The Mathematics of Love

According to Charlotte York, it takes half the length of the relationship to recover from a relationship. I've never been good at math, but let me see if I can figure this out.

L÷2=R{where L= length of relationship and R=recovery time}

The cute neighbor and I got together in April of 2010 and parted in July of 2011, which equals approximately 16 months. Divide that by 2, and you get 8 months. So according to Charlotte, I'll be over it by... March 2012. MARCH?!?!?! Oh no, no, no, no, no. I must get over this more quickly than March!

Every time that I think that I'm over it, something happens to make me realize that I'm not. First it was seeing photos of him pop up on facebook, (which I then made sure to "hide" all his future facebook activity in record time) then it was something as innocent as seeing the university he is now employed by playing in an athletic event that made me desperate to text/call him. (I didn't. *pats self on back*) And now it's an email from him.

I was actually thinking that I was so over it that maybe, just maybe I could drop him an email to see if he's found a new apartment, etc., but decided no, I should definitely at least wait until I get myself settled into London. By that point, I'll be very busy and surrounded by lots of new people with exotic accents, and I really and truly won't care about him. But when I saw his name pop up in my inbox, I realized just how unready I am for that. The usual queasiness in the pit of my stomach, and the prickling just behind my eyes returned. The email was innocent enough, he was actually just forwarding on information about free baseball tickets we won for being so awesome at tailgating (and the tickets just happen to be for my birthday, but I'll be in London, of course), but all I want now is a calming glass of wine, only my parents don't drink wine. They don't drink anything at all, and why is it that my parents' house is completely dry? And in this god forsaken place, the liquor store downtown closes at 6pm and they don't sell any alcohol in grocery stores, so I really, really cannot have a calming glass of wine. You'd think they were recovering alcoholics or something, but they're not, they just don't like alcohol. I thought of the possibility that some unsuspecting soul had given them a bottle of wine as a gift over the holidays (it's happened), but if I ask them for that, they'll automatically assume I've got an alcohol problem (they would, trust me), even though I haven't had any alcohol at all since I was at Grayer's place (and left a bottle of wine there, DAMMIT!), so I guess I'll just have to hope they have a dance lesson tonight or something so I can ransack the house looking for wine. Now I sound as if I do have a problem.

Ok. It's fine. I'll just have a calming glass of water and some chocolate instead. That's almost the same thing. And piss on Charlotte's formula. In two weeks I'll be in London, surrounded by men with adorable accents, and Fen will be around for cocktails. I don't need that stupid formula. I just need some wine...

Three's a crowd

Has anyone every wondered why there are 4 ladies in Sex and the City? Because three girls together is carnage.

Of course, there are exceptions to this rule and I can think of two. Me, Vi and our friend Clem - we are the three musketeers. And Elle, Serena and Margo from Legally Blonde. That's it. However, me and my two friends are a completely different story.

On paper, the three of us should not be friends. We're completely different in personality, likes and dislikes. Our fashion sense differs wildly so there isn't even the option of clothes swapping (that and we're all completely different sizes). Yet, by some great mystery of the universe the three of us have been friends for a number of years. We've been on holiday together, had drunken nights out together and generally been a close unit. But there is always drama. Always.

There was one occasion where I had to physically put myself in between the two of them and pull them apart (I'm not that strong). There's been other occasions where I've been in floods of tears after an argument and another occasion where we've not spoken to each other for hours. See? Drama.

My theory to why this is (apart from alcohol) is because there's three of us. Four girls together? If there's a problem, you tend to go off in pairs. Five? Two and three. Six? You get the idea. But three? Three inevitably equals a pair and someone left on their own. They feel ganged up on by the other two and somewhat isolated. A feeling I've become well accustomed to.

This past weekend, me and my friend Elsa (the one getting married soon) headed up to see our friend Rae (the one who isn't getting married soon). The evening started out fine. Drinks were drunk, old stories were laughed over, wood was chopped (Rae lives in the country). Basically, all was going well. Rae's housemate was also there and he was partaking in the fun as well.

