Weakness for After Work Cocktails

There is a definite shift in the air chaps.  This "brain switched to off" malarkey has come up trumps.  For the last week I've made a conscious decision to focus on all the good things in my life, of which I am pleased to say there are plenty.  And, in the way a compulsive list maker does, here are some of the said wonderful things that make me realise what a lucky, lucky girl I really am.

1. I have a gorgeous, healthy family.
2. I have some of the best friends a girl could wish for.
3. I have a job I enjoy, for a firm that I love, and with colleagues I care about.
4. I am financially secure (at least, as much as anyone with a compulsive shoe habit and a weakness for after work cocktails in London will ever be).
5. I have known true and passionate love.
6. I know that come what may I am the mistress of my own destiny.  If I'm miserable, its because I am putting my focus in the wrong places.  If I am happy its because I am accepting of myself, my flaws and my failings and allowing myself to just be.
7. I have lovely shoes.
8. I can see light at the end of the tunnel.

On top of that I have been putting a little more energy into the online dating effort.  Probably not as much as I should, and I'm still feeling pretty half hearted about it if I'm honest, but I'm doing my best to be positive and open to possibilities, and there's some fun banter going on.  And I have now agreed to meet the sexy Spaniard later this week, which I suppose is a step in the right direction... I'll keep you posted.

EB xx 

Shimmying the night away

Well, I'm sort of feeling a bit better.  Why?  Because I've decided to give my brain the month off.  For one month I am not going to think of the bad stuff, I'm not going to talk about the bad stuff, I'm not even going to acknowledge that bad stuff exists.

Instead, I'm swapping the bad stuff for some very, very good stuff.  I'm planning a few selfish and solitary trips away (spa days, country hotels etc) I have my mini break lined up with SJ, Morrocco and Cougar and between now and then I'm going to live the life a cosmopolitan single girl should live.  It is going to involve cocktails, dates, dinners and hopefully a bit of shimmying the night away.  There will also be evenings in with my Revenge boxed set, perhaps a glass or two of red wine and a whole lot of R&R. 

Of course, there's the huge potential that this cunning plan will go tits up - it must be said that I do have the propensity to make a decision and then minutes later do a complete volte-face leaving the unsuspecting bystander feeling dizzy.  It might be that come Saturday I am back on the sofa with the blanket bemoaning the fact that I've made an absolute arse of myself...

Only time will tell.

A heavy heart and a slightly shaky hand

So reluctantly, I'm back on the online thing.  In a vain attempt to be optimistic I decided to actually respond to some of the messages that have been sitting, untouched and unread, in my inbox for weeks.  Hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

So first up, there are a few random messages, clearly mass produced for the newbies.

No thanks.  Delete.

Three  further messages follow, from perfectly nice sounding guys, but nothing to really make me want to reach out and explore.  So, with heavy heart and a slightly shaky hand, I send what can only be described as a bland and half hearted reply to each, more to be polite than anything.  To my surprise, two of the three write back.  Sensibly, the third appears to have decided to cut his losses.  Can't say I blame him.  Of the two respondees, I send them both further replies, this time with a little more humour, but saying terribly sorry, not sure this is for me right now.  One polite response back, wishing me luck in my life.  How very civilised.

And then there is J.   Seems nice, interesting, witty, of Spanish descent.  Good looking, one little girl and he doesn't want more children.  The right age backet.  Own teeth.  Lives reasonably close by, happy to do his share of travelling to meet up.  We exchange a few emails, so far so good.  He suggests meeting up in this weekend.

My head says "What are you waiting for?" 

My heart says, "Meh".

Think I'll stay home with a bottle of red and a blanket.

No one likes a mardy arse

Well after yesterday's desperately maudlin post, I thought I ought to come back and confirm that I have not thrown myself under a speeding train, nor have I contemplated cutting out what remains of my trampled and confused heart and serving it up in a sandwich to the offending party.

Instead, I am trying to look to the future with a positive attitude.

What have I learned?

(1) Stay true to yourself, your views and your values.
(2) Sometimes life doesn't go as you planned, get over it.
(3) Anyone can love when the sun is shining. Its during the storms you learn who is really there for you.
(4) Be smart enough to hold on, but also wise enough to know when to let go.
(5) There will always be the ones that love, and the ones that allow themselves to be loved.  Don't fall for the latter.
(6) No man is worth your tears, and the man who is won't make you cry.
(7) Cookie dough ice cream is the answer.

So, time to get back up Ellesbelles.  Apply the lippy, slip on the heels, and get that ass back on out there.  Nothing else for it, really.  No one likes a mardy arse.

EB xx

The Same Old Lies

Why are women so stupid?  We fall for the same old lies time and time again.  We see others in the same situation, and we think "that won't happen to me".  We convince ourselves that if we love hard enough it will be OK.  We are willing to put in enough effort for both of us.  We know, deep deep down, when something is not right, but we try, oh how we try, to bury the seed of doubt because if we close our eyes to it it's not happening.  But it is happening.

Why?  Why do we do that?  Why do we continue to love people that don't deserve us? 

We ignore the warning cries of our friends.  We ignore the warning cries of our hearts.  And then our hearts get broken and frankly, we only have ourselves to blame.

Enthusiastically ambidextrous...

My my, there's some weird shit in my head these days, so much so I've failed to string a coherent sentence together in this mini blogette for weeks.  Apologies.  I will attempt to remedy now.

Firstly, Morocco has written me a dating profile which has opened up a whole new category of oddballs and weirdos (I'd like to think it was nothing about my profile - nor my indeed my picture - per se that attracted them, but rather that the oddballs and weirdos are generic lurkers who target any "fresh meat" to the site).  One such oddball described himself in his first email to me as "enthusiastically ambidextrous, with a penchant for the quirky and the unknown".  Have to confess, I quite like the sound of that, although if it's unknown I'm not sure I'd have a penchant to like it without knowing what it is, which renders the unknown element defunct and futile.

However, there has also been a raft (OK, perhaps not a raft, instead its more of a "lilo") of somewhat more appropriate prospective candidates which I intend to work my way through (pardon the expression) in due course.  I am a little fearful they are simply after my highly praised (by Morocco) Eggs Benedict, and quite frankly, who can blame them.   But hey, a girl has to take a compliment from wherever it comes. 

