Ha! That got your attention!!!
Meh… There is none. Sorry, I’m as ticked off about it as you are, probably more so. This is particularly depressing because I cuddled Henry and Brad’s baby today. Sigh. A v cute one who went to sleep quite comfortably. [Does Want.]
Sigh.
Anyway, in other news, I have tickets to Crowded House in November, I haven’t seen them before, actually even though my dad used to play golf with the Finn Bros dad and even though I served Tim Finn when I worked at the bank (yes I KNOW he’s not in Crowded House – but couldn’t resist the name dropping opportunity) it was my sis who got the signed copy of their first album . I’m delighted they’re back performing and am the proud owner of their latest work and I flog it to death at work at the moment… Bah Humbug iTunes making me spend all that money.
Meh, it’s worth it.
Anyway, Shoe and I are going to the concert, and as I’m a bit nuts I bought 4 tickets figuring a group is better than a couple and as I’m not part of a couple figured that 4 is even better than being alone. Anyway Shoe is the world’s biggest CH fan and she was a natural choice to go with. So what to do with the other 2?
What to do? Heh… invite boys; because, let’s face it, it does get boring always doing stuff with the girls. So we’ve invited Burper and Carlo, sterling Kiwi blokes who won’t spend the night trying to make me believe the CH are actually an AUSTRALIAN band… EVERYONE knows they’re a Kiwi band… just because both Paul Hester and Nick Seymour were/are Aussies EVERYONE knows that as Neil Finn is the front man and the principal songwriter he has a bigger vote… He’s a Kiwi thus CH is a Kiwi band, so there.
Anyway, It’s Dee and Shoe and the boys (who haven’t yet accepted the invite… likely because of the $95.00 price tag but who in faith will understand what an utterly irresistible opportunity it is and will of course, say yes) going to Crowded House on Nov 5th.
Hurrah.

I was 15 when I first made a boy cry.
It was something of a revelation for a young and awkward girl to have made her best friend cry. My only experience of the emotions of boys and men was in the person of my dad. A partrician example, staunch and proud and ‘manly’. Cry? You would have had to poke him in the eye with a sharp stick to see that…
Rich and I had been friends for months, hanging out, listening to the Police and Nik Kershaw on vinyl. Talking for hours on the phone about the Police and Nik Kershaw. We were pretty tight and so he asked me to be his girl.
I said yes, of course, he was lean and blonde, and he liked The Police and Nik Kershaw. What’s not to love?
So for 9 days I was his girl.
Unfortunately for him I was an awkward antisocial 15 year old and I actually had no idea what it meant to be his girl, and I got scared when he got too close. Really scared, and so one day, when we were alone at yoof camp. I told him that I couldn’t be his girl any more.
And he cried.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I was absolutely gobsmacked (great word that).
Me? Having that kind of power? Enough to scare me even more…
We never quite got our friendship back (like duh). By the time I had got a bit more comfortable with me, and with having him in my personal space he was seeing someone else (a ‘whole lot more’ of them than he would have seen with me – which incidentally didn’t stop him snogging me sensless at Easter Camp when we listened to The Cars and made out on our camp beds…) and we moved on; me to work and then overseas, him to parenthood, marriage and divorce.
I often wonder what may have happened if I hadn’t been such a fraidy cat. Maybe I’d be a solo mum, divorced from him, or maybe we missed a great opportunity. Not something I’m likely to know this side of eternity.
Anyway I got to thinking about Rich, my errant youth when I made another boy cry yesterday and felt almost as bad as I did the first time.
He asked me to come over, he wanted us to go out, out to the zoo, as it happens and while I’m a big fan of the zoo, the weather was cool and I had a client coming over to peruse some work, so I said no.
His reply was floods of tears followed by speechlessness. He had to hand the phone over he was so choked up.
He rang off so quickly I had no right of reply, and truth is I was so upset I almost dropped everything there and then to go after him and soothe him. I had no idea he’d be that cut up… the zoo’s not going anywhere, neither am I, it will just have to wait for another day! I’m actually still tripping, and in all honestly a bit flushed and flattered that I have such an effect on him. What girl doesn’t love when a boy gets all toungetied and weak kneed when she’s around? I have to say that it’s the first time that my refusal to go on a date made him cry. Can you imagine what he’d have done if he’d asked me to marry him and I hesitated?
Poor boy, it’s pretty tough being in love with a girl when you’re only 3.