At some point during the evening, he put his arm round me and I shrugged away. It was no big deal but I didn't want his arm round me. I said nothing. I walked back into the living room where Elsa asked if he was coming on to me. I said no, I just shrugged away. The next thing I know, Elsa's told Rae that he was coming on to me. Um...what? Then, the next thing I know, Rae is having a go a me for saying that he was coming on to me, something which I never said. I insisted I never said this while she basically took her housemate's side and Elsa sat there getting away scot free. She was the one who said something in the first place, and, something that wasn't even true.

Tears were shed (by me) and I was not happy the next day either. I felt ganged up (again) and we only cleared the air a few hours later. As I had predicted to the White Horse just before the weekend, there was going to be drama.

And drama there was. And drama there always is and three girls together is never a good idea. I remember when I was younger, about 6 years old, me and my two friends had a falling out and our mum had to sort it. I remember the mums commenting that three girls together was going to result in problems. How is it mothers know everything?

Oops

I can think of no other word to describe this post. 'Oops' just sums it up.

Picture the scene: it's a Monday morning, I'm about to leave TWH's. I am not a happy bunny for the following reasons:

1.) It's a Monday morning
2.) I'm running late
3.) Work has been really stressful lately and I don't want to go
4.) It's a Monday morning
5.) I couldn't wash my hair because TWH doesn't own a hair dryer
6.) The clocks changed on Sunday so I feel cheated out of an hour's sleep
7.) It's a Monday morning

To top it all off, before I head to get the train I need to go round to my house to drop off my stuff as I was at TWH's all weekend. Normally if I need to do this it's not a big deal. It's a 10 minute walk and it's not completely out of my way. This morning however, was not a good day, and I didn't have 10 minutes. So there I am, standing in the kitchen with greasy hair, laden down with bags and running late. At this point I say the following:

"Not to freak you out, this is just a casual observation, but my life would be much easier if we lived together."

AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Hi. My name's Fenella and I'm an idiot.

I swear I did not mean to say this. It was a random thought that popped into my head and I just wasn't thinking clearly and I definitely wasn't thinking before I spoke. It's been 7 months, I am perfectly aware that mentioning living together after 7 months falls into the 'she's a little bit crazy' category. And I have commitment issues. Seriously. I don't want to commit to a two year phone contract, I'm paying £3 a month extra for an 18 month contract. See? Commitment issues.

Does it get annoying having to cart my things back and forth between mine and TWH's?
Yes. And girls need more stuff. (Apparently there's a Sex and the City episode all about this?)
Have TWH and I both talked about how we fancy a change from the area of London in which we live?
Yes.
Have we discussed moving to a different part of London together?
No.
Is 7 months too soon to be having this conversation?
YES.

Oops.

I hastily kissed him goodbye, wished him a good day and scarpered.

On the advice of my friend at work I vowed not to mention it ever again. But of course I mentioned it. I dropped him an email which began: "If my comment this morning didn't scare you off and leave you running a mile, I have good news..." His response? "Don't worry, it didn't!"

Whew. I feel I may have dodged a bullet on this one. Except I haven't heard from him this evening, and I hear from him every evening. But I'm sure I'm worrying over nothing.

I must, must learn to think before I speak. Seriously.

Good Vibrations

Porn store. Sex shop. Adult gift store. Novelty gift shop. Whatever you want to call them, I've been to two in the last two days, as well as trolled several of their websites.

Have I decided to replace the Dark Horse with a battery-operated version? Maybe. But that wasn't my initial reason for frequenting stores of the over-18 variety.

Grayer's and my mother is a breast cancer survivor, and Christmas is the 5-year anniversary of her last chemo treatment. (Can I get a w0000000t! ?) We thought it would be awfully sweet of us to bake her a cake. A booby cake. And where can you find a booby cake pan? Adult gift stores.

