These Boots Were Made For Loving

They say you can judge a man’s…worth…by his shoes. It is quite an easy measure to take. The lower the heel, the higher the self esteem. The less time spent buffing, the less time, most likely, spent buffing. As for inopportune coloration and sneaker softness – it is not what I want in the extremities of man. And a total lack of knowhow in the spit-and-rub department might not bode too well either.

Walking in a woman’s shoes, is all about the heels. No excuse is better than a vertiginous red suede pump, for sliding onto the soft leather seats of a cab. But that is not the only reason we wear them, the spikes. Impracticality and extravagance in female footwear serve as the crutches of aesthetics: the ten inch stacked elongates and deceives.

Do they hurt? Yes. But so does dying alone because you have the legs of a particularily disproportionate and tubby Dachshound.

There may be women whose legs and bottom could stand the remorseless truth of the flat. I am not them. I need platforms in order to reach the coffee-cup shelf, not to mention get lucky.

Which is why I took last night’s gift of shoes as the greatest compliment to date. On arriving home from the office, I was presented with the gift of acceptance – stumps and all. Waiting for me, along with a glass of wine for good behaviour, were a pair of beautiful brown leather sturdy walking shoes. 

They have no heels to speak of, and they are soft, and roomy, and they have no straps, or any preposterous peep-toes. How do I look? Half-pint of stout springs to mind. But a very cheerful-looking half-pint of stout that is.

Surely, a man who presents the gift of boots made for walking loves the inner woman.

And her blisters.

Age Over Beauty

My mother has instilled me with a love of senior citizens. My father is fifteen years older than her, her new old man eighty to her sixty. He is spry and a very beautiful. The stories he will tell about travelling Europe on a buzz in ’48 are infinitely entertaining: in comparison the WoW-centered world experience of the younger set seems quite tepid.

From the time I could crawl, I would crawl into the laps of grizzled beards, rub against the grizzled beards, and wink at the crinkled faces covered in the grizzled beards.

As I grow older, so do my lovers. Exponentially, it seems. I have now arrived at the forties and by the time I am gotten up the duff, it will probably be by someone back in diapers.

There are drawbacks, of course. For one, you are in fact dating him by the very act of dating him. Expect a snigger or two, and some rather chilly handshakes from his contemporary female friends.

Also, you must expect the older man to already have done, seen and had his fill for life. He is no longer hot to trot, and may at times be slightly patronizing: lording his presence at this or that World Moment over your second hand knowledge of the same.

But the perks make it worth it. Age brings a wealth of experience and learning. Ideally, it will mellow moods and minimize the risk of mothers whilst opening wallets. And as for the trotting – a good horse may run even when not mounted.

Will some of his distinguee splash on you? Perhaps, in as much as one always picks up a trick or two from whatever one is dating. Personally, I much prefer developing a taste in wine, patched sweaters and early Blues to sharing the younger mans expertise in tight pants and STD’s.

However, there is one major downside to dating un vieux. When his eye will wander, as the male eye will wander, it will by default wander in the direction of Younger Women, seeing as all women are likely to be Younger than him.

Unfortunately, many of them will at any given time also be Younger than you.

Hearing him comment on the nubile, the coltish, and the newly weaned has limited charm. Nothing will make you feel quite as decrepit at 28 as the legs of 21. Not even the return of leggings.

In THAT Club?

You know how you’re dating someone and he hasn’t been living under rock, and you’ve been around the block, and between you, you’ve shagged just about everyone you know?

It doesn’t bother me much.

In fact,  I rather like the fact that you’re winning slightly over all his exes, the way your favourite boots are winning over the sensible options, chocolate eclairs are winning over grapefruits, and 2 1/2 Men reruns are beating the pants off the nine o’clock news.

Unfortunately, as the relationship progresses, you start gleaning little details about those that have come and gone before. And this is when a slight feeling of minor iffyness can hit you like a ton of bricks. Not jealousy, but Marxism: do I really want to be in a club, the memeber of which have been this bloody silly?

