When I am down, which I very much am so at the moment, shopping always seems to be panacea for all emotional wounds. Of course, the sensible part of my brain says that all it will leave me with is a credit card bill to regret, and some stuff I didn't really need. But I found myself contemplating over two different fry pans on Monday when Rob called mid-shop.

When emotionally bereft, I cannot describe the joy in a simple phone call from a friend. Those calls seem to be few and far between at the moment, but at that moment, in the middle of a kitchenware shop, his call was enough to help alleviate my funky mood for a wee while. With quality fry-pans in hand, and a decision to be made, I enlisted Rob's phone presence for help.

My question was simple. Should I go for the 8" or the 10" fry-pan? It seems my question was redundant. Of those two options, the answer was clear to Rob. Bigger is always better my dear.

I concurred and purchased.

Colour me bad - or not at all.

I woke up this morning knowing before even getting out of bed that I felt not quite right. My mood seemed a little off and it seemed more of a struggle than usual to fight the urge to stay in bed. But I knew my mood was definitely off when I went to put my makeup on. Making up my face in the morning for me is tantamount to some people's morning coffee - it is the thing that makes me feel alive. And this morning, it just felt a little harder than normal facing the array of colours available. Trying to decide upon eye-shadow seemed too hard for a moment, and I contemplated calling in sick.

Sigh.

Singleton, Smug Marrieds and then there is me.

I think it goes without saying that I am pretty lonely most of the time. In fact, lonely is probably an understatement of the grandest proportions. Once upon a time, I used to cherish the occasional solo brunch as a time to relax, regroup and reconnect. Now it is just the beginning of my weekend morning and simply de rigeur.

The moments of contact I have with Bond, usually around 20 minutes at Midnight, are unsurprisingly not enough to stave off one's sense of emptiness. I have tried text messaging a few people whom I thought might be interested in a catch-up - but no dice. So Saturday night, I am here at home, having done some vacuuming, ironing, washing, watched three episodes of BtVS (reliving Season 3) and now contemplating bed.

I have all the disadvantages of a relationship, and very few of the advantages. And it seems that the single people I know socialise without me at the moment, and the "smug marrieds" only socialise with other "smug marrieds". Somewhere along the way I became Bridget Jones (Granny undies included), with my Mr Darcy far away.

Fuck.

Dream a little dream.... of me

Bond told me the other morning that he dreamt of me the previous night. Such a lovely thought, I mused to myself. "But I dream of shagging you nearly every night," he continued.

I tried to suppress a laugh. I NEVER have sex dreams. No matter my state of horniness. No matter how long it may have been. I never dream of getting it on. So when Bond declared he has regular sex dreams featuring me, I find it most surprising. Flattering, but surprising nonetheless.

In my conscious mind I will often imagine slow, passionate love-making. I will dwell upon manic fucking. And I will spend hours thinking of ways to spend intimate hours together. But when I fall asleep, none of these delightful imaginings will find its way to my somnolent brain.

Oddly, it had only been a few hours earlier that I had been online chatting with a slight inebriated Ted. He had just been relating his thoughts of me from our well and truly defunct attempted relationship. Apparently, if his drunken discourse can be believed, he still conjures up memories of our time together for those quiet horny moments alone. Apparently, it is not uncommon for my exes to draw upon me from their spank banks for such times. One those rare occasions that I have spoken to B, he too, claims to frequently recall particular moments of our time together.

And I actually don't mind. In fact, I feel it a great compliment at being used, albeit virtually, to provide joy and pleasure.

But returning to Bond's dream, I enquired, "So, what precisely was I doing to you in this dream?". I imagined I had performed breath-taking fellatio or had achieved Olympic-level gymnastics providing some heretofore unknown pleasure.

"Nothing much. We shopped, hung out and cooked dinner together."

Oh.

We were both a little speechless. Is it sweet and comfortable to have such a dream, or just a little pedestrian? My vote is for the former.

