anything on my legs, it's stockings and garters / suspenders - hold-ups don't hold up on my chubby thighs, and hose seems so unhygenic - but the tops might show. Hmm, something to think about. I moaned about it this morning, and Bubbles and LadyU both volunteered to go shopping with me - yet another thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons to visit the US. *grins*
I may still wear it tomorrow, though, assuming I actually get out tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then when I shed a few pounds, because I think the hem will drop a little. It's annoying, though - in the picture I showed you, the width : length ratio makes it look like it's knee-length, so I can only assume that the dress they photographed was like a size 4 (US 0).
However, the fact that I can now get into Jane Norman clothes is something to celebrate. 
So I decided I'd better buy some groceries and birthday presents for Mom, whose birthday is on Sunday. So I washed, and got ready to head into town. Unfortunately I was daydreaming in the bath, and daydreaming = losing time, so I didn't get moving until the 3.36 bus (which was late anyway). Got to town, with NO idea of what to get Mom, a little bit panicked since I usually buy early, in the January sales, and I think it must have been ten years since I left it this late. Went to the Dorothy Perkins section of BHS, only to find that their prices have risen to ridiculous levels. Earmarked a couple of T-shirts as possibilities, but I don't really want to buy her clothes - I bought her like half a dozen items of clothing for Christmas. Went into Robert Dyas to check out kitchen stuff, and found to my disgust that Marmite are now making dishes and eggcups and shit. Wondered when Kidfos' birthday is, since he loves that devil's food. Didn't find anything that Mom might need except a wok - the one Tony gave her for Christmas has something wrong with it, some step that was left out of the sealing process, and every time I cook with it I get big black lumps everywhere.
Went to HMV (record store). Happy Guy aka Colin (he only told me his name last time I saw him; I'd been thinking of him as Happy Guy for months at that point, and still do) wasn't there, but I checked out books and CDs. Nothing in the book section that she would want that she doesn't already have, except maybe Tsotsi. DVDs are a possibility, but I know perfectly well that when I leave home the DVDs are coming with me, so it seems a bit tacky to give them to her as presents. CDs she always appears to be happy to get, but then listens to a handful of times in a year - my mom is not a music person. Or maybe she just can't work out how to use the CD player. I browsed anyway, looking to see if there's something I want. The only thing I can think of offhand is Elton John's "Rocket Man - Greatest Hits", and they don't have it, I checked last week. Cranberries, Coldplay, Leonard Cohen...AHA! I nearly bought her a biography of him from W H Smith at Christmas, that I'd forgotten all about until just now.
Headed to Smiths (newsagent / books / stationery). Searched through all their books. No Leonard Cohen. Drat. Went to Waterstones (big bookstore, hundreds of thousands of titles available either on the shelves or to order). Walked in the door, inhaled deeply - I love the smell of bookstores, they're one of my happy places. Realised I couldn't remember what I was in there for. Went back to Smiths, knowing I'd only remember if I stood in the same place. Stood in front of the shelves in Smiths. Leonard Cohen. Kept repeating, "Leonard Cohen Leonard Cohen" as I backtracked (or re-backtracked?) to Waterstones. Checked out the biography section. No Cohen. Checked out music. No Cohen. Discovered that they have an entire section, where the erotica used to be, titled "Painful Lives". Yeesh. Aside from the fact that it's replaced the erotica, this is just fine by me, keeps all that stuff off the rest of the shelves. I noticed in Smiths that every fourth title was something along the lines of, "Stolen Childhood" or "Why, Daddy, Why?" or "Please Help Me, Mommy."
(Aside: I get that abuse happens in A LOT of homes. I get that writing about it is therapy for people. In person, or in blogs, I see a lot of survivors of various types of abuse, and have the greatest respect for you all. I do NOT want to be bombarded with it every time I pick up a book. Books, for me, are for relaxation.)
In the music section there's an Eric Clapton book that she might like, but reading the back I find that it's really the story of his rock-and-roll days i.e. lots of sex and drugs and alcohol. Not my mom's thing (well, apart from the sex). Now, if they had a story about Clapton's pain, about the loss of his son, she'd eat that up. My mom and my brother love all those painful-life books. Mom and Tony are the opposite of me in this way - they have a great deal of compassion for Humanity in general, in theory, but tend to be impatient with people one-on-one, whereas I am a whole lot kinder and less judgemental when dealing with individuals than I am when it comes to the general population.