But I digress.

I write today because of late I have been studying my friends' relationships.  Intensely scrutinising them, if you will.  And I have to say, whilst I have in the past run from the shackles of love, marriage and commitment (and who can blame me after my one and only attempt at Til Death Us Do Part) I am now looking longingly at my married friends wishing I was in their number.  With my own partner, of course, not as a threesome.

Take SJ.  Gorgeous broad, with an equally gorgeous hubby.  Together since they were kids, they seem to have managed the perfect balance of fun and commitment, together time and individual pursuits that I think we probably all strive for, deep down.  Last year, a few of us girls went away for a nice, chilled out hols at SJ's place, at the end of which SJ's hubster came out to spend the next week with SJ whilst the rest of us returned to dreary Britain.  Upon arriving at the house, SJ quite literally jumped into his arms, wrapping her shapely legs around his waist and gave him a welcome Christan Grey would delight of, were it delivered by the irritating, lip biting, eye rolling, virginal yet insatiable nymphomaniac Anastasia Steele.   It was heart warming, and I've gently teased her about it ever since. Really though, despite the soft mockery, it was so great to see a couple so in love after being together for more than two decades.

Another of our number on that holiday was our lovely Northern Lass.  Now her and her hubby, if I have this right, were childhood sweethearts that went their separate ways, and got back together later in life following marriages to other people, and are now deliriously happy and in love like a couple of lovestruck kids.  NL talks about her "Chucky"  the way I used to talk about Andrew Ridgely before I realised that in fact George was the one with the talent. 

And one by one, all my friends are hooking up.  I've got friends getting back with their exes (yes you, Morocco - leaving me alone in the big bad dating world!), neighbours moving in together, even new found drinking buddy Cougar has found herself a hotty for a bit of ooh la la (OK, who wouldnt, given the chance?).

And so now, as just about the only singleton left on the block, I'm being a little more diligent in my efforts.   I've shaved my legs twice this month and I even had a brazilian wax on Saturday... now THAT'S what you call Positive Mental Attitude - although not entirely sure that's what Rhonda Byrne intended when writing The Secret...

So far my PMA has bagged me a couple of dates - one with the lovely Mr 29 (the man has been "wooing" me for a year - and despite being single now for 5 months we've only been out three times!), and one with a chap who quickly turned out to be potential best friend material but nothing more.  However, last week I found myself in the privileged position of having to juggle enthusiastic texting from the previously aforementioned complicated JC, the lovely MB and a chap I used to date years upon years ago.  OK, none of these are suitable for the long road, and none have seen (or will be seeing) my topiarial efforts but with dinners and drinks in abundance it's not all bad in the world of EB...

Ellesbelles xx

A Bowl of Mixed Olives and a Vodka Tonic

So what do you do when you go on a date with someone, and you're not sure if it really is a date?  How do you know whether someone is actually into you, as opposed to someone who actually quite likes you/your company, and thinks drinks/dinner might be nice?

This happened to me last night. 

About a year ago (when I was still with MB) an old friend (well, acquintance is probably more apt) made a reappearance into my life.  I'll call him Mr 29.  It was a "one night only" kind of thing, and although I stayed over at his hotel with him (once again, I'd missed the train and his hotel was just 5 mins from my work - made total sense at the time) of course nothing happened as we were both in other relationships.  We had spent a good part of the night dancing, laughing, drinking etc, and the rest of the night talking about our respective lives and how his wife didn't understand him and how dissatisfied I was with my relationship with MB but didn't know if, when or how to end it.  We ended the night with a lingering look and a promise to keep in touch.

Anyway.  Fast forward to next day, I feel entirely guilty, despite not having done anything to warrant that awful, sick, gut wrenching feeling and I put him out of my mind.   We exchanged a few non-descript texts, and that was that.

Over the coming months he made a few attempts to sort out a date when we could get together, and depending on just how things were with MB at the time I either said yes and then subsequently cancelled, or I said no and regretted it.  Either way, other than one long lunch and a few occasions where we've met up in the company of others, nothing further came of it.

Until last night.

A few months ago he started texting again, this time joking that he wouldn't take no for an answer.  I pointed out that whilst I was now single, I don't date married men (as I believe I've made pretty clear already!).  Turns out that he and his wife have been separated for a year.  As a free agent, I therefore decided to take him up on it and we met for drinks last night. 

He was extremely good company:  amusing, witty, bright.  He was interested in me and mine, and forthcoming about his own life.  He complimented my shoes.  So far so good.  

When it was time to leave, he kissed me chastely on the cheek and gave the usual "we must do this again sometime".  He did go slightly further in suggesting that as he is (in his words) a reasonable cook, he would like to make dinner for me one evening.   However, I can't shake the feeling that this may have simply been old friends catching up.  Whilst that in itself is fine, I don't really want or need anymore friends (with or without benefits), and I don't like ambiguity.  I'm certainly in no rush to jump in and have the whole "where do you see this relationship going" conversation after just a few hours, a bowl of mixed olives and a vodka tonic, but equally, a control freak such as moi does like to know which way is up. 

So here is how my little head is currently processing things:

He loves me                                                                        

Has been pursuing me (on and off) for a year, even though I've been flaky
Tactile - lots of arm and knee touching
He'd read my profile on my firm's website (and complimented me on the truly hideous pic)
As he kissed me good night he took my hand and held it longer than necessary
Offered to cook for me
Complimented my outfit
Sent sweet text at bedtime

He loves me not

Hadn't told me he was separated
There have been weeks, if not months, between communications
No fixed date to meet again

So you see, dear readers, why I'm confused.

In the meantime, the other two dates I had lined up for this week have been kicked to the curb for the moment - the first because our diaries were proving just to difficult to pair up and the other as I had forgotten I'd double booked myself.  We're now planning to get together next week for an evening of "outdoor adventure".   The mind boggles.  Mr 29 had better show his hand soon, methinks...

His "Randy Rampage"

Its true:  men are just like buses (and blog entries).  You wait ages for one and then the two arrive at once...