Unseasonal Cheer

I had my now infamous and annual "Christmas in July" feast yesterday. Being American, Bond was at a bit of a loss as to what this entails and certainly, why.

It should be patently obvious that the media influx of Northern Hemisphere based Christmas specials where everyone huddles around a fire, eating roast meats and warm drinks, does strike some discord for those of us in the Southern half of the world. The post-Christmas lunch snooze is both a consequence of a heavy carbohydrate intake, and the exhaustive heat sapping one's energy.

Not being one who enjoys sweating, and being an avid fan of Christmas sappiness, I pine much of the year for a cool festive season. Last year I achieved some satisfaction by locking myself in the house for nearly 36 solid hours with the air-conditioning set as low as possible.

So when winter rolls around, it has become my habit to imagine a time of festivities and good-will toward man, and a feast with friends. I prepare a playlist for the iPod of Christmas songs - actually a sub-playlist. My actual Christmas playlist runs for three full days without repeating one song. The playlist used this year only ran for nine hours. I place some selected decorations around the house, attach the wreath to the front door and crank up the stereo. As with any festive event, there is a mass of food, many drinks and, hopefully, much laughter.

It is wonderful to be surrounded by so many lovely friends for this annual event. Often December is so busy, that such an event could never occur then anyway. The day was long, but satisfying. Although, by the time all had left, I was a little sad. I had a fridge full of meaty leftovers, but noone here to share them with.

Merry Christmas everyone and most especially to you Bond.

Love me... Love my lipstick!

Each of us has something by which we tend to be defined. Sometimes it is a conscious thing, other times, sub-conscious. I had the misfortune of working with a gentleman with such a pervasive body odour, that one could smell him coming from a distance. It was offensive, but certainly, it defined him. Other people have mannerisms and sayings that are all their own.

Me, I have lipstick. Specifically red lipstick.

I can be spotted on stage by my red, glossy lips. Many people feel that they don't have the courage to pull of red lipstick. Others don't feel that they have the right shape lips to wear it. I am blessed with the perfect lips, and have enough bravado to wear red lipstick to all occasions. I love wearing it, and it has become my signature makeup.

I recently deigned to purchase a gloss in a colour other than red. In fact, it was quite subtle, and could almost be described as beige. It was recommended to me by a makeup artist in Sephora, whose opinion I decided to trust - just this once. Yes, it does look nice, and is certainly different from red for the odd occasion when I feel like being a little more subtle.

But when not one, but three people, including Opera Boy, all comment on how lovely it looks ("That red is nice - but so bright!"), I am a little overcome. Get with it people - RED IS MY COLOUR - and it will stay that way.

Oh, but thanks for the compliments regardless!

Dietary needs

Apologies for my slackness of late. I have no real excuse. I caught up with friends over the weekend. I fended off advances from Opera Boy, who fails to understand my desire to be faithful to Bond, despite his distance. My mother spoke to Bond, and decided he has a "sexy voice". And, of course, I had another case of the sads and some insecurities surface. C'est la vie!

Yesterday I went to see my therapist with some trepidation. I was scared that she would yell at me for some misdeed of mine, or cause me to jump to the defence of Bond (which I apparently do with such speed that it truly amazes her). But, no such admonishment was given. In fact, it was another helpful and enlightening session where I get to learn a little bit more about myself. But the most interesting part of the session was where she was speaking of the relationship between food and our consequent mood.

It is not hard to work out that what goes in, affects us not only physically, but ergo, mentally. So we discussed what I eat, and what she thinks I need to eat. According to her, I need to eat some Lindt chocolate every day (NO, I am not making this up!), some red wine would be good, and a whole lot more protein - preferably from meat sources.

I think it is all too easy to know what Bond's response was when I stated that apparently I needed more meat in my diet. Bless him and his wooing romantic words - goes straight to a girls heart... err loins.