Me: Hi! How are you?
Him: Fine thanks, you?
Me: Good thanks ... hang on a minute, I'm just trying to figure out where I am [insert waffle about where I'm trying to get to as I temporarily suffer geographical ambiguity] ... are you still in town?
Him: No, I'm at home.
Me: Oh, that's a shame - I thought if you were still in town we could meet up for a coffee.
Him: Well I'm at home, so I can't. I'll speak to you later. Bye.
Me: Ok then. Bye.
My tone was cheery, deliberately so, and his was blunt and cold. I checked my call log, it took 34 seconds.
As I hung up the phone I laughed out loud - how rude! Over the following half hour I momentarily considered that something may be seriously wrong, perhaps he'd suffered a trauma? In the current climate, where modern telecommunication enables instant access to anything and anyone I believe it also enables choice - answer the phone, don't answer, reply, don't reply. I also consider bad manners shocking, downright rude and mostly wholly unnecessary.
Upon returning home I read a newly purchased book cover to cover, uninterrupted, which felt like a luxury ... but I'd much rather have been interrupted. I'm getting the distinct impression he's pissed off with me because of what happened yesterday, but I don't really believe he has legitimate cause. He's ambivalent about seeing me and I plan my time, he doesn't - so on this we clash.
Yesterday I thought it might be a good idea to have 'the conversation' face to face so invited him to join me for lunch today, Saturday, which he eventually accepted, and in very positive terms too. Unfortunately he took so long to accept I'd gotten bored and invited someone else - operating a first come, first served principle I then had to inform him that he was too slow so I couldn't see him after all. His response was to inform me that actually he was double booked so couldn't have met me anyway ... I replied that although a moot point I was sorry for the double booking, but that I hoped he enjoyed his lunch appointment.
With that in mind, re-read the 34 second conversation. Was it necessary for him to all but hang up on me? No. Did he stop to ask how my lunch was? No. Has he since been in contact? No. Do we think he deserves to be told to fuck off, grow some balls and leave me alone? Yes. Will he be told that? No. Because I have better manners and will not play him with the same cards he's dealt me ...
Showing posts with label bored. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bored. Show all posts
Saturday, 13 February 2010
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
Swearing is apparently reserved for those who can't express themselves properly ... let me be one of those people
Fuck me! I've never been blown off before, and I mean in the theoretical sense! On Monday he's citing being too busy with training and cake baking this whole week he can only see me for lunch on Wednesday (essential background: apparently working from home last week when I invited him for a drink after work, and too busy baking cakes for a cake sale to see me after work this Friday which was my only other option) so two weeks have passed since I last saw him - as this isn't supposed to be an affair, it does seem a bit odd he's not champing at the bit to see me, given his professed passion for all things Hot Cockles.
It's not the end of the world, but bear with me here. This morning he sent me an early morning text message apologising but informing me that he can't meet me for lunch as he's ill and has to stay at home to go to the Doctors. So far, so fair ... until I called him to see how he'd gotten on, and how he was. Nothing unreasonable there (though note he didn't call when I was ill last week, though to be fair he did offer me a delivery of home made soup which never transpired, but to be fair again, I was out of the office which was a main contributory factor In the non-delivery). He's not ill, he has an ailment, an infection, one that did not stop him going to the gym this morning, but still, in my book that deserves a degree of sympathy.
It's Wednesday right? That's two days after Monday, the Monday he says he has too much on to see me ... and now he says actually it's ok, because he was planning on taking a few days off this week. For what, I've no idea, and at this moment, I care not one bit as it was not followed with 'Would you like to ...". I say cunt! Not to him (as that would be distasteful!) but I say it to you.
Now, I know how full my diary is, how he severely dislikes planning, how he says he wants to see me when time allows etc etc etc ... so it's not likely without a bit of planning that I will see him ... can you see why I'm getting bored?!! We're back to him being a spineless idiot, too concerned with piffling and paffling his way through conversations rather than acting like the grown man that he is. Is it really too much to expect him to make reference to rearranging, or to feeling a tiny bit of sorrow he won't be seeing me? Clearly, yes, and so be it.
I'm back to holding my head in my hands in despair, mentally resolving to move on but in reality feeling like the bottom has fallen out of my world. On the way home this evening I was as close to tears as I ever get, not because he'd blustered his way through keeping me at a distance, making it clear he won't be better until at least Monday (newsflash - I'm at a wedding this weekend, trade fair next week, not free until next Saturday but as he doesn't ask, he doesn't know), but because it's getting so clear to me that I need to have "The Conversation" with him.