As you will be now have gathered, you poor long suffering bunch, I have spent a considerable amount of time lamenting the lack of quality males over the age of 40 who remain in possession of their own hair, teeth and mental faculties (feel free to switch "lamenting" with "whinging about").  However I now have not one but two dates lined up for next week, both of which have at least a small degree of potential.

The first is someone I've known for a few years but for various reasons (the main one being that he was married) we've never been romantically involved.  Sure, there was the occassional bit of flirty banter, and there was always an underlying "what if?" but nothing more.  Then, when he got divorced early last year (after 15 years of marriage) he went on what I can only describe as his "randy rampage".   He dated anyone and everyone (except me, as I was stupidly being faithful to MB) and he appeared to be having the time of his life.  He was out every night of the week with various pretty (albeit vacuous) girls, and was the talk (and envy) of our peer group.  However, after a year of sleeping with more women than Ken Barlow he finally decided that what he needs in his life is a good woman... and the long and the short of it is, it's the first time since I've known him that we're both single at the same time, and so why the devil shouldn't I dust off my best Jimmy Choos and go explore?

Date number two is a totally different kettle of fish. On the face of it, he's a serious, bookish type but get to know him and there is definitely more to him than meets the eye... in fact I suspect there's a proper little racer hiding inside.  And I'm looking forward to finding out if I'm right or not.

I think I'm quite looking forward to next week...

A Receptacle For His Manly Seed

There are lots of things about being single that I really like:  the anticipation derived from getting ready to go out on a first date; the not having to shave my legs daily;  the freedom to come and go as I like with no one to answer to (save for having to text babygirl so she knows mummy is safe and not dead in a ditch, or at least not dead drunk in a ditch); and most of all not having to pretend that "it's fine darling, you can watch the football ALL EVENING - I was only going to read anyway".  

Conversely, there are also things that I'm not so keen on:  the waking up in bed after a bad dream (or a good one - whoop whoop!) and there is no one there to cuddle up to; the lack of an instant companion for spontaneous weekends away; the shortage of sex.  Well shortage of good sex that doesn't make you feel like a tramp anyway.

Worst of all however is that your friends will usually now wonder what to do with their dinner party invitation that would normally go to you and your plus one.  Is it OK to invite you now you're single - a lone diner? Or should they find another sad old singleton and hope that the fact that the only thing you have in common is that you are both so unloveable you are destined to die alone means you must surely get along.   Because what else do they think I have in common with Terrence, the 58 year old, balding farter with the bad hair piece and halitosis that would have Pepé Le Pew running for cover?  Perhaps you'd best not answer that.

So what of the blind date?  Good thing or bad?  I would imagine there have been times in your life (as there have been in mine) when you've had a single friend, and perhaps your husband (or wife) has also had a single friend, and the two of you decide over your late night cup of Horlicks that Terrence and Ellesbelles would be just perfect for each other!  Well, I'm not against that in theory, but, as a single girl not massively keen on being set up with the office groper or, worse, the office virgin, before clinking your mugs together in what you now think is a Eureka moment, please bear the following in mind.

1.  Single does not (necessarily) mean desperate.  Yet.  Give it time.

2.  If single friend is in her 40s and has grown up kids and has clearly stated "no more children EVER" then setting her up with a 32 year old just holding out for a receptacle for his manly seed is a recipe for disaster, no matter how utterly gorgeous, fit and sexy he may be.  Even if said 40 year old might think its a great idea at the time.  Just say no.

3. The chances are, if your single friend is a Sandra Dee wannabe, she might not automatically love the burping, beer swilling, thrash metal rocker she now finds at her table.   But don't rule it out, she might love it.

4. Generally, your 5'3 single friends will probably like their men to be taller than they are.  Particularly if they have a weakness for Louboutins et al.  For my own part, I'm not hugely tall, and so if I go out out with a short arse fella I become terribly maternal and the temptation to grab his hand before crossing the street,  or worse still pull a tissue from my purse, spit on it and wipe his face becomes overwhelming.

5.  Find out whether both parties have a full complement of limbs ahead of first date (see earlier post "Get me some jiggy jiggy" for detail).  And whether either of them make any weird Elvis noises in bed (unless they're an official Elvis impersonator, in which case that's probably fine - again referenced in earlier post).   In fact, best find out what weird shit they might get up to in the bedroom before setting them up at all - you don't want their incompatible hairy knock knock to bring about the end of your beautiful, hitherto enduring friendship.

So you see, my well meaning friends - you have your work cut out.  Cupid's job is not as easy as it looks, is it?

A Cracking Little Sex God

Well, I’m back from my lovely (albeit at times rather saucy) week away with the girls, rested and raring to go.  And given that I have new found energy and a fabulous tan, I’m hopping back on the dating train since I’d let that slide a bit whilst getting ready for my jollies and getting over JC.

So let me update you.

JC is no more.  The “complications” were always going to be hard for me to handle and try as I might, I could never quite shake off the thought of his wife and kids back home. 

I feel I now owe a short explanation, given my “no married men rule”. 

JC was (is) married.  However, things had been on and off between them for a couple of years, and they were separated.  (No, really, they were!). I’m told that after their second child was born he’d moved out and she had a new chap in her life.  However, at the end of last summer they had reconciled and he moved back home.  It didn’t work out and they decided to get divorced.  However, shortly after this reconciliation, wife discovers she is pregnant...  with JC’s baby. 

When I met him, he was upfront about the marriage and kids one and two, but made no mention of impending baby three.   Now for me, a not yet ex-wife and two small kids is hard enough to get my head round, but as he really is a cracking little sex god with a body to die for I thought I'd give it a go.  And given that he was really, really into me too (which was refreshing after MB’s casual indifference and his propensity to keep his eye out for a better offer), it would be OK, right?  It therefore came as a mighty shock to learn of a further, hitherto previously undisclosed baby to be, and even after his plausible (albeit tardy) explanation I was still reeling.  Somehow, however, he convinced me (or maybe I convinced myself) that it would be OK, it didn’t matter, things will sort themselves out, etc etc.   

Clearly I am a master of self-persuasion and have no grip whatsoever on self-preservation.

