A slightly smaller hole

Ok, that sounded ruder than I meant it. But I am referring to Bryce Canyon, as compared to the Grand Canyon. I went up to Bryce Canyon yesterday with two of the guys from class, to stay overnight in a cheesy motel and giggle like a bunch of kids. Thackeray was otherwise occupied with family things, so it left me at a loose end in Vegas. So, we drove up to view a hole in the ground, which proved to be much more majestic than the Grand Canyon from the previous week.

But, as Thackeray commented this evening, was it the hole, or the company? Last week, as I peered into the seemingly endless depths of one of the world's great wonders, I was unmoved. I thought of the far more moving experience that was the man I had just met. Whereas today, with him far away, but with new, and enjoyable, friends close by, this supposedly less spectacular canyon, seemed so much more enjoyable.

The boys and I laughed and acted silly. Teasing and mocking, in all good fun. Three people from three different countries, and different backgrounds, but happily spending eight hours driving together, eating together, sleeping together.

It does seem that one's experience of something is very much coloured by the mind-set that one brings to it. No shit, sherlock. Bearing that in mind, when first organsing this trip to Las Vegas for work, I eagerly arranged a side-trip for a dream destination of New York. I was excited at the prospect of spending a week in such a magnificent city and arranged a night at the opera and many other such cultural events. Being alone there only bothered me as far as safety, not for lack of companionship. So, now that I am frighteningly besotted by this fellow, and about to leave - I wonder how much I will enjoy this side trip now? I may have to try extra hard to enjoy it all.

Phalanges crossed for me everyone!

Let me clarify...

Apparently yesterday's post drew concern from more than one party. Thank you to everyone. I had a total melt-down last night after not receiving a phone call from Thackeray for a couple of hours after the "appointed" time. Yes, I know, doesn't seem like much. But it was enough to throw me off balance.

When he did ring, he was shocked that I was upset by it. Further, to paraphrase PSD, sometimes "It's not all about you Cath", I was to discover that Thackeray had his own rather important shit going on. This, naturally, moved me down the list of his priorities. Then I felt bad, for being a selfish, whiny girl. And of course, his phone call came well after I had placed the previous entry up.

So to put all at rest, I am ok. He and I are ok. All is ok.

The biggest problem I have now is the fact that in my head, this all started out as some "harmless" fling. But it is more than that. It is so much better than that. How does he feel? I don't know. The lap dancer the other night was amused by the fact that in such a short time, we had discussed all manner of sexual fantasy, but not what is going to happen after the end of the week. Maybe nothing will happen. That thought plays on my mind, and makes me sad contemplating that this will all too soon be past and no more.

It goes without saying that I like him. But I like how I feel and who I am, around him. That feeling is rare, and something I don't want to let go of too soon.

How many times have I said that I am an idiot. Countless times I suppose.

Let this be one more time then.

Let's chock it up to a life experience

Saturday night, Thackeray and I had a date. Actually our first official date. He made some arrangements, which involved telling all manner of story to some club management, and said he would pick me up after his softball game. So come 11pm, I was frocked up as well as I could manage (with a limited travelling wardrobe), trying to vamp and project some sort of sexy swagger, as I met him at his car. I inelegantly climbed into his truck, and attempted to recline with some grace. At this point, I, of course, awaited the compliments. Thankfully, they did come.

He drove us out to the club that he had arranged, which like most fancier things in Vegas, of course, includes Valet parking, and we were greeted at the door by the gentleman that he had spoken to earlier in the evening. We were then escorted to the VIP area, where we were afforded a view of the club, but were safely removed from the great unwashed. Seats were taken, drinks were ordered, and I relaxed into the club lounge to take in my surrounds. The club had a high vaulted ceiling, with elegant columns, and a sweeping curved staircase leading to the second level. The waitresses were elegant and efficient, and treated us with all manner of style. Dark curtains cordoned off other areas of the club, giving everything a dark, but classy atmosphere. A central stage featured dancers and a lighting display, all with a subtle DJ's pulsing beat.

Of course, it was a strip club.

While sipping my cocktail, I watched girl after girl enter the stage, and remove most of her, albeit skimpy, clothes, and then writhe around in heels and a g-string, garnering tips from anyone who dared. Meanwhile, closer to our table, people paid for the pleasure of having one of the many lovely ladies, dance privately for them. At this point, Thackeray asked me which girl I would like.