I don't like being handled at all. I've accepted a middle ground with him, I don't object when he makes attempts to handle me, to manage my expectations in such a fashion, and nor do I accept them, but I have a threshold and he has just reached it. I almost feel proud it's gone over my normal three month mark, but really, I should have grown out of that by now so it's nothing to be proud of.
In case my obscene rant isn't quite clear enough; What a fucking idiot he is! Is he trying to play me? Who the fuck knows. I may love, in the most platonic sense, the man he is, and how he makes me feel, but as he is right now, he's not good enough. I have learnt from past mistakes, made it clear as I can that I want to see him, how I want to see him and he fails to respond in an acceptable fashion. So for now, I have no other way to describe him other than to say he is a cunt.
NB: If it wasn't for the second day in a row early morning encounter and then, as special bonus, an evening encounter on the tube with Mr Daniel Craig (no, not the real one, just a delectable man who conjures the 'emerging from the sea in tiny blue shorts' scene), I may have lost all faith in attractive men. For the record, that would be a disaster!!
It's not the end of the world, but bear with me here. This morning he sent me an early morning text message apologising but informing me that he can't meet me for lunch as he's ill and has to stay at home to go to the Doctors. So far, so fair ... until I called him to see how he'd gotten on, and how he was. Nothing unreasonable there (though note he didn't call when I was ill last week, though to be fair he did offer me a delivery of home made soup which never transpired, but to be fair again, I was out of the office which was a main contributory factor In the non-delivery). He's not ill, he has an ailment, an infection, one that did not stop him going to the gym this morning, but still, in my book that deserves a degree of sympathy.
It's Wednesday right? That's two days after Monday, the Monday he says he has too much on to see me ... and now he says actually it's ok, because he was planning on taking a few days off this week. For what, I've no idea, and at this moment, I care not one bit as it was not followed with 'Would you like to ...". I say cunt! Not to him (as that would be distasteful!) but I say it to you.
Now, I know how full my diary is, how he severely dislikes planning, how he says he wants to see me when time allows etc etc etc ... so it's not likely without a bit of planning that I will see him ... can you see why I'm getting bored?!! We're back to him being a spineless idiot, too concerned with piffling and paffling his way through conversations rather than acting like the grown man that he is. Is it really too much to expect him to make reference to rearranging, or to feeling a tiny bit of sorrow he won't be seeing me? Clearly, yes, and so be it.
I'm back to holding my head in my hands in despair, mentally resolving to move on but in reality feeling like the bottom has fallen out of my world. On the way home this evening I was as close to tears as I ever get, not because he'd blustered his way through keeping me at a distance, making it clear he won't be better until at least Monday (newsflash - I'm at a wedding this weekend, trade fair next week, not free until next Saturday but as he doesn't ask, he doesn't know), but because it's getting so clear to me that I need to have "The Conversation" with him.
I don't like being handled at all. I've accepted a middle ground with him, I don't object when he makes attempts to handle me, to manage my expectations in such a fashion, and nor do I accept them, but I have a threshold and he has just reached it. I almost feel proud it's gone over my normal three month mark, but really, I should have grown out of that by now so it's nothing to be proud of.
In case my obscene rant isn't quite clear enough; What a fucking idiot he is! Is he trying to play me? Who the fuck knows. I may love, in the most platonic sense, the man he is, and how he makes me feel, but as he is right now, he's not good enough. I have learnt from past mistakes, made it clear as I can that I want to see him, how I want to see him and he fails to respond in an acceptable fashion. So for now, I have no other way to describe him other than to say he is a cunt.
NB: If it wasn't for the second day in a row early morning encounter and then, as special bonus, an evening encounter on the tube with Mr Daniel Craig (no, not the real one, just a delectable man who conjures the 'emerging from the sea in tiny blue shorts' scene), I may have lost all faith in attractive men. For the record, that would be a disaster!!
Saturday, 14 November 2009
First impressions
I think I have one of those faces. The type that silently seeks opinion from anyone in the vicinity, unassumingly inviting them to opine - and they do. On the train home this evening one of a group in my carriage, who'd engaged a few of us in friendly and amusing banter, opined that he liked my hat, a few minutes later he appreciated my handbag and then moved on to express his admiration of my eye-liner. I thanked him on each occasion, raising an eyebrow and questioned his unquestionable sexuality, and then sat in dread, anticipating his next observation.