I ask at the desk, and they say they can order it, but do I know the exact title? Uh, no. And it'll take four weeks. No thank you.
No other bookstores in town except the second-hand ones. We used to have five or six, but since Waterstones (which started off Hammicks, then Ottakars, as the companies kept amalgamating) came in, they took all the custom and Alban Books and Paton Books and Methuens and whatever the fifth one was, have all closed. I go to the card shop to buy a card and some wrapping paper, and when I leave the clerk smiles and says, "See you next week." Ha bloody ha. She's not even joking, either - I probably don't buy fifty-two birthday cards a year, but I'd guess that I buy more than twenty-six, meaning I'm in there on average more than once a fortnight.
I check out a couple other shops, but by now nothing else will do aside from the Leonard Cohen book. I buy a heart-shaped mixing bowl for her in Paperchase. It's kind of a joke - Mom started buying me heart-shaped kitchen equipment years and years ago, which I thought was really weird, and then I kind of got into it. And now we have an apron with hearts on it, heart-shaped measuring cups, measuring spoons, chopping boards, cake tins, muffin pans, a whole cookie cutter set with different hearts (normal, linked, with an arrow through) as well as a cherub and an L, an O, a V and an E. A toast stamp that says I <3 you. (You press it onto the bread before you put it in the toaster, and then the pressed-in bit comes out lighter.) Somewhere there's a heart-shaped silicon egg ring for frying eggs, even though we eat fried eggs like once every two years. Tony and Debbie got in on it last year, and bought me four little individual Le Creuset heart-shaped ramekins for creme brulee or mousse. Mom has a heart-shaped cereal bowl and breakfast mug. It's totally tacky and totally glorious. Now she'll have a mixing bowl too, although it won't be easy to stir things in.
Went to Jane Norman to see if they still have the pale aqua handbag that I had my eye on. No handbag, but Lori's there, and I chat to her for a few minutes. She seems in a better mood than she was when she was living with me, thank God. Nothing for Mom there either.
Went to Wilkinson (mostly toiletries, hardware, a little bit of furniture). Bought a body brush for Mom so I can throw away the old one. I should have bought one from the Body Shop, where I get mine, but they're five times the price and I just know that she's going to drop it behind the bath or leave it in a puddle till it gets moldy. I come by my absentmindedness honestly.
Guys keep staring at me while I'm out. I check to see if there's anything on my face. Nothing. Are my boobs showing? Negative. They're not lustful stares as much as surprised double-takes. I remember a post I read this morning that says A F F has started advertising us as escorts again. I looked for my name, and didn't find it on an escort site. I DID find it under Orgy Cam Girls. I wonder if this is why the guys are looking at me, and nearly get mad, but instead I burst out laughing. I know a lot of people weren't amused by the last debacle with the other domains, but to me it IS funny, at least a little bit. I suppose I can afford to be amused, since I don't have anyone in my life who wants to make trouble for me (except a couple people who are currently serving time). But after all, if I feel ashamed of it I shouldn't be putting on cam orgies, should I?
Bought groceries. Went home. Blisters on my feet from wearing heels that I haven't worn all winter. Took another bath and sang along with Neil Diamond, just because I felt like it. Ate roast chicken and sausagemeat stuffing (ummmm, stuffing) and the Victoria Sponge with chocolate icing that Mom made today. Snarl at Christie about birthdays, which I feel a little bad about, but I think she finally gets it, and I did apologise for snapping (while making it perfectly clear that I stood by what I said). Ordered meds from the doctor's. Checked out Amazon. WTF? There's about twenty Leonard Cohen books, all with mixed reviews - even the ones that average four or five stars still have a handful of one and two-star reviews to them. Picked out the biography with the highest overall rating, and the CD of Jonathan Livingston Seagull music, which Mom's mentioned many times over the course of my life, and I've never remembered to buy for her. There's a Cohen poetry book with excellent rating, but that'll have to wait till another time. Paid the extra P & P so they'll deliver it tomorrow or Saturday, since there's no mail on Sunday.