Now before I go on, I should qualify that I believe something like a person's sexuality should never be really defined in Black and White. There are many grey areas, and my appreciation of the female form, shall we say, is one big patch of murkiness.

So I proceeded to describe what I think is attractive and sexy. He summoned a waitress, and just like ordering a good steak, he placed an order. Within minutes, a woman was presented to us, fulfilling our criteria, and she began outlining her retinue of services and costs. Before I knew it, Thackeray was whispering in her ear, and exchanging a clutch of notes. She sat down opposite me, and introduced herself. Nervous as I was, we began chatting about all manner of things. She then disrobed to her g-string and began writhing all over me. Leaning in close, rubbing herself down my legs and enticing me. I kept looking to Thackeray, as he egged me on to enjoy it. She angled and contorted, and said nice things to me. Nothing filthy, just lovely compliments. Although I was taken aback when she picked my perfume and commented on my shoes (brand new Marc Jacobs - they are worth complimenting!).

At the end of our allotted time, she redressed and we continued chatting. Thackeray stepped aside for a moment, at which point she began to confide in me like old girlfriends, and gave me relationship advice on how to deal with "someone like" Thackeray. Considering the situation, it was most amusing.

He returned to find us giggling like schoolgirls and asked how I enjoyed it, and if I wanted more. To this, I was unsure what to say. The answer was made easier when he prompted by saying that it was "already taken care of". We then moved upstairs to the more private area, where she began a longer and more seductive version of that started in the first area. The whole time, I reached for Thackeray, and looked toward him. He kept encouraging me to enjoy it, which was a bizarre feeling in itself. I caressed her, and enjoyed her caresses. She felt soft and beautiful, and made me feel the same. But all I could think of was the amazing and sexy man to my right. I realised at the conclusion, that I think women are wonderful and sexy, but really, I do love men.

She again dressed, and sat between us to chat and laugh. She threw compliments at me, waiting for him to catch them and one-up. It was flattering to me. He was very simple in his receipt of all she said, and made it quite clear to her what he and I were quickly departing to go home for. And depart we did, with some sense of urgency.

The evening in itself was surreal and sexy, but turned funny when we finally made it to my room and began quickly discarding each others clothes. Hands on my g-string, he asked me how attached I was to them. I was confused. I was wearing them, so I was attached to them in a slightly physical sense. Before I really had a chance to answer properly, he began to rip them off my person and things rapidly moved from there.

I didn't mind too much going shopping the next day for some more g-strings.

Wonders of the world - whatever.

Before I came to Vegas, I had booked myself a couple of activities to take advantage of the sights and sounds around this city. Of course, one of these was Barry, and the other, was seeing the Grand Canyon.

After climbing aboard shuttle buses, and then flying out there in a small aircraft, we were deposited at the first viewing area. As I peered out into the Canyon (or Gorge as it should be named), I was struck by how in fact, it really is just a big hole in the ground. I was waiting to be overcome by some sense of wonder (being one of the seven wonders and all), but alas, no emotional moment happened. I sighed, took a few photos, lamented the lack of mobile phone coverage and headed in toward the hotel that was nearby.

In this hotel, was a "museum" detailing the history of the prior management of the hotel. Apparently, it was run by Mr Harvey, of The Harvey Girls. Now for many people, this revelation would mean little, but being a Judy Garland fan that I am, I was pleasantly surprised to find that a wondrous movie of the 40's was in fact based loosely on the lives of real life girls. In the museum they had a copy of the script from the movie, plus much other naff memorabilia.

Now that got me excited.

Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya punk?

I have had such an interesting few days that it is hard to know where to start. I have thought long and hard, and finally come up with a name for the Vegas shag - since he is my teacher, I think Thackeray is the wittiest one I can find for now. He has commented that he wants to make this my most memorable trip to the States every. Rest assured, with the things I have to tell, this will be my most memorable trip. EVER. But I will get to those details later.