I can't remember the first time it happened, I'd venture it was around 14 years ago. The frequency ebbs and flows, and with age has morphed into a more subtle, unspoken appreciation - unless of course the commentator feels they have secured my confidence (or are just plain stupid), in which case they happily, and mostly disappointingly go for the jugular. Somewhat sadly, I have now become immune to it, almost bored by the lack of originality, and consistently irritated with the blatant lack of manners. I say sadly as when a lover clearly, and so seductively appreciates it, it should be a moment to enjoy, to savour, to take advantage of, not one to wince at.
I've had all sorts, none of which impress me but are all variations on the same theme: I have a lovely mouth. I've lost count of the number of times men have stood next to me at the bar and matter-of-factly informed me that I have a fantastic mouth for a blow job and then casually continued to order their drink, the men who have sidled up to me and leered that they know with a mouth like mine I'd give them a great blow job, and the women who just tell me that they'd kill for lips like mine. I think I've heard every version, and seen every type of look.
They're not too big, not too small, plump, a good size with a great shape and a tendency to gently pout when left to do their own thing. Of all of the ways one could make a first impression I've learnt to accept that my mouth, smiling, pouting, or otherwise, is a large part of how I do it. Amusingly I've also learned to recognise when I can induce a colleague into losing their train of thought by a seemingly innocent but necessary application of lip-gloss - and just in case that gives the wrong impression of me it means any variation on the themes: 'I'm bored now', 'stop talking to me', 'go away' ;-)
It seems irrelevant now, but the chap on the train didn't mention them after all, though he did venture to ask if I was a dominatrix - something to do with the way I slowly pulled on my elbow length leather gloves apparently.
I can't remember the first time it happened, I'd venture it was around 14 years ago. The frequency ebbs and flows, and with age has morphed into a more subtle, unspoken appreciation - unless of course the commentator feels they have secured my confidence (or are just plain stupid), in which case they happily, and mostly disappointingly go for the jugular. Somewhat sadly, I have now become immune to it, almost bored by the lack of originality, and consistently irritated with the blatant lack of manners. I say sadly as when a lover clearly, and so seductively appreciates it, it should be a moment to enjoy, to savour, to take advantage of, not one to wince at.
I've had all sorts, none of which impress me but are all variations on the same theme: I have a lovely mouth. I've lost count of the number of times men have stood next to me at the bar and matter-of-factly informed me that I have a fantastic mouth for a blow job and then casually continued to order their drink, the men who have sidled up to me and leered that they know with a mouth like mine I'd give them a great blow job, and the women who just tell me that they'd kill for lips like mine. I think I've heard every version, and seen every type of look.
They're not too big, not too small, plump, a good size with a great shape and a tendency to gently pout when left to do their own thing. Of all of the ways one could make a first impression I've learnt to accept that my mouth, smiling, pouting, or otherwise, is a large part of how I do it. Amusingly I've also learned to recognise when I can induce a colleague into losing their train of thought by a seemingly innocent but necessary application of lip-gloss - and just in case that gives the wrong impression of me it means any variation on the themes: 'I'm bored now', 'stop talking to me', 'go away' ;-)
It seems irrelevant now, but the chap on the train didn't mention them after all, though he did venture to ask if I was a dominatrix - something to do with the way I slowly pulled on my elbow length leather gloves apparently.
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Set fire to the third bar
What have I done? I can't sleep, I can't stay in bed, and I can't get him out of my head.
What did I do? I gave into temptation. Common sense temporarily disabled, I ensnared a man, lets call him 'Him' for now. A persistent, willing and eager man, who would argue he is unwilling to be ensnared by anyone, and certainly not by me, he was ensnared, and I let him ensnare me. The temptation is Him, pure and simply Him - the myth and the actual.
I can't sleep because I woke up too early courtesy of too much wine and a 5am bedtime. I can't stay in bed because I think of the last time he was in it, and right now, that makes me feel very sick indeed. And I can't get him out of my head because he is a delicious mix of addictive, curious, and awkward, with a very handsome backside thrown in for good measure.
I really should know better by now - the actual is never as good as the myth, I'm easily bored, and a nice smile will see me easily swayed. But with Him, the actual is proving to be better than the myth at every turn, and with fiercely high expectations I'm left mystified. He is something of an artist, adept at sidestepping the unspeakable whilst leading you almost unknowingly into the Garden of Eden. This morning however, I am disappointed; his magic has temporarily worn off which leaves me loathing him, cursing his existence, and occasionally deliberating effective ways to poke him with a stick.
In the meantime I find myself distracted with thoughts of an ex-lover, a certain Mr Green, which surprises me, as I normally wander back to the reliable Mr Marine. Set fire to the third bar - such a curious song. I don't understand it, perhaps I do in parts, but I like it a lot as it takes me off into a totally different place. This sounds an awful lot like my thoughts on Him...
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