Having heard him out (over a bottle or three of red wine) he agreed to let me have some time and space to think it through and wait and see what happened when said baby arrived.  My fear was that he would change his mind when faced with a third bundle of joy, his fear was that I wouldn’t hang around to find out.   Seems he was right.  Because when I learned of the baby being born I freeeeeeeaked out.  Not sure quite why I felt shocked – it’s not like I thought she’d be giving birth to a Renault Megane or something, but for some reason it now feels real in a way it didn't before.  I also feel mighty guilty that whilst she was (unbeknownst to us) in labour  he’d called me and we'd spent hours on the phone and the conversation had become, at times, a little fruity (again, blame the wine).   So in the space of a few hours, I had gone from feeling like a sultry temptress to a slutty father stealer and I just couldn’t do it.  So I did what any mature, self-respecting woman would do:  I made like an ostrich.  I ignored the message, and to this day I can’t quite bring myself to make the call.  I do feel a little guilty that I have not acknowledged the birth (don’t even know whether it’s a pink one or a blue one) but what I do know is that I can’t be part of that particular set up.

So it’s back to the drawing board now.  I’ve had a wonderful holiday and time to think.  Since coming back I’m hitting the gym with gusto, I’m eating healthily, I’m going to bed at decent times and have refrained from my usual evening glass or more of wine (yes, I know I’ve been back less than 48 hours but it’s a start!).

I’m going to unblock my dating profile now and see what’s out there.  I very much doubt I'll find the future Mrs EB online, but hopefully I'll have some fun, perhaps I'll make some mistakes, but either way I’ll keep you posted.

EB xx

No one likes a sweat patch

I've been very slack with updating my blog, and this has been for a variety of reasons.  Partly this is because I have been exceptionally busy at work, but actually it is mostly an excuse because the truth of the matter is that I've found myself in an odd place.  And I don't mean Leeds.

The internet dating thing has bored the pants off me of late (although not literally, sadly, since my pants have remained resolutely in place for a while now). I don't know quite how this happened - perhaps because I set my target age at older than my usual preferred fancy (come on, I'm in my - ahem, very very very late thirties, ok early-ish forties, there's only so long I can go perving at the 30 year olds) but I am not in the least bit interested in any one of my "quiver" matches (what is that anyway?) or my "recommendations".  Do I look like the kinda gal that wants to date a balding, middle aged bloke with a paunch?  If there are to be any middle aged paunches around these parts they'll be my paunches, thanks very much.

So, whilst I've decided that I'm not quite ready for pipe and slippers man, I have not quite worked out what my next move is.  Mr Gorgeous, JC remains complicated (even more so, if that's possible) and frankly I really can't be arsed with the effort required to start something new.  So, instead of working it out, I decided to work out.  And now I ache.  Jane Fonda, I aint.  I'm not even the Green Goddess (for those old enough to remember Diana Moran of BBC Breakfast Time fame in the 80s). 

But I did discover something in the gym.  I am utterly motivated by not allowing myself to be the fat bird on the treadmill who gives up after 6 mins.  I went along last night, strangely bouyed by a lovely but odd coffee meeting with the lovely MB which left me feeling that he was kindly mocking my gym efforts, and of course upon arrival at said sweathouse there were the usual array of manbeasts dripping and grunting over everything (oh God, another flashback I'd rather not have had). 

So up I hop onto the treadmill (I can just do that with dignity - I'm still not comfortable with the thought of a saddle wedgey) and start to run.  Well, perhaps fast walk is more appropriate, except I want to look cooler than just walking, so I sort of slow jog.  But I feel ridiculously conspicuous and like I am in slo-mo so I up the pace.  Only to find I can't breathe, so I slow it down again.  And so it continues.  After about 3 minutes I've had enough.  I am bored, embarrassed and uncomfortable.  I am wearing pale grey sweat pants - rooky error.  No one likes a sweat patch on their ass, especially after only 3 minutes.  And I'm afraid that I am not the type of gal who can get away with pulling a top down low to cover my ass either, or my mightily inquisitive breasts will simply pop right on out and say hello.

So what's a girl to do?  Fit boy, sweaty ass, bored 3 mins in.  Well I'll tell you what I did - I just kept on running.  Running and running and running.  I was like Forrest Gump - that kid had nothing on your old Elles.  And to my immense pride, not only did I complete my personal best in terms of distance, speed (eventually) and not dying, but I ended up thinking the sweat looked kinda cool.   And as I got off the weapon of torture, I even earned myself a little smile and a half wink from fitboy.   Not a bad evening's work, methinks.

On my own with a quarter crispy duck

Its Friday.  I love Fridays, always have.  Fridays were my favourite day of the week when my kids were younger, we'd curl up on the sofa and eat snacks while we watched Friends and it was perfect.  Just me and my babies against the world.

Then, as they got older and snacking on the sofa with mummy was less appealing than spending the weekends with their respective boyfriends/girlfriends etc, Friday's became my "me" time.  So many of my friends enjoy their Friday nights out, but not me, that's a Saturday in my world.  Make up, high heels, cocktails, stumbling home at 3am with my BFF* Jules - yes that's most definitely a Saturday.    Not a Friday.  Fridays are about PJs, take away food, bottles of wine and, depending on my mood, a good book or a rubbish movie.  Bliss.  My years with MB sort of modified that, but not that much - I still had my "me" time, but it was at his house, on his sofa rather than mine, with him and his silly diet food rather than on my own with a quarter crispy duck, shredded chilli beef, sweet and sour chicken and a chow mein (what can I tell you - I've got a big appetite), but still really, really lovely.  I do miss that.  Dammit, but I do.

But now, I'm discovering a whole new world of Friday.  Since "Dark Sunday" (as I think of that mournful day in February when the world as I knew it collapsed without warning) I haven't had a Friday in.  It's been a whirlwhind of weekends away, dates, nights out with the girls, nights in with the girls (and the boys) - even 80s house parties!  Whilst I still love a bit of "me" time, I think I quite like this alternate universe into which I appear to have stumbled.  In fact, I more than like it - I BLOODY LOVE IT! 

So the moral of today's story is - THANK GOD ITS FRIDAY!

*  Did I really just say BFF????  Shoot me now.