I started my quest in a part of the city notorious for strip clubs and novelty shops. In fact, my first stop was only a few doors down from the strip club where a B-list celebrity recently met and started an affair with a local stripper. That's what she said, anyway. I walked in, took a look at the entire wall of vibrators and dildos, and went to the counter to ask for some help. The clerk took me to where the booby cake pans usually are. That's right, they were SOLD OUT. "We do have plenty of booties or penis's," she told me helpfully. Somehow, I don't think my mom would appreciate that as much...

I figured since I was there, I may as well take a look around. I needed a gag gift for a white elephant gift exchange anyway. I'm willing to say that at least 70% of the store was made up of vibrators and dildos. (That is not including the back of the store, which appeared to be made up entirely of DVDs.) Apparently there is a lot of money in the pursuit of the female orgasm. A lot of those vibrators were rabbit shaped. Why? I'm not entirely sure. I've heard of the Rabbit Pearl, featured on an episode of Sex and the City, and said to be the Rolls Royce of vibrators. But the other rabbit vibrators just kind of looked like rodents. I can't really imagine wanting to put something rodent-shaped into my vag.

Other things learned:
1. Water-proof is a very important feature.
2. Vibrators run the price range from $10-$120. Kind of made me curious to know what a $120 vibrator can do for you.
3. They also come in all shapes and sizes, from finger vibrators, to vibrators so large I'm sure only the Samantha Jones's of the world can use them.

All in all, my first trip to the sex shop was really not so bad. I wasn't constantly looking over my shoulder nervously, and the store was pretty much as non-sketch as it gets. Especially compared to the ones around it, which I declined to go into, since I was pretty sure I would be raped if I did. (They're the definition of seedy.)

This afternoon, I went to another location to find my booby cake pan. I found it immediately. The sales clerk told me to "come again." Maybe I will.

Hi. My name is Violet...

Despite my reservations about Bachelor #6 (aka The Dropout), I agreed to go out to dinner with him this evening. Not that there was anything wrong with him. He just didn't excite me.

Over the weekend, he asked me if I liked to spend a lot of time on the weekends in bars. I told him no, and he said that was a good thing, as he doesn't drink at all. Apparently, he used to drink a bit much, so now he doesn't. I wasn't really sure what to think about that, but I figured lots of people drink in their youth, and good for him for growing up. But while we were walking through the neighborhood, licking ice cream cones, he says, "So I really need to tell you... I'm in AA, I'm a recovering alcoholic." Oh. Wow. I listened in what I believe was a very understanding manner while he told me about his alcohol- and drug- riddled past, but the entire time, I was thinking of that episode of Sex and the City, where Carrie starts dating an AA member, even though he wasn't supposed to get involved with anyone for awhile, and he replaces his alcohol addiction with a Carrie addiction, and he ends up outside her apartment screaming CARRIE! I was suddenly really glad I met him at the restaurant, instead of allowing him to pick me up. So when he asked me if I had any questions, I asked him about that. Apparently, he's in the clear, as he's been sober for two years now, and has been in a relationship since (with another AA member).

Now, I'm very happy for him that he's been clean for two years, finally finishing up school and is getting his life back on track. I admitted to him that I'm squeaky clean (to which he said "Good, that's what I'm looking for"), because really, I am. I've never smoked anything in my life, and I don't drink to get drunk. Boring? Maybe, but that's the way it is. If I were really into a guy, I'm sure I could look passed his sordid past, but The Dropout just isn't it. And yet, even though I knew this, when he gave me a kiss on the cheek, and told me that he would call me, I said, "Sure!" It just came out. Now I totally understand why men say "I'll call you" when they don't really mean it. It's just what you say at the end of the date. You know, like that episode of Friends (do I watch too much TV?) where Chandler tells Rachel's boss he'll call when he has no intention of calling.

And he will call. Thus far, he's called when he said he would call, and even when he didn't say he would call. Stay tuned to see how I get out of this one.