Blonde Ambition #25: Face Up To My Own Fuck-Ups (Pardon the language...)
There comes a turning point in most people's lives when they look over their own actions and think, "WHAT was I thinking! Why the hell did I think that was a good idea?". I call it a Mistakavation, the sad revelation that you've made a mistake. You've navigated the map of life incorrectly and somehow ended up trying make your camp in a messy swamp instead of by the picturesque lake you had been navigating. That, or the photograph in the advertising was devastatingly misleading....
Throughout my twenty-five years on earth, I've racked up considerable life experience. I've stood atop literal and metaphoric mountains and gazed over the surrounds proudly; I've sobbed like a sad little idiot in life's deepest ditches. I've laughed and cried, manipulated, been manipulated, fallen in lust, pondered on love, searched for the meaning of life...
My Most Hurty Mistakavations:
I. It's best to leave tinkering with hearts to cardiologists
Playing with someone's heart is just the ultimate mistake. Even if you think you personally won't get hurt, you will. Maybe not automatically, but there'll come a moment one day when you meet someone amazing, who's gorgeous inside and out, someone truly special who seems to understand you better than anyone else in the world, and you'll be terrified. You'll be scared because you know in your own heart that some people play with hearts for fun. That's called guilt, and it stems from smashing someone's heart cruelly.
II. Material things are lovely, but they can't love you back
Infamously associated with greed, gluttony and luxe lifestyles, Epicurus was a philosopher, born in 341 BC in Samos. Modern society idealises Epicurean ideals... however, as with most ancient teachings, Epicurus' sage advice to society has been twisted and tampered with, and quoted out of context to the extent where the philosopher's original message now may as well be lost in a treasure chest in the deepest part of the ocean.
Those pursuing a supposedly 'Epicurean' lifestyle claim to follow the teachings of Epicurus by allowing themselves to drown in gluttony and greed. In actual fact, Epicurus didn't teach people to desire unhealthy excesses; rather he taught that it is one's friends who make one truly rich. They are priceless. It's lovely to come home to expensive things, but what's even nicer is coming home and letting yourself be enveloped in the love of a beautiful partner, someone whose soul glitters more than gold.
I haven't always been of this opinion. It was a painful lesson to learn, that things are fleeting and can be taken as quickly as they're obtained. It's wiser to invest in beautiful friends and a worthy partner than in things.
III. Mistakenly thinking that everyone in the world has good intentions
Oh hell no. Some people will hurt you. I suppose that no matter how nice you are to a snake, if you draw it in to hug it, it will still strike at you. It's true that the majority of people are lovely souls, but it's dangerous to assume that everyone is well-intentioned
My fuck-ups are now being faced. This new-found feeling of emotional responsibility is good, fun almost, mind that it hurts.
Blonde Ambition #27: Organise This Blog Into An Actual Blog
... as opposed to somewhere I whinge, bitch and muse when I can't be bothered to scrawl in my paper journal (or when it's already full of scrawl). Add some pictures, change the damn scenery, make it pretty. Initially, it was all about polo, polo this, polo that, "who do you think's going to win and how much are you willing to bet on that?", though now that the topics have changed, I think so too should the layout, design and whatnot. Bear in mind, technology hates me. A lot. We've never really got along, just coexisted uncomfortably, but that hasn't stopped technology getting in a sneaky low-blow every now and then and confusing the bananas out of me. If this page no longer exists, that's how you'll know I've tried to fix it...
Blonde Ambition #28: Fall Completely, Madly in Love
I have a new crush and this one is better than ever. Hooray! He's clever, funny and good looking! I'm just waiting for him to confess that he hacks up hitch-hikers for fun. You know how it is, a man comes along and you're mentally ticking off every box, slowly growing more and more numb with fear because you're getting to the bottom of that list and he's still saying and doing just the right things. He's being charming and beautiful in every way, and you're slowly falling for his charm and wit. It's terrifying to think that someone else owns your heart. You'd die if they knew you felt so strongly, and you don't dare tell them in case things ever turn nasty. That's me, anyhow.
So now I'm absolutely in lust with a gorgeous man who seems to already understand exactly how I think, someone who makes me laugh and think in equal measures... and I'm hoping with all my all that he doesn't smash my heart, seeing as I only have one...
Blonde Ambition #29: ''Take Me to My Beach...''
... so sang All Saints in their song Pure Shores, from the soundtrack to the movie, The Beach, way back in the day when Leonardo Di'Caprio was still a honey and the Spice Girls dominated the charts.
Oh, it's beach time alright. The sun is out, I haven't eaten in forever and I have a million new bikinis. Bring on sand in the bikini bottoms, splashing around in the waves and becoming overcome with excitement at the simplest things. Shells. Chasing birds. Not standing on syringes or jellyfish. Doodling in the wet sand. Watching the sun slip beneath the horizon. Absolute bliss. Can't wait!!!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
No Scrub, and No Strings, Please
Blonde Ambiton #24: The Rebound, Scrubs and Strings...
The legendary '90's girl band, TLC, sang those now infamous lyrics way back in that long-repressed era, the 1990's. The song was 'No Scrub', and it quickly became an anthem for women everywhere who insisted that men who were 'scrubby' stayed well clear of them. TLC taught chickies everywhere that unless a guy has the goods (and I don't mean simply financially), he should be sent on his way without a backward glance.
Before He's Just Not That Into You, before Sex and the City, even before hapless TV psychologists dominated every channel, TLC were on our screens teaching us all that 'scrub' just isn't alright. Now, more than ever, empowered girls are heeding that wise message.
That leads me to add that as a newly single girl, I also 'don't want no scrub'... or strings, for that matter, at least for now.
Life on the rebound isn't all dancing until you fall down with exhaustion and flirting your butt off with every half decent piece of meat who wanders into your sight. It's about re-establishing your independence, branching out, dating new people casually in an effort to remember who you were before you got shackled however willingly to another person.
I'm enjoying being on the rebound, even though there is indeed a lot of scrub out there. I get all my aggressiveness out on horseback, smacking around a small white ball as if it is solely that ball's fault that my relationship died and that the world isn't perfect. This leaves me feeling refreshed. The opportunity to flirt endlessly with sensational men has filled me with a sense of elan, which in turn has made me look better than ever.
I've recieved more invites to "have a few drinks" in the last six days than I have in the last nine months! Men I always thought were beautiful but untouchable are no available on my menu... though I wish they didn't all come with a side of either strings or shackles!