Deepest Darkest PMT

I've always been a little bemused at the idea of there being just one man for one woman, and vice versa and whilst I'd love to believe in soul mates, I'm afraid I just don't.  Not in the traditional sense, and not during my sensible, rational, waking hours anyway.  Given that there are over 7 billion people on this planet, is it really likely that The One just so happens to have gone to the same primary school as you, or shops in the same branch of Asda?  Isn't it far more likely that, if there is only one man for one woman, you are in all likelihood never going to cross paths with The One?   That, for me, is far too depressing for words.

But whilst I don't believe in soul mates in the traditional sense, I do believe in a soul mate of sorts, and my version is emminently more likely and achievable.

I believe a true soul mate is someone that makes you feel like YOU are The One.  Someone who gets you, loves you and supports you no matter what.  Someone who laughs with you, cries with you, doesn't mind (or notice) that you are imperfect.  Listens to your views, maybe shares them or maybe not. It doesn't matter.  It's someone who will forgive you when you are in the midst of deepest darkest PMT and you are being a BITCH!  Someone you know you can depend upon to stick around, even when the going gets tough.

And because of all this, I am going to make sure the next time I meet The One (and I will, dammit, I will) I will remind myself that this isn't The One.  I will instead enjoy being with This One.  And whilst it doesn't sound nearly as romantic and soul matey and committed it is, in my view, a far more forgiving approach and with the pressure off, who knows?  He may in time turn into The One...

Crossing my own moral line

My friends (and their often firmly held opinions) are very important to me, and therefore when someone expresses a view on something (or someone - ooh err) I am doing I take it on board.  I don't always agree with them, and I don't always share their view, but I do listen, absorb and consider.  And then, if I disagree, I disregard, but in the full knowledge that I have done so in the understanding of there being an alternate view.

I've been thinking a lot about JC. Mostly, to be honest, in terms of "phwoaaaahhhh" but, still.   Now, for various reasons I do not want or need to go into great detail about who or what he is, save that there is, as I have mentioned previously, a "complicated" situation.  This "complicated situation" is such that I can do pretty much what I like guilt free (remembering my golden rule) without fear of crossing my own moral line.  Sort of.  However, I have a slight sense of unease and for someone who really enjoys the moral highground I know I ought to back right off, right now.

 I know, I know, I'm being obtuse and vague, but you'll have to trust me on this.

However, a conversation I have had with a dear friend (again, I'm sure she'll be popping up from time to time so she's now to be known as Morocco) has made me think again.  Yes, yes, he's gorgeous, he's funny, he's bright - yada yada yada.  But he's still, well, COMPLICATED!  Back off - she screams.  Back off!  Oh, it's OK, I assure her, its fine.  It's just, well, complicated...

I know I can do better than that.  I want and deserve more.  Don't I?  Well frankly, right at this minute I don't know that I do want more than that.  I'm quite enjoying being single again - my weekends are my own to do what I like, no one telling me that my lovely new playsuit gives me camel toe (they were harem pants you idiot - how low do you think my labia hang for Chrissake).  Of course, in time, it will be nice to find all the things I want long term, but this is a lovely, selfish little interlude and I'm actually quite enjoying it.

But whilst I am waiting for Mr Perfect to drop by, can't I have a little fun with JC?  Just a little?  It doesn't have to be complicated... 

Because the alternative is internet dating.  Here's how the last date went:

Me:       What do you do for a living?
Him:      I sell stationery (proceeds to explain benefits of recycled over regular, various grammage etc.  this takes a good 5 mins)
Me:       Hmm.  OK. 

Silence whilst I try to think of intelligent stationery related question.  I can't.

Me:        What sort of music do you like?
Him:       Oh you know.
Me:        No, I don't really, what do you listen to?
Him:       This and that.
Me:        Ok.

Silence.

Me:        How old are your kids?
Him:      I don't like to talk about my kids.
Me:       OK.

More silence.

Me:       Do you like living in [town]
Him:      It's OK.
Me:      Oh.

Uncomfortable silence.

Me:       So, are self sealing envelopes still the most popular to buy?
Him:      (5 mins of envelope related drivel)
Me:      "Waiter, can I have the bill please?"

See where I am going with this?  Complicated is good, right?

Time, Patience and Celibacy

Is it possible to stay friends with the ex? Not just nodding acquaintances, or staying in touch because of the kids, but real, honest to God friends? Dinners out, theatre trips, weekends away as buddies as opposed to friends with benefits... is this really possible?

I've always thought probably not. And not because of the whole boys and girls can't be friends for fear they'll end up in the sack predicament, but because generally, unless you've both been really, really grown up about things and simply grown apart, the chances are that one of you will have behaved quite badly during the relationship (ergo the fact he/she is now an ex) and the other has been badly hurt.  Perhaps one of you may have behaved quite badly during the breakup.  By which I mean me.  I'm likely to have behaved really, really badly during the breakup.   I'm the worst kind of ex, a near demented banshee straddling the line between "F*ck you, I never really loved you and anyway you were shit in bed" and "Please don't leave me to die alone, surrounded by cats and Bridget Jones movies and M&S ready meals for one".  A modern day Miss Haversham, if you will. Seriously, ex's that trot out the well worn "I hope we can be friends" line to me have no idea what they are letting themselves in for. 

It took me six years - YES, SIX YEARS - to get over the sexy architect.  If I ever did, that is.  My friends still know him as the love of my life, and can't believe that now, all these years on, we are able to meet up perhaps once a year or so and I don't go home crying into my cocoa.  But we do, I don't, and it's great.  But it took a great deal of time, patience and celibacy to get me to that point, and I'm glad to say that now, I actually look forward to our annual glass of wine and catch up, and no longer harbour any form of grudge against my replacement.  Well not for most of the time anyway.

But this is different.  I have got cheese in my fridge older than this break up and yet here I am galivanting around town with the beautiful JC (of which more to follow, no doubt).  Me and MB really do seem to have crossed the line from lovers to friends without there being more than a smidgen of drama and histrionics.  Since the break up we have met up perhaps 3 or 4 times a month, and its been fine.  Really fine.  But now you see this leads me to a bigger problem, and me being a worrier I need to analyse.

