Drama, drama, drama!

My friend Mary says my life is like a rom-com. She doesn’t mean that I’m hilarious and on my way to a happy ending. What she’s really saying is that I live with my head in the clouds, invite drama at every juncture, and am slightly ridiculous. She may have a point.

Take last weekend. The plan was for a boozy afternoon in Hampstead’s finest beer garden but come mid-morning, the sky had turned a menacing shade of grey and the wind was getting wilder by the minute. Pottering around, getting ready, I suddenly heard an almighty crash coupled with a hysterical scream. What’s Debi broken now? I wondered to myself, leaving my bedroom door firmly closed (she breaks things a lot so it’s sometimes easier to pretend I haven’t noticed). “Shit! CARRIE!,” she yelled crashing in the door. “YOUR SWING!!!!”

Okay, this was more serious than I thought. I’d bought said swing – actually more of a swinging bench, a porch swing if you will – for my 30th birthday, spent two days single-handedly constructing the thing and was anticipating many warm evenings out there with a glass of wine being rocked gently to-and-fro (yes, I said 30 not 60). One day it would be moved to sit proudly on an actual porch of an actual house where a beautiful man would sit and read me poetry (okay, I may have watched the Notebook too many times).

“What’s happened?” I demanded, pushing past her and running out the patio doors to the terrace. And there, where the swing once sat, was…nothing. “What the….?” I stuttered as Debi leaned over the side and ominously pointed down: “It was the wind,” she said. “It just picked it up and…well look.” And there it was, my beloved swing teetering on the edge of the warehouse roof next door. “Oh. My. God.” I managed. “How the fuck are we going to get it back up?”

Fortunately Liv appeared and went into teacher mode (she’s surprisingly good in an emergency): “Calm down and call the council,” she instructed, “And do it fast, if the wind catches it again, it could fall all the way down.”

“Down? As in to the ground?,” I stuttered. “Well the council will be no good. I’m calling the fire brigade.”

Hearing the approaching sirens, Liv and I dashed downstairs, only to find the worst had happened - the remnants of my swing lay in bits scattered all over the road, broken, splintered, and beyond repair.

“Is this yours, girls?” asked one of the firemen. “You’re bloody lucky. It could have fallen on someone.”

I digested this. “Do you think that might have broken its fall?” I asked sincerely.

A triple vodka and red bull later, I’d finally regained the power of speech but I was still far from seeing the funny side. “Carrie, we’re over an hour late. Lets go to the pub. It’ll make you feel better,” Liv somehow managed to convince me and twenty minutes later, I found myself sitting opposite her on the tube.

Staring blankly at the feet of my fellow passengers, I noticed a charming pair of scruffy Converse among the usual medley of sandals and brogues, and instinctively looked up to see if they were attached to a similarly charming man – they often are. They were this time too. But not just any man…

Felix was a friend of my old flatmate. I’d decided he was adorable the first time I met him, when he was all scrunched up on our couch in a grey hoodie complaining of a hangover. Inevitably it wasn’t long before we ended up in a clinch in my bedroom. Deciding an uncomfortable hello was best avoided, I put my headphones on, looked the other way, and hoped he wouldn’t notice me, but the next thing I knew, he’d sat himself down in the seat beside me, and proceeded to pat his knee invitingly at the very pretty girl I’d only just noticed he was with.

Could have been me, I thought to myself wistfully, before remembering why it wasn’t. Felix and I had kissed yes, but it was only that once and for very good reason – it was terrible. He’d practically choked me with his tongue, making the classic error of equating volume of saliva with degree of passion. I smiled to myself, then something in me clicked (the next phase of shock maybe?) and I had an uncontrollable urge to burst out laughing.

“What you smiling at?” boomed Liv from the other side of the carriage. I made frantic shushing actions, hoping she’d get the hint then just about managed to keep it together until we got off and I really let it go, collapsing onto the platform in hysterics.

By the time, we reached the pub, I’d finally regained my composure. “Wow, you’ve had a rollercoaster of a morning,” said Jane when we regaled her with the tale. “At least you’re here now. The drama’s over.”

“Wanna bet?” said Liv. “I’ve just spotted drama number 3 and he’s standing right behind me.”

“What do you m…..” I managed before I saw him, and my heart started racing again.

John. Of all the bars in all the world.

This really can’t be good for my nervous system…

Indecent exposure

I have just seen the most shocking thing - I feel slightly nauseous thinking about it again but I feel it is my duty to recount the experience here.