Friday's training class finished early, and afforded us some time to explore some activities in Vegas that didn't involve gambling. For those who many not know, the area around Las Vegas has a long history of atomic bomb testing. Something like 800 above and below ground tests were performed in this area over about 30 years, and as a result, there is a significant museum devoted to this history. The museum detailed the history to the development of the bombs, the test sites, and all manner of both technical and political palaver that is associated with it.

Watching one of the videos describing the test process, I was overcome with a sense of dread. Suddenly, the hippy movement of the 60's made sense. And the cold war made even less sense to me. And the continued testing by Asian nations these days, leaves me even more perplexed as to why. Chatting with my colleagues while wandering around the museum I realised how political an issue bomb testing still is. The way in which the tests were conducted, now seems both idiotic and immoral. Perhaps, 50 years from now, some of our testing methods currently used, will look just as barbaric.

In a great ironic turn, after we left the Atomic Testing museum, we headed off to a shooting gallery to shoot guns at shit. I am not a gun person. I am actually a little anti-guns. Not the actual guns themselves, but the mentality surrounding them on occasion. But despite this, the boys from class decided to hang their testosterone out and see what it got them. So we fronted up, and were asked what guns we would like to fire. I have no experience with weapons, and have never even touched a gun before. So with my usual class and style, I stated to the guys that I "preferred to hold something with two hands, rather than some little one-handed thing". Obviously, I took some ribbing about that comment. (Mind you, it did follow on from lunch, when I was asked what size sub I wanted, and I responded "Definitely, no less than 9 inches.")

I was handed my weapon (a 9mm Beretta), my ammunition, and my target of choice (I declined the picture of Bin Laden, and went for the standard circles on a body outline). We were then directed to hearing and eye protection, and taken in for our two minute introduction on how to load and fire the gun - apparently it is all about a gently squeeze technique. Rest assured that after the results of my target came back, if I was to shoot at a felon, they could be almost guaranteed of escaping virtually uninjured.

And so ends week one of training in Vegas!

You came and you gave without taking

Other than the extra-curricular activities that I have found in Las Vegas (mostly involving my hotel room), I have been quite busy doing all manner things after the course finishes up for the day.

One thing I had booked before coming here was something quintessentially Vegas, and that was a show. I wanted tacky. I wanted up-lifting. I wanted fun. All this and more was to be found at "Barry Manilow: Music and Passion". As I sat in the Las Vegas Hilton Showroom, home to Elvis for many a year, I realised quite quickly the target audience of Barry is somewhat akin to a retirement village. We had been given our requisite glow stick to proudly wave during "Copacabana", but some of those excited grannies just couldn't wait - they were glowing and waving from the moment they sat down. Barry, aware of his aging self, and audience, poked fun at himself, and spoke humbly of his career. He crooned and wooed us all with old, old songs.

But I didn't feel the passion that was so alluded to. And it took me a little while to work out why. It wasn't just the fact that he is old enough to be my father, so finding him passionate borders on creepy. It also wasn't just the fact that he has had so much work done, he looks as old today, as he does on the video footage of him singing "Mandy" from circa 1975. I think it was those factors, combined with the fact that he came across as being incredibly asexual. He seemed to project no presence of a sexual, a.k.a. passionate, being.

I am not sure, of course, that it is such a bad thing to say that I was *not* turned on by Barry Manilow.

Just another day at work really....

Oh, what an interesting trip this is proving to be so far.

After three days at the training course, I am fully immersed in some technical stuff, and so far seem to paddling in the shallow end, but am fearful of the deep end looming before me. Thankfully, my fellow classmates, 26 of us in all, representing 12 different countries, are proving to be amusing company. Last night a group of us went for a Sushi Banquet, and ended the evening downing a lot of Sake and me being propositioned. It seems that one of our instructors has taken a delightful fancy to me.

And I am not complaining!

He is very cute, and I spotted him on day one and was most intrigued by him. He is ex-military, tattoo-emblazoned surfer, with a booming and ratchety voice, who drives a big truck with black-out windows and attitude to spare. And he is fantastic! Just the thing for a lonesome girl a long-way from home. The only issue is trying to now keep decorum in front of my fellow classmates and his fellow instructors, while we take lunchtimes out to run back to my hotel and shag. It is difficult when he is leading a labaratory session, and brushes his hand along my hips as he walks past. I could devour him on the spot.

As I said, I am not complaining.