Ever the picture of discression, I will not specifiy the sillyness. Let’s just say that when you have, like the Better Man,  twenty-odd years of lassies under your belt, you are bound to have come across a few examples of female folly (including but not limited to strange taste in condiments and one really poor decision in a basement).

In short: winning over competition such as this constitutes a failing.

But then again, considering what a Mötely Crüe that has preceeded the Better Man – I suppose he’s got even more right to be feeling Groucho.

Fleur-de-lies

Continuing on the subject of flowers. Though there have been foliage on a few more occasions than mentioned yesterday, large crystal vases full of large orchids still do not form part of my everyday reception.

But since I have figured out why I am not getting them, and the explanation does not involve my sobbing “you think I’m fat” and storming off, this does not bother me. Much.

Consider pop-culture a guideline for modern behavior (you’d better, the only fall-back option is that really heavy book about floods and goats). Consider the role flowers play therein.

1) They are offered by sheepish looking men, to women who immediately ask “what have you done”. A few laughs and implausible excuses later, it ALWAYS transpires that the man has fucked up in some way or some one.

2) They are Lavished in a Grand Gesture void of True Feeling by Mr Loaded-and-Wrong, unintentionally serving as eye-openers causing the heroine to return to the safe if muddy arms of Mr Lumbering-but-Right, sure at last that diamonds and champagne are not as essential to life happiness as a big slobbering lab.

3) They are proffered, bought at gas-station, semi-wilted and in pouring rain, a key element in some klutzy dope’s eleventh hour relationship-saving mission – an hour at which the girl is already engaged to someone else or packing up for Boston.

Though things usually work out in the end in the third scenario, it is implied that it is more likely despite than because of the Tesco Tulips. All in all, if roms, sits, coms, and drams have taught us one thing it is that flowers induce ice-cream binging and possible burning of left behind jeans.

My men, steeped in cultural knowledge as they have always been, have simply picked up on this and refrain from presenting me with large bouquets, given the odds of being beaten about the ears with them.

Which is one in the net for evolution. But still, a few violets wouldn’t pack much punch, is all am saying…

Shoop-Shoop Song

I suppose there are as many ways of finding out if he’s Mr. Wrong or Mr.Right as there are ways for him to screw you over or screw you right. But here is my personal list of do’s and don’ts, culled from a vintage-type number of years of dating:

Men, please don’t:

-get dog instead of job
-get WoW instead of job
-stab girl instead of steak with fork
-put cigarette out on girl instead of floor (ashtray being dream-like optimum)
-re-tell comic strips in detail
-do surgery on self
-wait at train-station for whole day after 1 date
-be American, if trying to write poetry
-be French, if trying to write poetry in English
-know by heart the location of the all-night condom vendor, and how much gas it takes to get there by Vespa
-write love-notes in caligraphy
-send e-mail porn for Valentines
-wear work boots to Opera
-sneer at Kevin Costner because he’s got big ears
-spell my name with Heart instead of A
-leave for Asia to become a gigolo

But please feel free to:

-always agree to oysters on Monday night

The Subtle Knife

Well, I just figured what I have been doing wrong all these years. I have been thinking Men intelligent.

Last night, the Better Man took me out for a really nice evening on the town. First we went to a small friendly neighbourhood Brasserie  – all Pierrot checkered walls, mismatched china, artschool waitstaff and lovely simple food fit for a stomach patient.

I had a deliciously coarse meatloaf with crisply browned potatoes, and a dessert named – in a fit of someones ingenuety – Death by Chocolate. It was a three-step-launch rocket of chocolate-banana cupcake, chocolate icecream, a chocolate wafer, all tied nicely together by a chocolate drizzel. All accompanied by a salutary glass of red.

After dinner, we strolled down to the Better Mans local, which sports Wednesday night jazz sessions. Anders Linder 4 Prima was the name of the band, four or five lacivious and leering octagonarians wielding saxophones and other pointy objects with a flourish, playing so hard part of the roof collapsed.