Answered FB wall posts from various A F F members and my older sisters. My younger sisters forgot - no surprise there. Got reminded that even if I intend to leave my birthday cards till May, I need to open the one from Papa and Stepmama since there's likely to be a check. There is, and it's a third of the value of a cheap return ticket to the US. My fund is off to a good start. It's a shame I can't pimp myself out to 20 of you for $25 each.
This trip is looking more and more likely to happen, which fills me with joy. Every year Mom says, "This year we'll get back to America," (she's from Minnesota, btw) and every year something gets in the way - health or money, usually. She's estranged from her family - I'm the one who had to make contact with them a couple years ago, even though I've never met any of them - so we've never had a concrete reason to visit, i.e. a person rather than just wanting to see things. Stupidly, if she bothered to nurture a relationship with her family - it's only her mother she really hated, and she died a while back - we could probably move to the US and get jobs with the family foundation. My mom's paternal grandfather was a leader in the industrial world (and a good friend of President Eisenhower, LOL; one of my most treasured possessions growing up was Ike's sterling silver golf tee which I wore upside-down on a chain around my neck) who invented some sort of generator thing. I don't know much about the company, except that they sold out to Studebaker-Packard (in the fifties, I think) and made a vast amount of money, with which they started a charitable foundation. And who better to give charity to than the poor relatives, right?
Kidding. Sort of. I don't want charity, but I DO want family, and wouldn't mind a job. But Mom freezes at the thought of family the same way as I freeze at the thought of using the phone (more about this in the next note, I hope) and has been blocking me at every turn. Cousin Dave, who is now the head of the family, wants to hear from his little cousin, not from his cousin's oddball daughter who has pictures of her undies up on her FB page (which he politely ignores, and instead comments on the pictures of the garden). And there are only so many times I can make excuses for why she didn't send a Christmas card, and I signed mine from the both of us.
So yeah. I could probably form a relationship with my American relatives, and find a way to support myself in the US. A visit would have to come first, though. But I'm making plans - nothing concrete yet, but hopeful ones - to come at the end of summer, spend some time with my relatives, and then ramble around a bit. If not that, then just a week or two visiting friends. We'll see. Either way, I want to see you. Yes, YOU.
OK, I've talked quite long enough. It was an eventful day. Certainly not the worst unbirthday I've spent - not even on the top five, in fact - even if I didn't get any Pokemon in.
I do wish I had someone special to spend it with, but there's always next year.
And remember - May 3rd you all get to say Happy Birthday (again) and send virtual sparklers and balloons and cookies.
Curt is taking me out for dinner on Friday. I hope. It's my unbirthday* and he still has my Christmas present - as I still have his - and he said he really wants to see me. I expect we'll just go to Nandos or something - the days of invites to The Roof Garden and The Ivy are long past, since he's now a student again - but I was wondering if I needed to dress up. Y'know, just in case.
I decided probably not. Even though I found a lovely dress on sale on the Jane Norman website.
HOWEVER, today I saw a post on TheRedheadinHeat's blog reminding us that Friday is National Wear Red Day - so I thought, providence. The universe wants me to have the dress. So I just hopped over there and bought it.
I don't buy off their site often, because their sizes tend to run small - and they only do up to a 16 (a US 12) which is really more like a 14 (10), and I worry about things not fitting. I was planning to run into the store in Bond Street or Covent Garden last Friday, before meeting in the cafe, but then I started running late and didn't get the chance.
So I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it fits, and that it isn't horribly short!
So thank you, dear Redhead, for helping me make the discovery that it's possible to do something nice and look fabulous at the same time. :D
And on a more serious note, I strongly suggest that women who are reading this read up on the possible signs of an impending heart attack. They vary a lot from in men, and far too many women lose their lives because there simply isn't enough information put out there where everyone can see.
* When I say my unbirthday, what I mean is that it's my birthday (Feb 3rd - Thursday) but this year I've decided to postpone it until May 3rd (or possibly June 3rd) due to ill health and general mental unavailability. I will not be accepting cards or presents or well-wishes until May or June, to the utter disgust of my friends and family, and anyone (aside from Curt) who so much as says Happy Birthday to me this month will be treated to the view of my sizeable ass as I bury my head in the sand.
Oh...hell.
I saw Chrissie today. We'd made vague plans to meet up this morning, then I didn't get to sleep until after nine (am) and decided to make it 2 or 3 this afternoon instead.