So I’m at my friend Jen’s house enjoying a few civilised drinks in the back garden with some of the girls, when what can only be described as a fucking mentalist joins the party. She’s a friend of a friend who is visiting for the night and before she even walks through the door I am warned that she’s a bit schizo - understatement of the century. You know those girls who are so insecure and desperate for approval that they’ll do anything for attention? Well here was possibly the most extreme example of one I’ve ever met. She was like a dog chasing its tail to get a treat from its master, only with possibly less developed social skills.

As soon as she arrived in a whirl of fake tan and bleach blonde hair, she halted conversation to tell a story about a date she’d been on where she’d caused a fight of such epic proportions that one poor guy ended up in a coma. Not getting quite the awed responses from us that she’d hoped for, she upped the ante by announcing that she’s just had her clit pierced: “Look…” she said whipping her trousers down before anyone had a chance to object or avert their gaze. “It goes through the hood and I am telling you, it make things sooooooo much better”.

This time she had me, I sat there stunned not knowing quite how to react to the spectacle of a woman I’d barely met displaying her private parts in all their Hollywood waxed baldness. Thankfully, by this time it was blessedly dark making the view a little less graphic than it might have been earlier…cue Lou: “I can’t see it,” she says, peering in for a closer look. “Here,” says Fliss, brandishing a lighter, “just as well you’re so bald down there or you could go up in smoke!”.

Morbid curiosity satisfied, we manage to convince our exhibitionist to pull her pants up, but no such luck getting her to sit down: “Can any of you do a crab from standing?” she asks, readying herself for a demonstration. “I can!” and with that her arms shoot up, and she falls backwards, smacking her head on the paving stones before righting herself . “See!” she exclaims proudly, arms and legs akimbo, fanny pointing skyward again. “Wow, that’s ace,” Jen manages while we all struggle to stifle our laughter, “your head okay though?” “Oh yeah, it’s fine, I do that all the time,” she answers. That explains a lot, I think, only just managing to keep myself from saying it out loud. The bash to the head does seem to shut her up for a while though so I decide to take the opportunity to escape before the next act starts.

As I’m walking out the front door, I hear her pipe up again: “Did you know I’m double jointed? Wanna see what I can do….”. Eh no, time for a sharp exit.

(non)-dating and deleting

Why are men so bloody exasperating? Are they given a special class at school that we don’t know about that trains them how to mess with our heads?

I can just imagine it: ‘Yes, boys - that’s it, you tell them one thing, then you do something completely contradictory. You act caring, interested and committed enough to get them into bed, then you leave with a casual ‘yeah so see you soon’. You take them out for dinner, suggest a follow-up date, then go off the radar for weeks. And you never, never answer their text messages anything less than 12 hours after they’ve been sent. Now go pro-create…but use a condom.’ It really would explain a lot.

I’ve been dating (but not really dating) one grade A student from this particular class for going on six months now and I’ve just about reached my limit. Well to be honest, I’ve reached my limit a few times, but it’s like he has a sixth sense that picks up on this so whenever I delete his number and swear I’ll never so much as look at his myspace page again, a text or email will promptly pop into my inbox asking if I fancy a drink sometime.

And that’s another infuriating thing - it’s always ‘lets go for a drink sometime’ not Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, or whatever, just sometime. Any attempts on my part to clarify when this ‘sometime’ might occur, are generally rebuffed or ignored completely. So we rarely ever get to the stage where we actually go for a drink, instead it’s this minefield of random texting and occasional emails that leads exactly nowhere.

What’s the point? It’s not like either of us is getting anything out of it - unless you count the boost to his ego or my recurring headache. And if it’s really getting to me so much, why can’t I just end it?

This Monday morning, I woke up with a renewed determination to opt out of the game - I deleted his number, all his texts, all my sent texts, any calls to him on my call register and every single one of his myspace messages (even the one where he originally gave me his number that I usually fall back on when I delete all trace of him from my phone). I was done - for good.
Only last night, I’m sat explaining this very situation to my friend Alice when my phone rings. And it’s him.

What the fuck? He never calls - NEVER. And he’s supposed to be busy tonight so what the heck does he want anyway? Of course, I can’t actually answer to find out because I’ve just been making Alice swear to hold me to my promise that it’s over. So I just give my phone an intensely dirty look and put it back in my pocket. Strong or what?

