By any other name...

My cousin visited me over the weekend and, as usual, provided me with a chance to laugh and reflect. She is an amazing woman who has the ability to be at once ballsy and brave, and then, just as quickly, be sensitive and shy. On her flight down from Bris-Vegas, she was seated beside a gentleman who seemed to have no issue with inappropriate disclosure to a complete stranger. Her reaction was simple. She responded with, "You should meet my cousin. She is hot."

But a couple of things during the weekend provided "Moleskin Moments*".

While driving through the CBD on Saturday afternoon, we spied a gentleman walking a very cute puppy. Our thoughts were the same, the puppy was cute, the guy, even cuter. So with a sly look to me, my cousin's thumb ventured to press the "down" on the window, and before I could stop her, she yelled out, "Excuse me, what sort of puppy is that?". He responded with its breed, and then we asked after its age. Before pulling away into the traffic again, my cousin, in an amazing display of brazen-ness, declared, "That dog makes you look hot."

After guffawing with laughter and cringing with embarrassment, we ventured to the Picasso exhibit currently at the International NGV. It features the work of the Picasso during the period of 1935 to 1945; his time with lover Dora Maar. Their passionate affair played out in their works of the time, but none moreso than the work "Dora Maar and the Minotaur". I passed by the painting, and my eyes were drawn back to it - rather in the way of a traffic accident. I was dumb-founded by the raw sexuality of the picture. My cousin was a few steps behind me, and after a few minutes, caught up with me. In hushed tones, she expressed her shock at the same picture. Clearly we decided that the only difference between pornography and Art is the addition of Picasso's name on the picture.


*I carry a Moleskin notebook with me all the time, to record anything that strikes my fancy.

It's a soppy one.. bite me for being melancholic

Thinking about Bond makes me very confused. If I don't hear from him when I expect to, or want to, I get annoyed and start thinking - it's all over. Other times, I have no doubt about how much I care for him and how he is what I want. Sometimes I think I am in love with the idea of him - and him being so far away gives little opportunity to dispel any myths. Reality might prove horrible. I know that from dating N, that until we lived together, everything was going well. But dealing with someone's everyday, rather pedestrian goings-on was not only a wake-up call, but the death knell of our relationship.

But most of the time, when I think of being near Bond, my heart skips a beat. I feel that amazing and indescribable sensation rather like that moment before kissing someone for the first time. That moment, when you know you are going to kiss, and you both feel excited about it.

I remember my first kiss with Bond for better than our first fuck. (A fuck it was - no romantic love-making on that occasion.) We both stood there looking at each other, both thinking similar thoughts I am sure, and wanting to be close those final inches between us. And then he leaned in and kissed me. And then we both smiled.

It was good. And when a kiss was good like that, I just knew the rest was going to feel even better.

When I think about how frustrated I am, and how frustrating this situation is, I think of those first kisses. I remember the combination of raw sexuality and the tenderness within. I ache for him all over, but it is for his that I yearn the most.

Smoothing the font of loveliness

Last night was my monthly dinner with the girls. It was once a "Book Club", and yes, we still read books, but more commonly, we discuss all and sundry that happens to be relevant to the evening. And last night, it was pubic waxing.

It seems one of our number was contemplating her first Brazilian, and wanted details. For this, I could happily provide more than enough. Although, noting everyone's squemishness, I avoided too many specifics, and only responded to direct questions. It seemed that I was some sort of expert on the matter, since I have waxed, plucked, lasered and depilated all over my mons pubis. Of course, we then diverted into a philosophical discussion over just why someone would want to remove all their genital hair, and then somehow moved onto my collection of porn....

Coincidentally, today I was reading one of my favourite bloggers, Mercurial Girl, and she passed on a recommendation about the great act of pubic hair removal from Grace Undressed. GO READ IT NOW! It is hilarious, as well as full of helpful hints!

This is a woman who knows her vadge - god bless her!

Care and concern - and lack thereof

A week ago I saw a new doctor. I decided I needed to really investigate getting a regular GP. Since moving to Melbourne, I haven't really had someone that regular and quite a few things are overdue to be looked at. As a consequence, this new doctor has concurred with the therapist's recommendation of a low-carb, high-protein diet and also supplemented my day with many vitamins and minerals to help all those things that "depression depletes".

Most importantly, he has doubled my dose of anti-depressants. And I think it is working. There have been no tears for many days now, and despite being frustrated with Bond over some things, I haven't had the ranting conversation that I would have been inclined to have only a week or so ago.

Of course, I also feel like I could not give a fuck about anything. Not wholly bad, but not great either. Surely a partial lobotomy is an easier alternative?

I Don't Need No Booze Or Drugs: I Just Chug-A-Lug-O My Coffee

The lovely Rob, slack blogger that he is, has been staying with me for the past week. He has decided upon a life change and moving to Melbourne seemed to be the end result.

Having him staying with him has been no less than wonderful. I have complained bitterly about sharing my home with my former flatmate, and with former partners, but having Rob around has been great. I look forward to going home, rather than grimace at the thought of what disaster may await me. We chat and laugh over dinner, or Buffy, and so far, our own space is respected. Of course, he may be finding it hard, being quite so obviously in someone else's house and not really having "his" things around him.

It is only a temporary arrangement until he finds a place to live (he has already), and his possessions turn up. Part of his move has meant that he is buying an awful lot of stuff for the first time. So we have spent two days of shopping for dinner-sets, bedroom suites, sheets, toasters, cutlery, knifes etc. You name it, it has been bought, or considered. Spending Rob's money has been oh so much fun. Makes me a little jealous.... what would I buy now given the opportunity to start over?

Nevertheless, it is expensive, and things such as fridges and washing machines have yet to be added to the list. In a true sense of prioritising that one just has to admire, Rob purchased a kick-arse coffee machine before getting something to actually keep his coffee grinds and milk for his coffee, cool. No matter, he contemplated over the coffee machine yesterday, while our, rather delicious, sales assistant, Ryan (swoon!) was kept busy by us and another procrastinating customer.

While we marvelled over the feel of the group head and the naff buttons and dials, the other customer posed a question over an alternate espresso machine to dear Ryan. They enquired as to the possibility of a different model machine that had an "LSD" screen.

Rob looked at me and smirked. I looked at Rob and raised an eyebrow. He then said, "Where do we get one of those?". I'd like some of the coffee that these people are making and consuming!

I know the posts are few and far between at the moment. Comes from feeling totally shit I suppose. I am busier than ever with work - and hating it. I am delivering lectures at Uni twice a week - and hating it. I am trying a new dietary regime to "improve my moods" - and hating it. I want to stay in bed doing nothing, but eating banned foods and crying.

Of course, it doesn't help that I seem to have sad, sorrowful, Country Music songs on constant play on the iPod at the moment. Those Country musicians sure know how to beat themselves up over things.

Oh, and I left a message for Bond saying that "we needed to talk". Keep posted.