I just want to have fun, dance and flirt and dance some more. I want to surround myself with beautiful, witty men who look lovely, and are charming, who flatter me all night long, and who go home when I'm bored of them. Bring on the rebound! But PS, hell no to the scrub!!!
The legendary '90's girl band, TLC, sang those now infamous lyrics way back in that long-repressed era, the 1990's. The song was 'No Scrub', and it quickly became an anthem for women everywhere who insisted that men who were 'scrubby' stayed well clear of them. TLC taught chickies everywhere that unless a guy has the goods (and I don't mean simply financially), he should be sent on his way without a backward glance.
Before He's Just Not That Into You, before Sex and the City, even before hapless TV psychologists dominated every channel, TLC were on our screens teaching us all that 'scrub' just isn't alright. Now, more than ever, empowered girls are heeding that wise message.
That leads me to add that as a newly single girl, I also 'don't want no scrub'... or strings, for that matter, at least for now.
Life on the rebound isn't all dancing until you fall down with exhaustion and flirting your butt off with every half decent piece of meat who wanders into your sight. It's about re-establishing your independence, branching out, dating new people casually in an effort to remember who you were before you got shackled however willingly to another person.
I'm enjoying being on the rebound, even though there is indeed a lot of scrub out there. I get all my aggressiveness out on horseback, smacking around a small white ball as if it is solely that ball's fault that my relationship died and that the world isn't perfect. This leaves me feeling refreshed. The opportunity to flirt endlessly with sensational men has filled me with a sense of elan, which in turn has made me look better than ever.
I've recieved more invites to "have a few drinks" in the last six days than I have in the last nine months! Men I always thought were beautiful but untouchable are no available on my menu... though I wish they didn't all come with a side of either strings or shackles!
I just want to have fun, dance and flirt and dance some more. I want to surround myself with beautiful, witty men who look lovely, and are charming, who flatter me all night long, and who go home when I'm bored of them. Bring on the rebound! But PS, hell no to the scrub!!!
Saturday, August 21, 2010
I am Apparently an Unabashed Polo-Whore
Blonde Ambition #18: See Through Thinly Veiled Envy and Laugh it Off (Because It's funny!)
I had the pleasure of being called a "shameless polo-whore" today by a seething, envious little cow. Far from being offended, however, I actually made the insult my status on Facebook. "I am apparently an unabashed and exceedingly arrogant polo whore, and I've never had so much fun." I haven't stopped grinning. I tend to wear such insults as badges of honour, mostly because this little chicky knows that such insults stem only from envy.
Blonde Ambition #19: Post a Secret to postsecret.com
If you've been living under a rock for the duration of the technological era and have yet to discover the insanely hilarious http://www.postsecret.com/, allow me to enlighten you. Basically, strangers write their most titilating secrets on a postcard and mail them away. The secret then gets posted to the aforementioned page, where millions of people will chuckle about it over their morning coffee.
Some of the secrets are unbelievable. All of them make you think. Some of them make you mad. And yet, as with gossip magazines, no matter how much you want to look away, you can't. So. Much. Fun!!
Blonde Ambition #20: Art is Strange... I Don't Always Understand it...
There is a long-running joke that goes something like this: Q: What's the difference between art and pornography? A: A government grant. I would like to add 'moaning and groaning'.
There are some really lovely nudes in the art world. They're tastefully done. Of course, there are also some absolutely horrible paintings that are more or less hardcore pornography and which shouldn't have ever been released from the mind of the screwball artist.
I suppose I simply don't understand the appeal of having a picture of a spread-eagled woman being screwed above my dining room table. Call me crazy, but I don't find such things tasteful.
Blonde Ambition #21: I Also Fail to Understand Why Porn Movies Are So Popular...
A few months ago, I watched a porn movie with a friend, more for the curiosity factor than anything else. I don't know exactly what I was expecting. One thing I definitely wasn't expecting was to be so bored that I started cleaning and putting CDs in alphabetical order half way into the movie to avoid falling asleep.
I get that sex can be fun, that men are aroused by naked women and think about sex a lot, but how are they finding these movies entertaining? It's the same thing in every scene. Sultry looks. Really, utterly ridiculous lines. Woman's top comes off. Woman moaning as though she were in labour as her breasts and her costar become acquainted. She gets into a ridiculous position, screams and screams and screams (mmm, faking it very obviously much?), and that's it, the movie goes on... and on, and on, and on... The same old thing, over and over, and then the movie ends and the laughable porn names flicker onto the screen.
The porn industry is a lucrative industry. I'm sure a lot of money is being made from lustful men who want to look at women with big, bare breasts and platinum blonde hair. Power to the girls in those films, they're making millions by catering to the largely unfulfilled fantasies of middle-aged men worldwide. But come on, chickies, you can't tell me that it's fun to moan and groan for a living? And know that creepy, balding men are watching you, freeze framing you, writing you letters in their own sperm...? Is that really worth the dollars...?
In the particular movie that I was bored almost to death by, there was one "actress" who actually looked as though she was suffering for the duration of her scene. Not suffering as in, "gee, he's just so good that I'm having trouble remembering to breathe and fuck at the same time," but more like, "oops, I'm falling off again, help me, oh, that feels terrible and really hurts, oh crap I'm out of shape and my arms are wobbling because they can't support me!". I hope that she was paid well; I doubt she was re-hired.
Pornography might have much of the world tangled up well in its web of fallacy and degradation, but not me. I'm afraid it turns me on knowing that I won't ever have to watch such a tedious movie again!
Blonde Ambition #22: My Backhand is Just Rubbish and I Need to Fix it, Now!
All my hits are good, but my backhand is rubbish. Even the horse would laugh at me if it could. In a few days, I'll post a link, and you can see for yourself. I'm the one who benefits the other team more than my own ;) That footage was from March, but my backhand is still laughable, maybe even more so because I'm a bit out of practice now! For shame.
Blonde Ambition #23: I Want New Louboutin Shoes!!!
... because I've been a neglectful little shoe-over-wearer and wrecked my favourites. It sucks. I was madly in love with them, and then I just wore them one too many times on badly paved streets, and now they're in their final resting place (at the back of my spare wardrobe with all the other shoes I've forgotten about).
I had the pleasure of being called a "shameless polo-whore" today by a seething, envious little cow. Far from being offended, however, I actually made the insult my status on Facebook. "I am apparently an unabashed and exceedingly arrogant polo whore, and I've never had so much fun." I haven't stopped grinning. I tend to wear such insults as badges of honour, mostly because this little chicky knows that such insults stem only from envy.