As the last set came to a close, the Better Man hailed a Blonde, tiny woman who came over to our table in a flurry of too much perfume, too much primer, and too many too obvious gestures. She plonked herself down at our table, and from her tinkly winkly conversation it transpired that she and the Better Man are aquainted.

It also transpired, to every man in the bar but the Better one, that she wanted to get a lot more aquainted, with him, as soon as humanly possible without downright felling his girlfriend.

There were strokings of arms. There were playful slaps of shoulder. There were thrusted forth bodyparts. There were displays of feminie whims, fancies, and incoherrent thought. There was even, help me god, batted eyelashes.

Through this display, the Better Man sat - a model of propriety, I thought – holding my hand and feeling up my thigh and nodding in the right places. Boyed up by his perfect behavious, I smiled and chatted.

Unfortunately, I was so little on my guard, as to say, on leaving, what a ridiculous person we’d just met. I was met, to my astonishement, by astonished incomprehension.

He had no idea she had been flirting. He had no idea that she had been drooling. He had no idea she had been anything but perfectly friendly – and added, he had no idea why I thought her stupid.

Which explaines why so many men never realised I was flirting with them. And why, earlier the same night, a none-too-sober gentleman had placed his hand firmly on my ass, no introduction needed.

Looking for Love in all the Wrong Clinics

All-right, if you force me to tell I will tell: I will tell I do, I do, I do fall for on-screen medics. Grey’s, Scrubs… I’m a fan. There is something about the life-and-death, brilliant, steady-handed reassurance of doc’s that has haunted me ever since my pre-teen crush on Flying Doctors.

Mostly though, I think that I like the way that they suggest, by their novelty mix of syringes and french kisses, bandages and bondage, broken bones and heartbreak,  that whatever physical hard to imagine disaster befalls you: love will if not patch you right up, then at least ameliorate any suffering. And that the love will be provided by a sliding scale cast of hunks.

Which may be true. But after the week I’ve had, I’d rather have a band-aid than snog a doc. Having recently looked behind the velvet curtain/flimsy polyester drape I can assure you – tripping down to your local house of pain is not worth it, date-wise.

Sunday night at four  I woke from a terrible, crashing, stabbing, grinding pain in my back, sides and stomach. A pain epic in proportions: of which you will perhaps have a faint glimpse if I tell you that despite A) it being  four, which is not eight, or seven, or any hour other hour reasonable for getting up, and B) the local hospital being the workplace of an ex I am not too keen on meeting, I got my limp pale sweaty body into a cab and rushed to the emergency room. (C, I didn’t even think to bring a book.)

You’d think, having braved the night and even prepared to sport a frizzy none-hair-do in the company of old flames, would be sacrifice enough for a happy ending. But no: the scene was distinctly lacking in any of the romance that I associate with MDs.

I was plugged full of holes, dressed in a muu-muu of hideous greyness, largely forgotten about for a number of hours, banned from drink, positioned under a operating room style light (well, that at least, I suppose was to be expected) and then distractedly molested inside and out by a parade of increasingly bleary eyed and non-committal medics. All wearing Crocs. None of them sporting Turks adorable forearms.

Much of which treatment I could have self-administred in the comfort of my own home – which ironically I am now free to do, having been released into the world again with nothing but some prescription painkillers (allright then, rather alot of prescription painkillers) and an injuction to come back in four weeks, when they’d have time to see me for a more thorough evaluation.

Huh. So much for feeling the love. I had sought medical advise and found that advise scratching it’s head and smelling of stale coffee. I had travelled to the cave of the wise man and come out with nothing but a conundrum:  the choice between  four weeks of intense abdominal pains and four weeks of drugged up oblivion. I had felt no love, only probes. 

Luckily: I had a fall-back plan. The Better Man is administing all the tender loving care a girl can wish for, complete with the occasional bollocking about not taking my pills, or the occasional bollocking about going into work too soon, and the occasional bollocking about refusing to stay in bed and wanting to do the dishes.