Does this mean that he was right, I was wrong, and perhaps the relationship was not right from the very start?  Did I ever really, really love him in any proper sense?  Or did I just enjoy his company, the relationship, the girlfriend status?  Did I turn into one of those pathetic, needy women of a certain age so frightened of being alone they switch off the filter and settle for anything they can get?  Certainly, I wanted it to work, but can wanting something badly enough ever make it right? 

Having spent 5 years convincing myself that MB was The One, it has come as a huge surprise (and I will admit a little bit of a disappointment, perhaps tinged with a bit of relief too)  to realise that he really, really wasn't.  We went out for his birthday dinner the other night, and now the rose tinted glasses are off, I can see him for what he was and should have been throughout - a friend.  Nothing more, despite my best efforts, but a dear and valued friend.  And I hope that will continue, at least until the cheese finally goes mouldy.

Dumped on the Jacksy

When is it acceptable to date a "married man"?

Had you asked me this question last week, my answer would have been "never".   Of course, that's the short and very, very lazy answer.   There are, perhaps, certain exceptions where it is acceptable.  What if the parties are separated, living entirely separate lives but do not wish to divorce on religious grounds?  Or because of the children?  Or simply because they don't want to as no intention to remarry/reproduce in the future?   What if one party is entirely miserable and unhappy,  perhaps they are in an abusive relationship, too frightened or financially impecunious to leave, and turns to a kindly friend/colleague for support, and that friendship leads to love?

Now there are some that will say whilst others can do whatever they like and that is for them, they personally would never become romantically involved with a married man.  Perhaps because they had learned the hard way, or perhaps because they just don't agree with it.  I always thought I was of that mind - I try never to sit in judgment of others (God knows plenty could sit in judgment of me, one way or the other) but it's not for me.  No thank you.   Sister solidarity and all that. 

Now I have few hard and fast rules in life, and those that know me know that whilst I am a pretty open minded, try anything once (within reason) kinda gal, the married man thing is inviolate. 

However, I now find myself in a quandary.   I've recently met a great guy.  I suspect he'll be making an appearance here from time to time, so he best have a name, and that name shall be JC.  He's fit, fun and fabulous.  He's smart and articulate.  He's sarcastic.  He is the right mix of interested and unavailable.  He is somewhat of an enigma.  He is married.

There is no need to bore with the detail, but things are "complicated".  With a capital C.  And that for me means "no".  With a capital N.

My last experience with a married man was a guy who'd been separated for 2 years.  He hadn't dated anyone in the meantime and hadn't felt the need to bother with the formalities of divorce, but hey - two years on is safe for me, right?  Wrong.  After I fell head over heels in love with this whirlwind (and I say that as I met him on 3 April, was in love by the 3 May and it was over by 3 June) he decided to get on with the legalities.  However, that stirred up a shedload of emotions he wasn't ready for so I got right royally dumped on the jacksy when he decided "he wasn't over his marriage".  Never has falling off cloud 9 been so fast, so furious and so painful.  I not only bruised my derriere when I landed, but also my ego.  So the married man rule was extended to not just married men, but also separated men.  Most of the 35+ male generation, in fact.  And I can tell you, that leaves some slim pickings.

So what the hell am I doing even CONSIDERING entering into any sort of relationship/friendship with this man?  Am I crazy?  Perhaps a little.  Am I desperate? I hope not.  I'll tell you.

It's because I'm a masochist, that's why.

Drink More Wine

Phase 1 of Ellesbelles Starts Over is now fully underway and I think I am making pretty good progress.  I've been going out, having a good time, and thinking about MB less and less.  Of course, that has been assisted by the odd fun date along the way, so now its time to implement Phase 2.

And that is to get fit.  This is going to be a 4 stage programme: 

1) Exercise regularly;
2) Eat better;
3) Sleep more;
4) Drink less.

Now I will deal with 1),  2) and 3) later, but for now I'm concentrating on 4) because I'm hoping that by doing 4) then 1), 2) and 3) will naturally follow.  Let me explain.

When I go out straight from work I drink wine.  I then drink more wine.  At some stage I think of eating, but usually just drink more wine.  Then, when I get to the station to go home, I decide to eat, and inevitably that involves a Burger King.  And I don't like Burger King - I truly, truly don't.  But after wine, Burger King seduces me, it lures me in with the hint of a promise that I could eat a Burger that's fit for a King.  Sadly, the reality never lives up to the promise, and so when I go home I feel sick and bloated.  I then can't get to sleep. So I drink wine.  And then, the next day, when the alarm goes off at 5.45 for my pre-work gym session I silence the alarm (usually by shouting at Siri, my helpful little iphone 4 assistant) and go back to bed for another 90 minutes.

But as of right now that's all changed.  After a big Friday night and a not quite so big but certainly not small (2 espresso martinis and 4 Lanesborough champagne cocktails is not small, right?) Saturday night, Sunday was a dry day.  And I felt smug - yay! Ellesbelles went 24 hours without wine!  Still didn't manage to get to the gym, but hey - baby steps, right?

My next alcoholic drink will be on Sunday 3 June 2012 at, I'm hoping, around lunch time or just after.  The location?  Sitting by a beautiful pool in the sunshine with 3 of the most gorgeous gals in the world.   Can't wait...

Get me some jiggy jiggy

In order to put mission Ellesbelles Starts Over into practice, I've been looking back at my past beaus in order to see if there is any sort of pattern, or any method in my madness.  And, it must be said, I have made some odd, odd decisions.  For example:

The Control Freak

This bullying creature wanted to dominate and control every aspect of my life.  A serial philanderer, he somehow managed to get me to forgive and forget so many of his indiscretions that I ended up forgetting that I didn't really want to forgive any more. Domineering and aggressive, in his company I somehow morphed into a 1950s housewife, ensuring I was always up at least 30 mins before him so that his breakfast was ready on the table when he got up and he wouldn't have to endure seeing me without make up.  Anything for a quiet life became my mantra, and when I eventually managed to wrestle free I vowed to never date an alpha male again.