Blonde Ambition #19: Post a Secret to postsecret.com
If you've been living under a rock for the duration of the technological era and have yet to discover the insanely hilarious http://www.postsecret.com/, allow me to enlighten you. Basically, strangers write their most titilating secrets on a postcard and mail them away. The secret then gets posted to the aforementioned page, where millions of people will chuckle about it over their morning coffee.
Some of the secrets are unbelievable. All of them make you think. Some of them make you mad. And yet, as with gossip magazines, no matter how much you want to look away, you can't. So. Much. Fun!!
Blonde Ambition #20: Art is Strange... I Don't Always Understand it...
There is a long-running joke that goes something like this: Q: What's the difference between art and pornography? A: A government grant. I would like to add 'moaning and groaning'.
There are some really lovely nudes in the art world. They're tastefully done. Of course, there are also some absolutely horrible paintings that are more or less hardcore pornography and which shouldn't have ever been released from the mind of the screwball artist.
I suppose I simply don't understand the appeal of having a picture of a spread-eagled woman being screwed above my dining room table. Call me crazy, but I don't find such things tasteful.
Blonde Ambition #21: I Also Fail to Understand Why Porn Movies Are So Popular...
A few months ago, I watched a porn movie with a friend, more for the curiosity factor than anything else. I don't know exactly what I was expecting. One thing I definitely wasn't expecting was to be so bored that I started cleaning and putting CDs in alphabetical order half way into the movie to avoid falling asleep.
I get that sex can be fun, that men are aroused by naked women and think about sex a lot, but how are they finding these movies entertaining? It's the same thing in every scene. Sultry looks. Really, utterly ridiculous lines. Woman's top comes off. Woman moaning as though she were in labour as her breasts and her costar become acquainted. She gets into a ridiculous position, screams and screams and screams (mmm, faking it very obviously much?), and that's it, the movie goes on... and on, and on, and on... The same old thing, over and over, and then the movie ends and the laughable porn names flicker onto the screen.
The porn industry is a lucrative industry. I'm sure a lot of money is being made from lustful men who want to look at women with big, bare breasts and platinum blonde hair. Power to the girls in those films, they're making millions by catering to the largely unfulfilled fantasies of middle-aged men worldwide. But come on, chickies, you can't tell me that it's fun to moan and groan for a living? And know that creepy, balding men are watching you, freeze framing you, writing you letters in their own sperm...? Is that really worth the dollars...?
In the particular movie that I was bored almost to death by, there was one "actress" who actually looked as though she was suffering for the duration of her scene. Not suffering as in, "gee, he's just so good that I'm having trouble remembering to breathe and fuck at the same time," but more like, "oops, I'm falling off again, help me, oh, that feels terrible and really hurts, oh crap I'm out of shape and my arms are wobbling because they can't support me!". I hope that she was paid well; I doubt she was re-hired.
Pornography might have much of the world tangled up well in its web of fallacy and degradation, but not me. I'm afraid it turns me on knowing that I won't ever have to watch such a tedious movie again!
Blonde Ambition #22: My Backhand is Just Rubbish and I Need to Fix it, Now!
All my hits are good, but my backhand is rubbish. Even the horse would laugh at me if it could. In a few days, I'll post a link, and you can see for yourself. I'm the one who benefits the other team more than my own ;) That footage was from March, but my backhand is still laughable, maybe even more so because I'm a bit out of practice now! For shame.
Blonde Ambition #23: I Want New Louboutin Shoes!!!
... because I've been a neglectful little shoe-over-wearer and wrecked my favourites. It sucks. I was madly in love with them, and then I just wore them one too many times on badly paved streets, and now they're in their final resting place (at the back of my spare wardrobe with all the other shoes I've forgotten about).
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Attention Doomsday-Sayers!
Blonde Ambition #14: Bitch Slap a 2012 Doomsday-Sayer
We all know one of these eternal let-downs. They're the people who complain that they get wet when it rains, but also complain that it's too sunny when it's fine out. They're a bit like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh. They whinge and bitch and moan, and then they wonder why nobody came to their birthday party.
Attention, Doomsday-Sayers: 2012 will not be the end of the world. Martians aren't set to invade the planet, no giant asteroid is going to smash into the earth, the sun will not burn out, no enormous tidal wave will consume every coast in the world and the government are not planning a mass culling of humanity. All that is happening is that some idiots have an overactive imagination and that mental hospitals are naive enough to allow patients access to the Internet.
All this 2012 nonsense stems from the Mayan calendar. Somewhere in the world, a single Doomsday-Sayer stumbled across some misinformation about this astronomical tool, and decided to spread the rumour that the sky is falling in... oh, I'm sorry, that the world is going to end in the year 2012.
Now, the Mayan Calendars are a subject in which I have a lot of education. I don't mean that I signed up to some dodgy Internet "university" lead by money-hungry con men, either. Proper education, in history and in astronomy. While the Mayan Calendar is far too complex to explain to you in a few short sentences, I'll post a link (to a reputable site) where you can get some more information for yourself.
The theory goes that because the calendar ends in 2012, then so too must the world. Can someone please explain to me why it was expected that the Mayans continue drawing the calendar forever and ever? It had to end at some time. Sooner or later, someone was bound to say, "you know what, we've drawn really far in advance, my hand is sore now, I think I'll stop." The calendar on my wall ends on December 31, 2010. Maybe that's the end of the world? It surely must be - there's nothing thereafter, just a white wall! I'm terrified. Seeing as it's my birthday, I guess I'd best party extra hard this year, right?
That is why I would like to slap the ignorance out of every Doomsday-Sayer who is silly enough to irk me with their wacky theories. Particularly if such theories have no roots in science, but are based purely on the whimsical fantasy of UFO nuts (which I'm also not particularly enamoured with), new-age "witches", or some Internet weirdo with more free time on their hands than is good for them.
OK, follow this link to learn more about the Mayan Calendar: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_calendar
Blonde Ambition #15: Absolutely WRECK Buenos Aires (Argentina)
I'm talking a full-on crazy night-out, where we see everything, do everything and are too embarrassed to talk about it the next morning. It's going to be extreme. It's going to be memorable for all the wrong reasons. It's going to be my One Night of Supreme Glory, the night when I can look back and think, "I've never been so embarrassed in my whole life."
Blonde Ambition #16: Stop Biting Nails
Worst. Habit. Ever. I only really do it when I'm stressed, or, more frequently, when I'm thinking deeply about something. Perhaps this ambition should then be titled, 'stop thinking altogether', as I suppose that's the only way this goal will ever be accomplished...