Only not really…fast forward three bottles of wine, and Alice and I have decided that it’s not lame boys that are the problem - it’s us. Why can’t we just accept that not all men need to be the latest love of our life? Why can’t we just have no strings fun? Let them take us out, wine us, dine us, and sleep with us then not spend the next 24 hours wondering why they haven’t called? Why can’t we just accept the good stuff for what it is and be satisfied with that?

Why? Because we’re all mental. Every single last one of us, no matter how intelligent, self-sufficient or sane we are in every other area of our lives, can be brought to our knees over some pathetic boy.

So anyway, Alice and I go back to mine, continue drinking and telling ourselves we’re going to transform ourselves into callous sex kittens, then I remember I do have his number - I’d written it down along with all the other numbers in my phone when I changed my mobile a few weeks back. ‘Do it,’ says Alice, and that’s all the encouragement I need. I hit send and the text is
on its way.

And so the game begins again. Seriously

Poison ivy

MISSING: Tall, outgoing and happy 27 year-old man answering to the name of ‘Dom’ and wearing a smile.

I have a very sad announcement to make – I have lost my flatmate. He has been kidnapped by an evil dwarf lady who eats nothing but soya beans and self-confidence – his self-confidence, that is.

Yes, my lovely flatmate has found himself a girlfriend and since her appearance on the scene a few months ago, he has turned into a shadow of his former self. Gone is the happy-go-lucky boy who’d greet me with a cheeky grin and a bear hug every day, and in his place there is a rather confusing chap who flips between all-consuming black moods brought about by another battle with his lady-nemesis, and very occasional highs, which I suspect are the result of marathon sessions in the sack.

Actually, I think this is where her power over him must stem from. He has conceded himself that she makes him miserable, that she’s hard work, and that (and I quote) “it’s not even like she’s that stunning and it makes it all worth it”, yet somehow she still occupies a place in his life…and his bed. I would have given him more credit than being a lad that falls for big boobs and a domineering personality but somehow her sex kitten act has him hooked. She stalks around the place with bright red lipstick, towering heels, and the lowest cut tops you can imagine, and, like an obedient little puppy, he follows with his tongue hanging out. What is wrong with the boy?

And for all of you reading this and attributing my reaction to jealousy, can I just point out that it’s not just me that feels like this. Oh no. Every single one of his best friends has taken me aside to complain about the girl and Dom’s addiction to her. According to them, she’s known in their crowd for being a complete nightmare, apparently she parades around the clubs they go to like she owns the place, and expects every man to fall at her tiny little feet. They can’t stand how she treats Dom, demanding his undivided attention and making a scene every time he fails to live up to her lofty expectations, yet none of them will say anything to him. Instead they bend my ear about it and make me even more exasperated.

On the odd occasion I do get the chance to talk to Dom about it, he just looks forlorn – either defending her with a heartfelt “but she’s so sweet when we’re alone together and no one else sees that” or dropping his head in his hands and vowing to end it. Of course, whenever he attempts that, she breaks out the big guns (so to speak). And the next morning, an array of sex foods from strawberries to crème caramel (yuk) have magically appeared in my fridge, and they hole themselves up in his room for the day. When they finally emerge, she has the smug look of triumph on her face, while poor Dom looks slightly delirious.

To make matters worse, not only have I lost my fun flatmate, I seem to have gained the girlfriend as an honorary one. And let me tell you, she ain’t a bundle of laughs to live with. When she’s not picking a fight with Dom, or trying to look all seductive on the couch, she’s messing around in my kitchen cooking up strange vegetarian dishes that stink the house out (it seems she only breaks her super-healthy diet during their foodie sex sessions). My cupboard and fridge are filling up with gross-looking health foods, various odd-looking meat substitutes, and jar after jar of vitamin and mineral supplements, and my bathroom is overflowing with gloopy blue bath products from Lush. Incidentally, what the hell kind of ‘sex kitten’ shops at Lush and Holland & Barrett – surely it should be champagne, caviar, and Chanel all the way?

Perhaps I should hatch a plan with the boys to stage an intervention. We could lock Dom in his room for a week for a ‘she-devil detox’, ring round some of the old notches on his bedpost to remind him what fun it was to play the field, and force feed him manly food like steak, pizza, and chips to rid the poor boy of the taste of sushi and soya that’s threatening to damage his tastebuds permanently.

Of course what’s more likely to happen is that I’ll continue to try to be supportive as he tears himself apart every other day. I’ll watch quietly as she stomps all over his heart and I’ll be there to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart. There’s really not much else I can do…short of an extermination.