He has a cool hand which to place on ones forehead, and a warm blanket in which to wrap ones feet,  and a brimming cup of soup with which to ply one. It probably wouldn’t even take to much of a grovel to get him to put on the Sex and the City movie…

All which goes to show he’s convinced I am dying. But also sadly: that love is not all you need, not a healer. I still want to cut my stomach open at earliest possible opportunity – though I’d like him to come along and hold my hand.

Jury of My Peers?

I am on the train, bound for whatever is the opposite of home: a place I cannot properly pronounce, much less locate on a map, where apparently your bog-standard sub-zero temperatures won’t cut it – they are hoping for a balmy -20 in the next couple of days.

In my bag are woolen long-johns, skates, and a dress-just-in-case. The Better Man, for whom this is a return to the old home town, has promised me a lake, and forest, a picturesque village, homegrown salmon, and a bottle of champers for the New Year.

He has also promised me ample time to write, and in case the scenery and the locals prove uninspiring, I have brought books for back-up – The Last Life, by Claire Messoud, shows promise, and the latest Harlan Coben is always trustworthy. In short: I am on tack for a few days of exoticism and relaxation is sweet union. So why the nerves?

Parents do not faze me. The fathers are normally either dead or on the booze in a sociable sort of way, none of which present much of a challenge. As to mums… well, they may be a bit of handful, but really in the end, they are no more than the proverbial bark to the bite of their sons. After all: what with the statistical risk of your beau turning out to be Toad of Toad Hall, why turn the Molehill Mommy Dearest into a Mountain of Woe?

There was this one guy (mad as a hatter, studying to be a surgeon) I used to live with. We used to visit his Mother a scary amount; her cooking wasn’t quite up to scratch and she’d sit on the side of the tub, while I was in it. But still, her cinnamon swirls are not what springs immediately to mind when considering why he and I are no longer living together. More so his incessant rage, punching of walls, and pathological jealousy – all which would have ensured, had we still been shacked up, that we’d have been shacked up someplace secure and bondage-y.

There was a Greek mama, who gestured me into the broom-closet of a guy I was in the early stages of dating, to show where the vacuum was kept. Her slightly non-feminist views paled, though, in comparison to his: and those of his voyeuristic dog.

And somewhere far back in ancient history, there was a mum who danced in a loose white blouse, and kept filling up my glass, and whispered with smoke and lipstick, giggling in my ear. A fond memory – fonder than that of her son, who mid-relationship decided to pursue a career as Gigolo. For real.

Getting back on track, however: even had I been worried, the answer the Better Man gave when I asked what to expect from his parents, would have dispelled immediately all fear. ”It will be nothing like meeting your mum” translates reassuringly: nothing like meeting my mum means no grilling as to political views, career choices, family dynamics, or backhand.

But there is something much, much scarier than Parents lurking in the dark woods into which I am heading. A primal force, a power running deep. A coven, a band, a hoard bound by mystical rituals, rules of ancient law. Childhood friends.

Boys play together and shape each other. They give each other bruises and porn, they give each other accents and fags, they smash each others teeth out with hockey sticks and in all the blood and gore and milky dunked cookies they forge a special, steady foundation. And those childhood friends, breathing the same farts and stealing the same candy, give of course the right, 30-odd years on, of judging The New Girlfriend.

That would be me. And me would be attending a big birthday bash, bringing all these worthy jurors together, on Saturday. And not to mention: the worthy juror’s wifes.

Do I profess a love of hunting, or do I squeal becomingly? Do I do Sara Palin (as my glasses do suggest) or do I do Carrie, as my heels demand? Do I try to blend or do I flaunt my difference? Do I coo over the babies or do I tell about my work? Do I sit demurely or do I laugh at what I hope are jokes?

Or do I babbble nervously, without prior plan, and hope for the best?

Love and Mack the Knife

1.