The Virgin

The first date I had post the Control Freak was a sweet, sweet man.  He was a couple of years younger than me, and as egotistical as it sounds,  he was absolutely smitten with me.  He treated me like a princess and bearing in mind the relationship I'd been in before before, I was flattered and probably a little bit smitten back.   However, during a conversation one night about moving the relationship to the next level, I said I was not ready to sleep with him yet (we'd only known each other a few months).  His response was that he had no issue with that, as he wanted to save himself for his wedding night.  His wedding night?  Seriously?  Now I am not one to judge someone else's morals and beliefs, and in its way I think that's quite sweet, but the idea that I would have to stick another ring on my finger in order to get me some jiggy jiggy was not something I could contemplate so that was the end of that one.

The Stalker

We met on a train.  We dated, and as is my usual form, it wasn't long before things started to get serious.  I was spending more and more time at his house (an absolutely beautiful split level town house where I had my own vanity suite, dressing room and 2 spare rooms for my kids should I ever have decided to introduce them).  He had a key to my house, I had one to his, and it was all hunky dory.  I did sometimes get an odd feeling that he had been over to my house when I was at work, but I thought I was simply being paranoid.  It was little things, such as the kettle being the wrong way round (he was left handed and always put it on the base with the spout pointing to the right).

One night I was at his but feeling very unwell.  He cooked me dinner, ran me a bath and when I got out I asked for some pyjamas or sweats.  He invited me to go to his room and get some from his cupboard.  Imagine my shock when I opened the closet and tucked away in the back, hidden, were three pairs of my knickers, a couple of pairs of stockings and a picture of me that he'd taken from my house!  Needless to say, I got out fast and never went back.

The Inmate

This one had the makings of being something special.  Tall, very handsome, a bit rough around the edges but a good laugh and an air of mystery.  One night he asked me what special skills I possess that would come in useful on a desert island.  Before I had a chance to think of a reply, he told me he had learned butchery.  When I asked where he'd learned that he said, almost proudly, he'd learned it in prison.  Asked why he'd been in prison, he told me, again with far too much pride, that he'd killed someone.  I was clearly not sticking around for the rest of that story, so I got the bill and left.

The Elvis Impersonator

Beautiful boy.  Younger, sexy, bright, good mix of fun and kindness.  A few months in and it looked as though things might be heading towards the bedroom, although I noticed a reticence on his part. He told me that he doesnt like to rush things, because all too often once a relationship has been consummated it would then end shortly after.

One night, certain that the time was right, I got out the Wonderbra, cooked a meal, lit the candles, put on the Barry White.  And it was amazing.  However, once he started to get into the swing of things, I noticed that he was making a very, very strange noise.  It started as a sort of low growl, building up to an almost ear splitting crescendo which sounded like a cross between a wounded animal and a working men's club Elvis Impersonator giving it his very bust "Uh Huh Huh Huh". 

Another one bites the dust.

The Monopod

Oh dear.  This one was bizarre.  I met the guy at a dating event.  Nice man, good fun, seemed to be quite open and honest. 

Went back to his house one evening after a night out, things were getting a little steamy, next thing I know his trousers are off, and so was his wooden leg.  Just like that.  No warning, no explanation.   Apparently he hadn't told me as he thought I'd be put off, as his last girlfriend hadn't liked it as she was into swimming and rock climbing?.  Did he really think I wouldn't notice eventually?

The Bearer of Gifts

Another online dater.  We had spoken online a few times, and the day before we were due to meet he called to me and said he and his daughter had been out to buy me a present.  Odd in itself, but OK.   When I arrived at the scheduled destination, he was already there, having got there an hour and a half earlier (he said he was worried he might be late!). He was already two thirds of the way down the bottle of fancy French champagne, and more than a little squiffy.  He then proceeded to spend the next hour telling me how excited he had been to meet me, that he'd shown everyone in his office my picture, his daughter was really happy that he was out on a date, that his mother was sitting at home waiting for updates on how the date was going.  It was all so utterly suffocating and creepy I couldn't wait to leave, but of course he wanted to surprise me with the big finish of giving me my gifts.  He gave me a card (please remember, we had not met at the time he puchased and wrote this card) which simply stated "Thank you for what I know is going to be a wonderful evening".  He then handed me a box. Inside this box were three wrapped gifts.  The first was the most enormous box of Belgian chocolates I'd eve seen.  The second was a book about Italy (very sweet actually) and the third, bizarrely,  was the Forrest Gump DVD.  I have absolutely no clue as to why, or what the relevance was.  He looked so proud of himself I didnt have the heart to say I had no intention of ever seeing him again.  By the time I got home around 45 minutes later I had had 6 missed calls and about 10 text messages.  Needless to say, I only sent one in response, and it didn't say "call me"

There are many, many more misfits to add to this motley crew.  I haven't detailed The Liar, The Walter Mitty, The Eating Disorder, since I imagine you get the picture from the above.  What is clear is that the only common link between them is me.  Clearly I have a special knack for attracting strange creatures, perhaps the old maxim of "takes one to know one" is at play here.

Anyway, I'm off out for cocktails with a friend tonight, and my radar is switched to "freak".  I'll let you know how I get on.

Imagining the person naked

I've decided that I've been going about this dating thing all wrong.  I've not been focused in my search for love, instead allowing myself to get carried away on a tide of emotions.  My very nature is to throw myself wholeheartedly into whatever I am doing, be it work, a new hobby or a recently discovered TV show (seven straight hours of Desperate Housewives is surely not to be considered normal?).  I am the same in a relationship.  It's all or nothing, and when I decide I mean all, boy, do I mean all.

To get to that stage however, I have a very strict 3 date rule.  Basically, I work on the principle that there are three elements to determining a potential suitor's compatibility, and it is not always possible to assess them on a first date.  However, if all the boxes are not being ticked by date 3, there really is no point going on.

First dates can be notoriously difficult.  Whilst some elements are immediately obvious (physical attraction, body odour issues, they might be vegetarian*) allowances need to be made for the more subtle aspects of a person's character.  There may be nerves to contend with, which can translate to a person being perhaps a little shy, or even the opposite and over compensating, thus coming across as a little arrogant or cocky.  Hopefully, by the second date (assuming the first wasn't a complete and utter disaster and there IS a second date) you'll both have relaxed into it a bit and start showing your true colours.  However, a second date still forms part of the "interview process" so you are inevitably still going to be on your best behaviour. 