Blonde Ambition #17: Be More Emotionally Honest
Fact: I have an enormous crush on a beautiful man. For all I know, he's playing me just as well as he plays polo. Then again, maybe he isn't? Who can tell with men? I'm not complaining, however, I find the whole game of seduction utterly thrilling. I'm not afraid to put on a pair of proverbial cement boots and jump right into the deepest part of a (proverbial) ocean, and then try to learn to swim. I've always jumped in fearlessly where others fear to tread, and I always will. Passion is the key for living a good life, but passion is extinguished when you doubt.
Another Fact: I still have a boyfriend. Thus, I am not only being dishonest with him, I'm also showing all women in a negative light. This sort of behaviour, this emotional-bashing using all low-blows, is why men develop a fear of women. They start to associate the sound of heels clicking on the tiles with the ticking of a death watch beetle, or a bomb. This is how misogynists are programmed to loathe women. They hurt, their hearts get shattered and never properly repaired, and they're so scared of women thereafter that they think they hate us.
There are two obvious solutions to this predicament. The first possible solution is to break up with my boyfriend immediately. This is difficult. If he were truly awful to me, breaking up with him would be effortless. The difficulty lies in the fact that he's only ever been exceptionally nice to me. Nice is good, I suppose, in the same way that sugar in tea is 'nice', and that fluffy kittens are 'nice'. Most girls seek nice, but for now I just want nasty. I want dirty tie-me-up-tie-me-down-with-the-polo-wraps, Mr Polo Man. I want the boots left on without regard to the mess they'll make on the white sheets, and I want no-inhibitions-no-regrets fun with a man who is more brazen as I am.
The second possible solution isn't as much fun: Look and lust, but don't dare touch. But how can I not? He's there like a cake on a windowsill, and nobody is watching. He's there looking all good and I have to leave him be? That hardly seems fair. Or fun. This is hard, 'Jeopardy' last-question hard!
We all know one of these eternal let-downs. They're the people who complain that they get wet when it rains, but also complain that it's too sunny when it's fine out. They're a bit like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh. They whinge and bitch and moan, and then they wonder why nobody came to their birthday party.
Attention, Doomsday-Sayers: 2012 will not be the end of the world. Martians aren't set to invade the planet, no giant asteroid is going to smash into the earth, the sun will not burn out, no enormous tidal wave will consume every coast in the world and the government are not planning a mass culling of humanity. All that is happening is that some idiots have an overactive imagination and that mental hospitals are naive enough to allow patients access to the Internet.
All this 2012 nonsense stems from the Mayan calendar. Somewhere in the world, a single Doomsday-Sayer stumbled across some misinformation about this astronomical tool, and decided to spread the rumour that the sky is falling in... oh, I'm sorry, that the world is going to end in the year 2012.
Now, the Mayan Calendars are a subject in which I have a lot of education. I don't mean that I signed up to some dodgy Internet "university" lead by money-hungry con men, either. Proper education, in history and in astronomy. While the Mayan Calendar is far too complex to explain to you in a few short sentences, I'll post a link (to a reputable site) where you can get some more information for yourself.
The theory goes that because the calendar ends in 2012, then so too must the world. Can someone please explain to me why it was expected that the Mayans continue drawing the calendar forever and ever? It had to end at some time. Sooner or later, someone was bound to say, "you know what, we've drawn really far in advance, my hand is sore now, I think I'll stop." The calendar on my wall ends on December 31, 2010. Maybe that's the end of the world? It surely must be - there's nothing thereafter, just a white wall! I'm terrified. Seeing as it's my birthday, I guess I'd best party extra hard this year, right?
That is why I would like to slap the ignorance out of every Doomsday-Sayer who is silly enough to irk me with their wacky theories. Particularly if such theories have no roots in science, but are based purely on the whimsical fantasy of UFO nuts (which I'm also not particularly enamoured with), new-age "witches", or some Internet weirdo with more free time on their hands than is good for them.
OK, follow this link to learn more about the Mayan Calendar: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_calendar
Blonde Ambition #15: Absolutely WRECK Buenos Aires (Argentina)
I'm talking a full-on crazy night-out, where we see everything, do everything and are too embarrassed to talk about it the next morning. It's going to be extreme. It's going to be memorable for all the wrong reasons. It's going to be my One Night of Supreme Glory, the night when I can look back and think, "I've never been so embarrassed in my whole life."
Blonde Ambition #16: Stop Biting Nails
Worst. Habit. Ever. I only really do it when I'm stressed, or, more frequently, when I'm thinking deeply about something. Perhaps this ambition should then be titled, 'stop thinking altogether', as I suppose that's the only way this goal will ever be accomplished...
Blonde Ambition #17: Be More Emotionally Honest
Fact: I have an enormous crush on a beautiful man. For all I know, he's playing me just as well as he plays polo. Then again, maybe he isn't? Who can tell with men? I'm not complaining, however, I find the whole game of seduction utterly thrilling. I'm not afraid to put on a pair of proverbial cement boots and jump right into the deepest part of a (proverbial) ocean, and then try to learn to swim. I've always jumped in fearlessly where others fear to tread, and I always will. Passion is the key for living a good life, but passion is extinguished when you doubt.
Another Fact: I still have a boyfriend. Thus, I am not only being dishonest with him, I'm also showing all women in a negative light. This sort of behaviour, this emotional-bashing using all low-blows, is why men develop a fear of women. They start to associate the sound of heels clicking on the tiles with the ticking of a death watch beetle, or a bomb. This is how misogynists are programmed to loathe women. They hurt, their hearts get shattered and never properly repaired, and they're so scared of women thereafter that they think they hate us.
There are two obvious solutions to this predicament. The first possible solution is to break up with my boyfriend immediately. This is difficult. If he were truly awful to me, breaking up with him would be effortless. The difficulty lies in the fact that he's only ever been exceptionally nice to me. Nice is good, I suppose, in the same way that sugar in tea is 'nice', and that fluffy kittens are 'nice'. Most girls seek nice, but for now I just want nasty. I want dirty tie-me-up-tie-me-down-with-the-polo-wraps, Mr Polo Man. I want the boots left on without regard to the mess they'll make on the white sheets, and I want no-inhibitions-no-regrets fun with a man who is more brazen as I am.