I’m pretty sure I’m at the nth degree in singular frustration.
Actually probably the lth degree, we may not yet have got to nth. I’ll keep you posted…
To Preface: I’m not usually prone to remembering my dreaming. I say it that way because every time I say I don’t have dreams I get shouted down – (as in “YES YOU DO, YOU JUST DON’T REMEMBER THEM” or words to that effect.).
So, to re cap. I don’t usually remember my dreams. At least, I didn’t until the cat came along.
Now, how is it possible that this animal could cause such a dramatic change, I hear you ask?
Because, what I meant to say earlier is that I don’t generally remember my dreams unless I have had my sleep interrupted. And now that the cat wakes up for food at 6am or so I am also awoken. As it’s a toss up between getting up at 6am, feeding the cat, shutting the bedroom door and going back to sleep… or ignoring the cat and having him meow (he’s an oriental remember… he has a whine and a half on him) and having him get progressively more restless and irritated I generally get up, feed him, skip to the loo and then go back to bed (ok, not skipping so much, but you get the idea).
And I go back to sleep and so, as it happens, to dream.
Which is where we get back to the frustration part. This morning’s dreams were kissing dreams. Kissing which I haven’t been doing, nor am I likely to be doing any time soon.
It would be ever so much less frustrating to have kissing dreams about someone like George Clooney, or Charlie Sheen (I know, still can’t get past that teenage bad boy obsession) simply because they are so far ‘out there’ that the kissing dreams are harmless nonsense. However, my frustration is elevated because instead, I’m having kissing dreams about someone who’s actually within my acquaintance.
Now, please don’t go giving me advice about throwing myself at him and kissing him anyway. I’ve heard that some guys actually thrive on that. But having a terminal case of ‘rejection-shyness’ (with good reason) has meant I’m not likely to behave in such a way as to fulfill that particular man fantasy. (Not without knowing first that it would be welcome, which defeats the whole purpose, I think).
So, I’m stuck, with my subconscious telling me what I already know and in all honesty I wish it would just blinkin’ well shut the heck up.
Or better still, that the cat would sleep through till 7am so that at least I wouldn’t remember.

A head pops round the office door.
“5.30 still ok?”
“Totally!”
“So, you are ok if we take separate cars?”
“Oh for sure, no sense in having to drive from one side of the beaches to the other to get home!”
Ok, see you later! *big grin*
Indeed! *equally big grin*
So, we adjourned to the car park after work and made our merry way to the mall, it was Tuesday, cheap night at the movies, and no doubt the scene of many a first date.
Tuck insisted on paying for the tickets. I’d paused at the insistence, to gauge the atmosphere to see if refusal was politic (no) and the tickets were bought and the pair of us trekked down the stairs to see Pirates 3… An innocuous enough choice given that you don’t want to see a romantic girly chick flick or a blood thirsty dick flick when you’re out for the first time together.
My review of the movie? Well. I’m a Depp fan… and his Sparrow character amuses me no end, I’d watch it again for that… but don’t go and have great expectations, it’s another in a long line of sequels who serve only to prime you for another sequel…
Anyway, the movie came and went and so we went to dinner. Tuck had researched my preferences and so we were off to Last Train, my absolute favourite Indian restaurant.
As always, the food was sublime, and again, for me to pay for my share of the meal was in no way countenanced. It shouldn’t be awkward but feminism and pride do sometimes make it a little awkward to simply acquiesce… But hey, I’m not complaining! I felt really blessed, (as was the intent)!!
The dinner conversation was easy, an equal blend of interest in me and generous revelation of Tuck’s world, it was a great night. An excellent first date.
Isn’t it just too bad that Tuck’s a girl?