Therefore, the all important third date is the cincher.  If by the end of the third date you're not imagining the person naked (always assuming of course that you have not already seen them naked) it's probably not going happen and there really is no point wasting any more time on it. 

So what are the three elements?  Here are my rules.

Date 1:  Am I physically attracted to you?  If the answer is no at this stage, there really is probably little point in going on.

Date 2:  OK, we've established I fancy you.  Hopefully its mutual but hey, these are my rules, not yours.  Now, have we got anything to talk about?  Are we on the same wavelength in terms of intellect, humour, values etc?  At this stage we are obviously talking in general terms, but if the answer is no, again, its not going to work so do not pass Go, do not collect £200.  Bin it now.

Date 3:  Can I imagine introducing you to my kids?  To my friends?  To my work colleagues?  Again, if the answer is no, you're out, sunshine.

But what if the answer is yes?  Assuming the poor unsuspecting candidate passes all three of my tests, I will probably now fall in love with him.  In fact, I probably already have. No, I definitely have.  Just like that.  No warning, I dive straight in, eyes closed, probably now brain closed too.  Because in fact, very few people have got through the 3 phases above, and so when they do my common sense and reasoning fails and I start planning our future together.  In my head, I've already picked out our dinner service pattern, and I know exactly where we are going to hang our framed couple's portrait.

Now fortunately for me, I am also very good at hiding this psychotic behaviour.  Mostly in fact, I don't even know I am doing it.  I actually start to believe that I really, really want to speedwalk the 20 extra minutes to the station in the freezing cold at 6.45am adding an extra 15 minutes to the already 2 hour plus journey rather than waking the sleeping beauty next to me for a lift.  Any sense of my brain telling me "hey EB, you're not really getting much out of this, are you?" is ignored because being the perfect girlfriend means they'll love me, right? 

But now, due to some very frank conversations with the lovely (albeit cheating) ex, not to mention some very expensive therapy, I'm seeing the light and realising that I need to be a little (or a lot) more selective and to know when to give it up and walk away.  No more flogging the dead horse. 

 *no offence meant to vegetarians, I just couldn't date one as I have this funny thing about eating together - same meals, same time - and whilst I will apparently willingly give up my own personality, desires, values etc in a relationship, I'm not giving up fillet steak.

Shiny boots and two dead dogs...

So my friends.  Here I am, back on the market, and back on the blogosphere. 

I felt I needed a little place of my own, an internet home, if you will, where I could come and rant, moan, celebrate and and observe to my heart's content.

In short, I am a busy working professional woman, (reasonably) attractive for my age (albeit carrying a few extra pounds - of which more below), single and looking for love.  There, I said it.  I'm looking for love.  I want to find my other half:  the yin to my yang, the Lennon to my McCartney.  The Ben to my Jerry's.  I've done the whole marriage and kids thing, and it was great, but I don't want to do that again. What I'd like now is an entirely different kind of love - full of impromptu weekends away, staying in bed as long as we like on Sunday mornings, extravagant holidays because we can afford them as we don't have to worry about school fees.  And also full of squabbles about leaving the toilet seat up and how best to extract toothpaste from the tube without smearing it around the sink.  In other words, a real relationship, with a real man. And I want to be utterly selfish about it.

But apparently there are not that many of those wonderful creatures out there these days, at least not single ones without an army of kids, ex wives or (shudder) mistresses in their closet.  Now don't get me wrong - I've got plenty of baggage of my own (most notably the fact that I'm still in love with my ex-boyfriend who I split from 2 months, 6 days, 3 hours and 40 minutes ago and who, to avoid confusion with the numerous other exes that may well feature from time to time, shall continue to be referred to as MB) and as such I am not against one ex wife, so long as the divorce is sufficiently pre my involvement that he can barely remember her name anymore.  At a push, I will consider dating a man with more than one ex wife, so long as the same rules apply.  Hell, call me crazy, but for the right man I'd even reconsider my "I'm done with kids" rule and date a super daddy.  What I will not do is be the other woman, the bit on the side whilst he is debating whether to go this way or that.   Nor will I settle for less than I deserve, by which I mean someone who is less than completely committed to me in the same way I will be to him. 

But with all this said - I will never again compromise on quality, if I may put it that way.  To use a probably inappropriate simile, poor quality shoes hurt my feet.  My Jimmy Choos, however, are like walking on fluffy little clouds.  Poor quality men hurt my heart, and the poor little mite has had enough of that crap. So, no more Mrs Nice Gal!  From now on, there is no more "OK darling, I'll make all the effort/do all the travelling/turn a blind eye to your cheating ways" and its "Love me and take me as I am, or move on, buster".  Not sure I can pull off the tough gal act but I'll give it a go or die trying...

So where does a smart, sensible woman go to find the human equivalent of a pair of Choos?  We've all heard that its no longer cool to meet guys in bars (thank the Lord for that), but there's only so long they'll let you hang around the Waitrose fresh produce aisle before you start running the risk of being forcibly ejected, and book clubs have so far produced nothing but single women looking for love...

This leaves, of course, internet dating.  And that, my friends, is what I suspect much of this blog will entail.  Who'd have thought that by creating a profile suggesting that I am looking for an educated, professional, unattached gentleman in the age range 40-50 and living within 15 miles of London would produce interest from fellows aged from 19-68 (I kid you not!), hailing from lands as far distant as Scotland and New Zealand?  What is more, when I say "must attach photo", clearly I mean a photo of YOU not of your car, your bottle of beer, and most certainly not, as one chap sent to me a couple of weeks ago, pictures of two pairs of men's shiny boots and his two dead dogs!  WTF?????? Clearly someone somewhere had told this poor fellow that "chicks really dig shoes and pets, man, you should put a picture of those on, it'll show your softer side....".  Really, quite bizarre.

The other goal for 2012 (and who knows, perhaps one will assist with the other) is to not only find Mr Wonderful this year, but also to shed half a stone.  I would ideally like to do this without cutting down on neither food nor alcohol, so any suggestions would be greatly received.  I am planning, in the first instance, to surprise the Virgin Active team by actually visiting the club that I have probably single handedly paid for, and have only been to a handful of times.

So this is it now friends.  Mission Ellesbelles Starts Over has begun... wish me luck!