The second possible solution isn't as much fun: Look and lust, but don't dare touch. But how can I not? He's there like a cake on a windowsill, and nobody is watching. He's there looking all good and I have to leave him be? That hardly seems fair. Or fun. This is hard, 'Jeopardy' last-question hard!
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Why Don't You Go 'Romance' Yourself?!
Blonde Ambition #10: Learn What The Hell it Means to 'Romance Yourself'
I got told today by a well-meaning friend that I need to "romance myself". "To keep you happy," she urged, "and sane." Probably there was an emphasis on the 'sane' part. It wasn't exactly muttered beneath her breath. I've been progressing well on my path to being a true bunny-boiler lately, and am only a stone's throw away from adopting 29 stray cats and then hurling them in no particular order from my front porch at passers-by.
Just what is 'romancing one's self''? I'm a little confused. Am I supposed to take myself to the cinema and feel myself up in the back row? Or maybe get dressed up to impress myself at the opening of some tacky art gallery, where I will laugh quietly to myself and whisper to myself that flowers in paintings look like vaginas? Maybe ask myself to come check out a polo game and get jealous of myself when I catch myself perving on the better looking players?
After this initial date with myself, am I meant to go home and not call myself for three days? During those three days, am I supposed to write sappy, embarrassing journal entries about myself, and about how much fun I had with myself at the cinema/gallery/polo match? Try to get into my head, perhaps, and work out why I haven't called myself when I thought I had such a wonderful time. Dear Diary, I can't believe it's been two days and I still haven't heard from myself. Maybe I shouldn't have let myself gush? Damn it, I always gush, I bet I thought that I was so talky and full of myself!
What about after three successful dates? Am I then meant to fuck myself? Mmm. One thinks that perhaps I was insulted by my apparently well-meaning friend. At least it should be a decent event, seeing as I know how to please myself, unlike some fumbly men who put their whole weight on my hair and then can't work out that I'm crying from pain and not his sheer masculinity or technique.
What about meeting my own parents? Gee, I hope they like me... :) Or asking myself to go away on vacation, and then getting really irritated at myself when I hog the bathroom to do my makeup and wake myself up while I'm blow drying my hair and singing, loudly, badly, unabashedly? And you just know that I can't wait to get a key to my own house. That's just going to be the turning point in my relationship with myself, I think, a time when I can really let myself be comfortable with myself.
Can someone please explain this "romancing oneself" thing to me? It seems like a whole waste of time if you ask me. Much as I like myself, it'd never work. I'd be too jealous of myself for flirting all the livelong day. Who knows what kind of nasty arguments that would cause.
Blonde Ambition #11: Tell Someone, Anyone, To Go Suck a Banana
It doesn't matter who hears this random and undeserved insult. Someone must, however. Anyone. I'm not that fussy. Maybe even you. I'd just like an easy target while I'm in a stroppy mood and too exhausted to work-out until all the stress in me vanishes like food from Jessica Simpson's plate.
Blonde Ambition #12: I Can't Wait for Polo Season 2011!!!
That's self explanatory. Plus, I want my friend to kick another friend's butt, and have already placed a large wager on this happening. I like to taunt. I call it motivating. Come on, Mr, prove me wrong ;)
Blonde Ambition #13: Lucky Thirteen. Try My Luck at the Casino
Fact: If it has numbers or moves, chances are I've bet on it before, and will again.
Another Fact: I'm good at betting on horses. I can nearly always pick the winner. Unfortunately I'm completely rubbish at almost every other form of gambling. Cockiness and bluffing are a bad combination. Being a sore loser doesn't help. Being drunk off your head and having a wad of notes in your hand really doesn't help. Here's to a good time, though. If I lose too badly, I suppose I can always drink to numb the pain, then I'll simply assume my suicide attempt was actually just one of the many dumb stunts that resulted from consuming two or more drinks.
PS: Nothing funny about suicide and I'm joking.
I got told today by a well-meaning friend that I need to "romance myself". "To keep you happy," she urged, "and sane." Probably there was an emphasis on the 'sane' part. It wasn't exactly muttered beneath her breath. I've been progressing well on my path to being a true bunny-boiler lately, and am only a stone's throw away from adopting 29 stray cats and then hurling them in no particular order from my front porch at passers-by.
Just what is 'romancing one's self''? I'm a little confused. Am I supposed to take myself to the cinema and feel myself up in the back row? Or maybe get dressed up to impress myself at the opening of some tacky art gallery, where I will laugh quietly to myself and whisper to myself that flowers in paintings look like vaginas? Maybe ask myself to come check out a polo game and get jealous of myself when I catch myself perving on the better looking players?
After this initial date with myself, am I meant to go home and not call myself for three days? During those three days, am I supposed to write sappy, embarrassing journal entries about myself, and about how much fun I had with myself at the cinema/gallery/polo match? Try to get into my head, perhaps, and work out why I haven't called myself when I thought I had such a wonderful time. Dear Diary, I can't believe it's been two days and I still haven't heard from myself. Maybe I shouldn't have let myself gush? Damn it, I always gush, I bet I thought that I was so talky and full of myself!
What about after three successful dates? Am I then meant to fuck myself? Mmm. One thinks that perhaps I was insulted by my apparently well-meaning friend. At least it should be a decent event, seeing as I know how to please myself, unlike some fumbly men who put their whole weight on my hair and then can't work out that I'm crying from pain and not his sheer masculinity or technique.
What about meeting my own parents? Gee, I hope they like me... :) Or asking myself to go away on vacation, and then getting really irritated at myself when I hog the bathroom to do my makeup and wake myself up while I'm blow drying my hair and singing, loudly, badly, unabashedly? And you just know that I can't wait to get a key to my own house. That's just going to be the turning point in my relationship with myself, I think, a time when I can really let myself be comfortable with myself.
Can someone please explain this "romancing oneself" thing to me? It seems like a whole waste of time if you ask me. Much as I like myself, it'd never work. I'd be too jealous of myself for flirting all the livelong day. Who knows what kind of nasty arguments that would cause.
Blonde Ambition #11: Tell Someone, Anyone, To Go Suck a Banana
It doesn't matter who hears this random and undeserved insult. Someone must, however. Anyone. I'm not that fussy. Maybe even you. I'd just like an easy target while I'm in a stroppy mood and too exhausted to work-out until all the stress in me vanishes like food from Jessica Simpson's plate.
Blonde Ambition #12: I Can't Wait for Polo Season 2011!!!