So today, with me astride, mid-shag, with room service about to arrive at any minute, and also cognizant of the fact that I had to be back in class in a short time, we laughed, he purred, and declared "Welcome to America Baby!"

Hallelujah to that.

Did I forget to mention it?

For those not in the loop, I am away again for work, but this time in Las Vegas for two weeks of training. I am not a gambler in the slightest, so it makes this a frustrating trip, since I seem to be constantly dodging poker machines at every turn.

The promise of $1 buffet meals seems to be a long gone pipe dream, although I am not sure I would be tempted by such fare. I lunched today at the Vegas equivalent of Spago's, in their cafe section, which proved a somewhat civilised way to start one's first day in Vegas. Of course, shopping was high on my agenda, and I parted happily with more money than I would care to remember in Marc Jacob's, and then also a significant amount in Sephora. Somehow, I managed to not buy myself a memorial Elton John Boa from his dedicated shop. I believe I shall also be immune to the Celine Dion phenomena.

Picture = Thousand Words

Despite feeling bereft of any emotion of late, I pulled out every stop and sang my proverbials out on Saturday night with the choir's peformance of Dvorak's "Stabat Mater". It is about loss, and longing and full of pain and sorrow. I could relate.

I have been fortunate enough to have had regular check-ups from people while feeling so down. Buoys one's sense of hope, when all hope seems otherwise lost. But probably, one of the funniest things sent to me in the way of positive advice, came in the form of a cartoon (pasted below for your convenience). Oh, I laughed heartily.

"I have a theory..."

Since my shock dumping a few days ago, I have had the great fortune of many friends offering whatever comfort they are able. The therapeutic effect of a phone call from those who care is not take for granted. As the tears dried, quite a few theories have been proposed from friends.

Theory #1: He is a gutless cad, who doesn't realise what he has given up. This is, of course, the favoured theory of the moment. Nothing like a little bit of blatant bagging to falsely prop up my ego.

Theory #2: You are choosing the wrong type of man. We need to vet all your choices in future. Another interesting theory for its lack of realism. Nice thought nonetheless of having prospective suitors in an interview type panel with PSD, S and L7. Personally, I don't know if I would wish the grilling that they would get on my worst enemy. Further, I don't really know if I "choose" the wrong type of man. This boy was all sorts of good, until he decided he didn't like me any more. How do you know that in advance?

Theory #3: You need to stop basing your sense of self-esteem on whether or not a man likes you. Uh huh. A given I grant you. But this one seems like telling me how to stop breathing. My role models in my family seem to have always drawn their esteem from the men, or lack thereof, of men in their lives. Some serious issues to surmount in this theory.

Theory #4: You seem to choose men who fall in and out of lust quickly. Hmmmm, maybe. But how does one screen for this? Maybe I interest them quickly, and then bore them just as quickly? Anything is possible.

Theory #5: He is an idiot, you are lovely and someone will eventually come along. This is the most common theory proposed, but possibly the one with the least backing. Who says that someone will eventually come along? Why shouldn't I be one of those women who ends up alone, with a lot of cats, and the quirky sense of humour? Eerie thought to think that I could have a hell of a lot of years ahead of me all alone, peppered occasionally by some meaningless sex with disinterested men.

Overall, the theories all come down to one thing. In all my attempted and failed relationships, the one common denominator is me. As my ex-husband so eloquently put it as he was leaving me, "It's not me, it is you."

The therapist's appointment has been made.

Fac me vere tecum flere

My flatmate has been attempting to "Feng Shui" our home, and has placed mirrors and such around to enhance the chi. He stated that the Boy had come into my life because of his placement of a fishtank (with requisite three goldfish) in a certain corner of the house. This provided me and the boy with many a chortle.

But I chortle no more.

Today I got a letter, yes, snail mail variety, from the Boy. It begins with "Dear Cath", and quickly goes down hill. Apparently, despite "going steady" with me, he has developed "serious feelings for someone else". My good friends, anxiety and depression, seem to be doing some serious knocking on my door. My despair is palpable, and the effort required to function seems impossible to muster. My eagerness to go on, and my joie de vie has slipped ever more further from my grasp.

But all I could comment to my mother, as she cried with me, was, "So much for the fucking Feng fish." Fish fingers anyone?