Knocking on wood. I always follow up any ill wish or negative presumption by knocking on wood. If there is no wood handy, I knock my wooden head. Three times cancels out the evil – any more or less compounds it – so if you knock four times in the first round, then you have to go another three to cancel out the mistake of the four, and then a second three, to cancel the initial faux pas, that caused you to start knocking the first three, which then turned into four.

Keys on tables, are of course, an impossibility. Luckily, there is never any need to PUT keys on table, since you can easily slip a piece of paper, or a book, or a plate, or something, under the key to prevent direct contact. A tablecloth does not count, since it forms part of the intrinsic table identity, and flat objects are preferable, since in balancing keys on a few pens, or an old box of matches, you never completely rule out the risk of the keys tumbling onto tabletop.

As for comparing hands, there is never any true need, but if you have foolishly gone and done it, like say in the beginning of a relationship, when you throw caution to the wind and view the world through rosy glasses, the bad luck can be reversed by making a fist (each) and bumping fists against each other, three times. Don’t leave it to long, the cure must follow swiftly on the poison.

Being vigilant against the horrors that lurk under ladders, in black cats, and mirrors in the dark need not impair your day-to day life. A careful eye and some basic precautions will go a long way towards adverting danger. However, there is one area of life, where superstition (or as I like to call it – awareness) has been handicapping me. The kitchen.

2.

Good knifes are a must. But good knifes cost a bundle, and not all chefs have a solid save-up-and-then-get moral. Some of us spend all our money of fake leopard pumps and premium cuts of meat, leaving no spare cash with which to buy tools.

In the case of pots, and pans, pepper grinders and oven mitts, this lack of cash has never been a problem. Yearly birthdays and Christmases
have provided with Creuset, Peugot, and all sorts of odd implements. But never, ever, any knives.

You see: in my family, there is a firm belief that giving a knife, scissors, an axe, or even needles, is a hostile gesture, dangerous as the gift will literally cut the cords of love and/or friendship. Knowing this since childhood, I would have been a bit ashamed to put “the end of love” on my Christmas list. But even if I would have, my mother would refuse point blank, my grandmother would stare blankly at the request, and my sister wouldn’t for the world.

3.

Luckily, the Better Man never needed asking. On entering my life, and my kitchen, he immediately noticed that there was but one thing missing from it: a good set of knives. The sort of sawing-stabbing-mutilation that has been my approach to slice and dice, depressed him. The red handle bread-knife, did not inspire, nor did the grapefruit knife. He would almost weep, or swear at least, as beautiful steaks were tortured and ripped.

I explained, as well as I could, the situation. I explained how getting knifes was an impossibility. How him buying me a knife, would in all probability, end our relationship.

The Better Man replied, succinctly, that if he didn’t get me some knifes, it would, in all probability, end our relationship.

And then, for Christmas, and with a frightening disregard for the displeasure of the gods, he went and presented me with the two whacking devices of my dreams: a beautifully balanced Sabatier, and a hefty cleaving blade from the Asian shop down on the corner.

4.

Last night, I cooked him dinner. We had some wine I got from my semi-italian stepfather for Christmas, and the wilted greens were served with the Georg Jensen serving spoon my grandma gave me, on the pure linen cloth mum had chosen. The meat was very tender, cut to perfection.

And I got to thinking. A love that survives superstition is of course, a great love. But even if it didn’t – wouldn’t it sort of be worth those blades?

Nightly fight

Silent night? Out of sight,
But I wish for it, all right
As yon snoring man beside me
keeps a-trumpeting Reveille,
Out cold and hogging the pillow!
Out cold and hogging the pillow!

Silent sleep? I’m counting sheep
Floorboards quake as rumbling deep
Snoring stream from neighbouring nose
puts me in mind of a suction hose
Christ, he’s loud as the railway!
Christ,he’s loud as the railway!

Silent hour? I wake up dour,
Taking a short and sullen shower
Washing the night from my tired face
Embracing dawn’s redeeming grace,
I can rest at the office!
I can rest at the office!