That's self explanatory. Plus, I want my friend to kick another friend's butt, and have already placed a large wager on this happening. I like to taunt. I call it motivating. Come on, Mr, prove me wrong ;)
Blonde Ambition #13: Lucky Thirteen. Try My Luck at the Casino
Fact: If it has numbers or moves, chances are I've bet on it before, and will again.
Another Fact: I'm good at betting on horses. I can nearly always pick the winner. Unfortunately I'm completely rubbish at almost every other form of gambling. Cockiness and bluffing are a bad combination. Being a sore loser doesn't help. Being drunk off your head and having a wad of notes in your hand really doesn't help. Here's to a good time, though. If I lose too badly, I suppose I can always drink to numb the pain, then I'll simply assume my suicide attempt was actually just one of the many dumb stunts that resulted from consuming two or more drinks.
PS: Nothing funny about suicide and I'm joking.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Pologirl85 Wonders WHY is Every Social Networking Site so Frazzled... Blonde Ambitions #5 - #8
Blonde Ambition #5: To Become Intelligent Enough to Navigate Around the Blatant Problems on Messenger...
Obviously I am doing something very wrong. There can't be any way in hell that the site administrators of Messenger intended that Messenger be so annoying. I'm not talking about 'oh, dear me, this is taking a bit longer than I prefer to load' or 'I'm a little confused, but lookie here, there's a help box that actually helps' level of annoyance. I'm referring to that extreme level of vexation where you aren't sure if you would rather go completely postal, tear out all your hair (even though it's your best feature) or bang your head against the nearest wall extra hard, feeling defeated, stupid and technologically impaired. I nearly did all three.
Seems to me that, like all social networking sites, Messenger has been having a bit of trouble lately. I gather as much, anyhow, by the enormous number of help cries left on the supposed help page. Let me get one thing straight, right here and right now: I can read English. I am actually quite proficient in the language, having spoken it for... let me see, just my whole life. But I read the instructions, and damn it, not only didn't I have a clue what needed doing, but all I could gather was that it was best that I do nothing and wait for the problem to fix itself. Is this Messenger, guys, or the Bush Administration? Doing NOTHING doesn't fix my problem, it just makes me more mad because it's right there in front of me, taunting me.
I tried to fix my own problem. Seems like the logical thing to do, yes? If the help page can't help you, you turn DIY-(definitely NOT)-pro? I think most of us at some time in our lives have secretly hoped that we know more about things than we think, that maybe it was just so boring that we forgot? I tried to fix the problem myself. I followed the link, waited and waited and waited.... and it took me back to where I just came from, only it logged me out, so I had to retype all my information. ''OK," I thought, looking increasingly crazy. The glare line was getting bigger and bigger the whole time, and that ball of impatience in my stomach was becoming too hard to ignore. I tried again, followed the links, held my breath in anticipation of a good result, and then... well, what do you know? "Gee, page I just came from, have we met before? You look veeery familiar?" Omg. Meltdown. And the worst part about it is that there is no obvious solution, even now, after numerous childish tantrums and a lot of loud sighing.
I even woke up a friend who is technologically minded, and made him walk me through all the steps to fixing the problem.
"This had better be really important," he menaced. "I have to wake up at 5AM." (It was about 11.30PM when I called him.)
"It's the most important thing ever," I said imploringly. "You have to fix it for me, I'm going to mad here! I can't even breath because I'm so mad! I'm going to go postal, and it'll all be your fault for not helping!"
He tried to talk me through the problem. I think the problem is fixed. I could see myself on the webcam, but by then the sexy man I wanted to talk to had logged off. I am well aware that chatting with a good looking man isn't really the most important thing ever... but it's up there on the list and seconded only by breathing, because to me, beauty is everything.
Just now, I went back to Messenger with much the same pained look on my face that you see on the faces of husbands who don't love their wives anymore. You know the look. 'OMG, kiiiillllll me!', and they look at you as you pass them in the street, all imploringly, like a Basset Hound? That was sort of how I looked when I attempted to navigate Messenger again, only picture a rabid animal that has done cocaine for six days straight and who has just sat through a whole bunch of infomercials. That's really more of the pissed off expression I had on my face. (By the way, I don't use cocaine, never have, never will, and drugs are bad, kiddies. That was an analogy.) What do you know. I logged in with no trouble, then realised that I still actually don't have a clue. So, Ambition #5: comprehend the indeterminable maze that is Messenger. Or at least hope the new system glitches iron themselves out soon. Anyone have any fairy dust?
Blonde Ambition #6: OMGGGGG Some Men Shouldn't Pursue Careers; They'd Make Much Better Sex Toys Than Polo Players or Whatever Their Job! Ambition #6, Ride the Hot Rider ;)
I love being in lust. It's the best emotion, it makes you happy, makes everything (even Messenger) seem totally bearable. Don't despair, I'm not about to get all quixotic and stupid. I just want you all to remember that men are great. Have you seen one lately? Sure, they have their annoying habits, but come on! They look so good. They smell nice (most of the time). Did I mention that they look great? They go with any outfit, and look especially good on bedspreads. Men are delicious. They just are! Unlike food, men won't make you fat. In fact, you'll burn off more calories enjoying your favourite man than by enjoying your favourite snack.
I love lusting. So, Mr-Wicked-Body, get off the horse (but keep on the riding boots, please and thank you, because they're so sexy) so I can get on you. Sorry to be so forward. You bring that out in me for some reason... It might be your looks, it might be your personality, it could well be the fact that you're as cool as ice and cocky as all hell, but there's something immensely addictive about you. That's why you're ambition #6
Ambition #7: Predict the Next-Big-Thing (Or in other words, the next Cambiaso)
OK. Straight off the bat, I'm not a fan of Cambiaso. Yes, he is a genius. Yes, he plays like nobody else and really knows polo. No, I still don't like him as a player, but only because he's overly hyped by everyone. I can't go a single day without somebody saying in a wistful voice, "I wish I was as good as Cambiaso." OK, don't we all? Wishing doesn't get you there. Hours of practice and a ton of luck might get a little bit closer. Right contacts help. Passively wishing gets you nowhere (but not according to the admin at Messenger - I jest).
I predict that the Next Big Thing in the polo world will be Lucas Torales. Why? Have you seen his game? There you have it, fifty on Torales, please. Of course, there's plenty of talent out there, and too many good up and coming players to name, all of which are just as good, but I think Torales will go far. Google him.
Ambition #8: I Want To Have One Night Out Where I Am Not Drunk From A Single Glass of Remy...
