ME, ME, ME

My blog just celebrated her one-week-anniversary. I even have two followers! 9 more and I can start my own football team. About 20 more and I can start my own cult and stage the biggest mass suicide the Spinsterville has ever seen...

I have readers in Australia, Brazil, Russia, UK, Germany, USA, Italy, South Africa and Finland. I'm feeling rather content, running this little Evil Empire of mine. The blog has even been indexed which means, that these days when you google bitter bitch... I come up!

While this verbal crucifixion has proved to be cathartic, perhaps I should give this boyfriend- bashing a break and tell you about myself? We've already established that The Man was definitely  a man of many Guinness- like qualities (stout, yes, but "an acquired taste" is what I really meant) so maybe you deserve to know a little more about the saddo tapping the keyboard?

This would also serve to distract us all from the fact that I have not heard from The Man since his reply to my e-mail which he said he was trying to read but couldn't from his tears (tears! TEARS! Tears equal emotions! Only...which emotions? Joy? Happiness? Love? Sadness? Frustration? Rage?)

So... if in the movie of our lives he'd be played by... Anthony Hopkins, I'd be played by... Oh, how I'd like to mentally cast Gwyneth Paltrow as me, but in reality the correct choice would probably be Drew Barrymore. Now, I'm sure she is a delightful personality in many ways and has gotten to play opposite some seriously hot men, but let's face it: they were all movies she wrote, directed and produced herself. 

But yes,  I'm just about as far from a show-stopping beauty as Russia is from any real democracy (sorry Putin, in case you are indeed my token Russian reader but you just can't keep on having people killed like that! ) I've never been able to lose the chipmunk-cheeks, not even in the throes of anorexia. My GBFF (Gay Best Friend Forever) at the time tried,in his own special way, to console me. "You just can't help it- you have a fat person's head". Yeah. Well, what I could help was choosing his boyfriend over him after their inevitable and rather acrimonious break-up.

The contaminated gene pool I come from, laced with a heavy dose of Northern and Eastern European sturdy stock means serious shortcomings in the supermodel-physique stakes too. My legs don't go on for miles- they barely reach my feet. My hair that was never a cascade of lustrous locks tumbling down my back to begin with never seems to have recovered from the shock of turning 30. A combination of hormones, stress... and a curling-iron-related incident the night of my big party as a result of which I had to cut the iron (and along with it hefty quantity of my hair) off my hair for three times. 

I know - the eye of the beholder right? Well let's hope my next blind date will be just that: blind. 

But what I might be missing in the external beauty I vigorously try to make up with my internal one. I'm fiercely loyal and protective of those I let close to me. Even in the relationships I've been in, with some seriously unfavourable circumstances, I've never cheated on anyone. I can't even imagine how being cheated on would rip me apart, so I could never,EVER inflict that on somebody else. I'm a firm believer of doing unto others. 

I love to cook and over the years (and no doubt courtesy of the dream kitchen The Man built me in that Spanish villa) I've actually become pretty good at it. I love having people over and feeding them. Because The Man didn't have any social skills essential in making friends the only person we ever had over was his Mum. And she exists on a diet of G&T and Silk Cuts. 

I am knowledgeable, cultured even, and can carry a conversation. I'm smart. Occasionally even funny. My underwear always matches. I have a good personal hygiene- I tend to every hair growing out of my body with attention bordering on neurotic. I floss. 

I understand the offside rule. Which, of course was a talent completely wasted on The Man who, even after having worked for the greatest football team the world has ever seen, couldn't give a toss about it. What a tosser...

I don't nag. Or won't confess to it, anyway. I don't want to be anyone's ball and chain - I want my man to go out and spend time with his friends and enjoy his own life. Even if it comes with ogling the barmaids and awkward attempts at flirting (or wait- maybe that's just me?)

Considering that majority of my social life revolves around football-related binge drinking, I know I'm a bit of a lad. But I can be a lady too. I dress nicely. I might not understand the cold fusion, but I. Can. Accessorize. I should set up a consultancy business geared at the post-op transsexuals! I have a gift and they need it. Fishnet stockings do not a woman maketh...

And since a lady never kisses and tells, nor will I. But I'll tell you this- I look after my man and every single sordid need of his.

In my own way... I am a catch. I am worth being pursued. I do deserve being treated with respect. I do deserve to come first, even outside the bedroom. Why then, is it so difficult to hold on those beliefs when a man comes along? Perhaps The Man isn't the only one who needs to work at himself- maybe I'm the real construction site... ?