Of course, neither of our buses made it on time, and we didn't get into town until fourish. Couple that with Chrissie needing to open a bank account (she had to get an appointment for tomorrow) and apply for a bus pass (they gave her a form and sent her away) and spending way too long looking at things in New Look that she had no intention of buying, I didn't get to either of the places that I needed to go (Accessorize to look for a handbag for my mom's birthday, and Jane Norman to look for handbags and a dress to wear out with Curt when he takes me to dinner this weekend). I am somewhat irritated that after paying off my overdraft after Christmas, and being extremely proud of myself for doing so, I'm already back in the red again. Damn bills / shopping trips / dinners out. I have GOT to learn to budget better. Maybe take a class on economics in the spring.
Anyway, that wasn't the cause for the oh hell. That was due to Christie deciding to matchmake. Last week she texted me (in the middle of the night, natch) to say she'd thought of the perfect guy for me. Today she talked to the guy online, and gave him my FB details, and asked him what he thought of me.
Turns out, he thought I was pretty OK.
Now, I'm not bothered that she'd give out my FB details. I keep the whole profile public, and anyone from this site who I communicate with or who reads my blog is welcome to add me on there. The same goes for people who know my friends. We may get on, we may not, but even if we don't it doesn't bother me if you check me out - I live a public life and I'm happy that way. To me, being on FB is much like walking down the street in a low-cut dress - I know people are going to look, and whether those people are ones that I'm interested in or not, they're perfectly welcome to look to their hearts content, as long as they respect my personal space. I would never feel offended or put-upon by someone gazing at my breasts, and the same goes for anything I choose to put up on my profile.
I am slightly bothered by the fact that she told him I thought he was hot, when I hadn't even checked him out yet, but as lies go it's not a whopper. If I'd checked him out, I probably would have thought that. I did look at him this evening, and he's pretty good-looking. I'm told he's a nice guy, and that he's really great in bed, and has a high sex drive. He's not intellectual, but I know better than to expect that from one of Christie's guy friends.
I don't have any right to be bothered by the matchmaking, either, since a couple weeks ago I asked her if she knew anyone who might be right for me. I was half joking, and didn't think she'd know anyone - while we're both versatile enough that I enjoy the odd evening with her friends, and she with mine, our tastes in people are vastly different - but I'm the one who brought it up.
So why do I feel so...blah?
A couple weeks ago I would have been happy to find a guy who was safe, handsome and good in bed. This week I have zero interest. And it's not personal, either. I'm not uninterested in him - by which I mean, my lack of interest isn't anything to do with his looks or his personality, or really with him at all. It's just...well, it's that old cliche, I guess. It's not him, it's me.
Lulu sometimes writes about how sex seems to come in droughts and torrents for her; she'll have a dry spell where she's either not interested or dates get cancelled for a number of reasons, and then she has spells where it seems like every man she knows wants to hook up. I am much the same, except that unlike my dear friend, I am not built to cope with the torrents of potentials, at least not in the form that they come in. I become preoccupied with one - one person, one situation, one crisis, one anything that acts as an emotional trigger - and I lose interest in the others that come after it. And they always come, because that's the way my life seems to work. Periods where I'm footloose and fancy free, and can't get a date to save my life, and then periods where I have floods of people wanting equal time and attention, and I'm incapable of giving it to them - or at least of WANTING to give it to them, although sometimes I can drag myself away from my preoccupation long enough to give them what they deserve - because all my interest is used up on that one thing, or occasionally two or three things.
To put it bluntly, there is a very small handful of people I would welcome in my bed right now, and a stranger - even a hot, talented stranger - is not one of them.
Damn timing.
Part of me wants to force it, because I hate letting a chance go by. I know in a couple of weeks I'll be back to normal, and will wonder why I ignored such a tempting proposition. Yet I don't think it's fair to either of us to attempt to make a connection when my mind and spirit are quite simply not available.
Do you think if I wrote him a short note saying that I think he's interesting, and that I'm going through some personal things right now but would like to get in touch with him in a month or two, that that would be rude? Would you be insulted by that? Or would you think it was practical?
*sigh*
Poor timing is my worst enemy so often. Timing makes the difference between catching the wave and getting sucked under.