I've said it before, and I'm going to say it again. I'm not much of a drinker, and really don't consume that much alcohol. A bottle of brandy lasts me an entire year. That's because I'm a lightweight in regards to drinking. No matter how much I swear that this time I won't be drunk from a single drink, that this time I'll drink it so slowly that inebriation will be all but impossible, drunkeness still occurs. Why? Why, why, why?
Three drinks is a massive night out for me. One drink sees me laughing and dancing, having a merry old time and not being able to see straight. Two drinks sees me dancing on bars with eyeliner smeared on the side of my face, and either picking fights or doing enormously dangerous things (such as clinging to the wafer thin ledge overlooking a waterfall, being too scared to move because I can't see straight but being unable to avert my gaze from the enormous drop right beneath me - don't even ask...) Three drinks sees me being mistaken for the devil. I'm loud, I do things I would never dream of doing sobre. Everyone who has the ill luck to be in my phone book, on my Facebook friends list, on my email list or anything similar is likely going to be subjected to the worst kind of drunk dialling/emailing. The worst part is that it's just so embarrassing having to front those people in the morning sheepishly and tell them, "Sorry. I had three drinks last night, and I got a bit out of hand." The resulting smirks haunt me.
Obviously I am doing something very wrong. There can't be any way in hell that the site administrators of Messenger intended that Messenger be so annoying. I'm not talking about 'oh, dear me, this is taking a bit longer than I prefer to load' or 'I'm a little confused, but lookie here, there's a help box that actually helps' level of annoyance. I'm referring to that extreme level of vexation where you aren't sure if you would rather go completely postal, tear out all your hair (even though it's your best feature) or bang your head against the nearest wall extra hard, feeling defeated, stupid and technologically impaired. I nearly did all three.
Seems to me that, like all social networking sites, Messenger has been having a bit of trouble lately. I gather as much, anyhow, by the enormous number of help cries left on the supposed help page. Let me get one thing straight, right here and right now: I can read English. I am actually quite proficient in the language, having spoken it for... let me see, just my whole life. But I read the instructions, and damn it, not only didn't I have a clue what needed doing, but all I could gather was that it was best that I do nothing and wait for the problem to fix itself. Is this Messenger, guys, or the Bush Administration? Doing NOTHING doesn't fix my problem, it just makes me more mad because it's right there in front of me, taunting me.
I tried to fix my own problem. Seems like the logical thing to do, yes? If the help page can't help you, you turn DIY-(definitely NOT)-pro? I think most of us at some time in our lives have secretly hoped that we know more about things than we think, that maybe it was just so boring that we forgot? I tried to fix the problem myself. I followed the link, waited and waited and waited.... and it took me back to where I just came from, only it logged me out, so I had to retype all my information. ''OK," I thought, looking increasingly crazy. The glare line was getting bigger and bigger the whole time, and that ball of impatience in my stomach was becoming too hard to ignore. I tried again, followed the links, held my breath in anticipation of a good result, and then... well, what do you know? "Gee, page I just came from, have we met before? You look veeery familiar?" Omg. Meltdown. And the worst part about it is that there is no obvious solution, even now, after numerous childish tantrums and a lot of loud sighing.
I even woke up a friend who is technologically minded, and made him walk me through all the steps to fixing the problem.
"This had better be really important," he menaced. "I have to wake up at 5AM." (It was about 11.30PM when I called him.)
"It's the most important thing ever," I said imploringly. "You have to fix it for me, I'm going to mad here! I can't even breath because I'm so mad! I'm going to go postal, and it'll all be your fault for not helping!"
He tried to talk me through the problem. I think the problem is fixed. I could see myself on the webcam, but by then the sexy man I wanted to talk to had logged off. I am well aware that chatting with a good looking man isn't really the most important thing ever... but it's up there on the list and seconded only by breathing, because to me, beauty is everything.
Just now, I went back to Messenger with much the same pained look on my face that you see on the faces of husbands who don't love their wives anymore. You know the look. 'OMG, kiiiillllll me!', and they look at you as you pass them in the street, all imploringly, like a Basset Hound? That was sort of how I looked when I attempted to navigate Messenger again, only picture a rabid animal that has done cocaine for six days straight and who has just sat through a whole bunch of infomercials. That's really more of the pissed off expression I had on my face. (By the way, I don't use cocaine, never have, never will, and drugs are bad, kiddies. That was an analogy.) What do you know. I logged in with no trouble, then realised that I still actually don't have a clue. So, Ambition #5: comprehend the indeterminable maze that is Messenger. Or at least hope the new system glitches iron themselves out soon. Anyone have any fairy dust?
Blonde Ambition #6: OMGGGGG Some Men Shouldn't Pursue Careers; They'd Make Much Better Sex Toys Than Polo Players or Whatever Their Job! Ambition #6, Ride the Hot Rider ;)
I love being in lust. It's the best emotion, it makes you happy, makes everything (even Messenger) seem totally bearable. Don't despair, I'm not about to get all quixotic and stupid. I just want you all to remember that men are great. Have you seen one lately? Sure, they have their annoying habits, but come on! They look so good. They smell nice (most of the time). Did I mention that they look great? They go with any outfit, and look especially good on bedspreads. Men are delicious. They just are! Unlike food, men won't make you fat. In fact, you'll burn off more calories enjoying your favourite man than by enjoying your favourite snack.
I love lusting. So, Mr-Wicked-Body, get off the horse (but keep on the riding boots, please and thank you, because they're so sexy) so I can get on you. Sorry to be so forward. You bring that out in me for some reason... It might be your looks, it might be your personality, it could well be the fact that you're as cool as ice and cocky as all hell, but there's something immensely addictive about you. That's why you're ambition #6
Ambition #7: Predict the Next-Big-Thing (Or in other words, the next Cambiaso)
OK. Straight off the bat, I'm not a fan of Cambiaso. Yes, he is a genius. Yes, he plays like nobody else and really knows polo. No, I still don't like him as a player, but only because he's overly hyped by everyone. I can't go a single day without somebody saying in a wistful voice, "I wish I was as good as Cambiaso." OK, don't we all? Wishing doesn't get you there. Hours of practice and a ton of luck might get a little bit closer. Right contacts help. Passively wishing gets you nowhere (but not according to the admin at Messenger - I jest).
I predict that the Next Big Thing in the polo world will be Lucas Torales. Why? Have you seen his game? There you have it, fifty on Torales, please. Of course, there's plenty of talent out there, and too many good up and coming players to name, all of which are just as good, but I think Torales will go far. Google him.
Ambition #8: I Want To Have One Night Out Where I Am Not Drunk From A Single Glass of Remy...
I've said it before, and I'm going to say it again. I'm not much of a drinker, and really don't consume that much alcohol. A bottle of brandy lasts me an entire year. That's because I'm a lightweight in regards to drinking. No matter how much I swear that this time I won't be drunk from a single drink, that this time I'll drink it so slowly that inebriation will be all but impossible, drunkeness still occurs. Why? Why, why, why?
Three drinks is a massive night out for me. One drink sees me laughing and dancing, having a merry old time and not being able to see straight. Two drinks sees me dancing on bars with eyeliner smeared on the side of my face, and either picking fights or doing enormously dangerous things (such as clinging to the wafer thin ledge overlooking a waterfall, being too scared to move because I can't see straight but being unable to avert my gaze from the enormous drop right beneath me - don't even ask...) Three drinks sees me being mistaken for the devil. I'm loud, I do things I would never dream of doing sobre. Everyone who has the ill luck to be in my phone book, on my Facebook friends list, on my email list or anything similar is likely going to be subjected to the worst kind of drunk dialling/emailing. The worst part is that it's just so embarrassing having to front those people in the morning sheepishly and tell them, "Sorry. I had three drinks last night, and I got a bit out of hand." The resulting smirks haunt me.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Lust Haves
Blonde Ambition #1: Discover the Probability of a Silver Screen Romance Occuring in Real Life
The Well Known Scenario: There is a scene in most rom-coms when the main character happens across the man of her dreams in a public place. Usually it is raining. Their eyes meet, they draw closer, and before you have time to gag, their lips meet. Gentle music plays. The screen mists over and the words "The End" appear in swirly letters across the screen.
But In Reality: The rain never trickles down pleasantly, it always pours down. No leading lady ever stood in the rain, secretly lamenting that her mascara has run down her cheeks or that her top has turned a lovely shade of transparent white. What actually results from trying to pull off this move in real life is embarrassment, brought about by wardrobe malfunctions, 'cowardly' running eye makeup that ran so quickly it should enter the New York Marathon, and frizzy hair. All one needs is a few hundred cats to complete the Crazy CAt Lady look. Sans cats, you'll look like a before-ad.
Blonde Ambition #2: The Best Boots Ever Exist and I Found Them!
I know the location of every decent pair of shoes for sale on all my favourite web sites and in all the stores in the state. Think I'm joking? Try me. I don't get all Carrie-Bradshaw-I'd-sell-myself-on-the-nearest-corner-for-another-pair-of-Manolos, though. Manolos don't do it for me. The resulting hype from the SATC series has made me think of them as being very overrated. Besides, the boots I'm in lust with could probably kick the Manolos all over the city. Ahh, they're so pretty. And I want them. I think I'll buy them.
Blonde Ambition #3: This One is a bit Classified, for now...
Take one delicious man, 'Ready Made'. A 'Ready Made' man is one who is settled in his life and career, one whom someone has already prepared for you. It's the easiest way. They're like proverbial convenience meals, no work involved.
Add copious amounts of flirtation and inane activities. If you like, add some alcohol. Not too much, ladies! A little is a lot while hunting!! Personally, I'm not a big drinker, so I never add much alcohol to the scenario. Stir well, serve on Egyptian cotton, and there you have it, chickies, the makings of your next ex-boyfriend, or, if you're very, very lucky, your soul mate!
Blonde Ambition #4: Don't Cry for me Argentina...
... but let me cry for you. Is there a better country? Beautiful people, stunning scenery, and, if you look in the right places, hundreds of truly delectable Argentine polo players who aren't just insanely attractive, they actually can hit around a ball, too, and have delicious accents.
The Argentine accent is just sublime. Are you stressed? Tired of the same old thing? A tad depressed? Bored? ANYTHING? I suggest you take one Argentine and call me in the morning (with all the gossip, of course!) ;)
Ah, Argentina... land of the most beautiful people and things. You're the real Miss World!
The Well Known Scenario: There is a scene in most rom-coms when the main character happens across the man of her dreams in a public place. Usually it is raining. Their eyes meet, they draw closer, and before you have time to gag, their lips meet. Gentle music plays. The screen mists over and the words "The End" appear in swirly letters across the screen.
But In Reality: The rain never trickles down pleasantly, it always pours down. No leading lady ever stood in the rain, secretly lamenting that her mascara has run down her cheeks or that her top has turned a lovely shade of transparent white. What actually results from trying to pull off this move in real life is embarrassment, brought about by wardrobe malfunctions, 'cowardly' running eye makeup that ran so quickly it should enter the New York Marathon, and frizzy hair. All one needs is a few hundred cats to complete the Crazy CAt Lady look. Sans cats, you'll look like a before-ad.
Blonde Ambition #2: The Best Boots Ever Exist and I Found Them!
I know the location of every decent pair of shoes for sale on all my favourite web sites and in all the stores in the state. Think I'm joking? Try me. I don't get all Carrie-Bradshaw-I'd-sell-myself-on-the-nearest-corner-for-another-pair-of-Manolos, though. Manolos don't do it for me. The resulting hype from the SATC series has made me think of them as being very overrated. Besides, the boots I'm in lust with could probably kick the Manolos all over the city. Ahh, they're so pretty. And I want them. I think I'll buy them.
Blonde Ambition #3: This One is a bit Classified, for now...
Take one delicious man, 'Ready Made'. A 'Ready Made' man is one who is settled in his life and career, one whom someone has already prepared for you. It's the easiest way. They're like proverbial convenience meals, no work involved.
Add copious amounts of flirtation and inane activities. If you like, add some alcohol. Not too much, ladies! A little is a lot while hunting!! Personally, I'm not a big drinker, so I never add much alcohol to the scenario. Stir well, serve on Egyptian cotton, and there you have it, chickies, the makings of your next ex-boyfriend, or, if you're very, very lucky, your soul mate!
Blonde Ambition #4: Don't Cry for me Argentina...
... but let me cry for you. Is there a better country? Beautiful people, stunning scenery, and, if you look in the right places, hundreds of truly delectable Argentine polo players who aren't just insanely attractive, they actually can hit around a ball, too, and have delicious accents.
The Argentine accent is just sublime. Are you stressed? Tired of the same old thing? A tad depressed? Bored? ANYTHING? I suggest you take one Argentine and call me in the morning (with all the gossip, of course!) ;)
Ah, Argentina... land of the most beautiful people and things. You're the real Miss World!
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