Monthly Archives: April 2012

Almost Enough

Posted on April 30, 2012 | 4 Comments

I seriously thought I was in the clear after last weekend. I left AF’s at 11, after some half decent morning sex, once again initiated by me, and headed back to London town for Twinkle’s birthday. After that, a whole Sunday, Monday and Tuesday passed and I figured I was in the clear. I figured it must be mutual, that he must have realised that whatever passion there had once been between us, was now well and truly fizzled, because no one in their right mind would have thought that Friday night slash Saturday morning had been a success.

I’ll admit, I was hoping we could make it to the end of the week with no contact, and I could then be the one to be the bigger person, to send the ‘so, clearly we’re both on the same page here’ text or email, but no. The bastard had to go and be a decent human being, and come Wednesday, he texted.

‘Hey you.’ Fuck. How does that pronoun manage to strike fear into my very heart? It’s a cleverly disguised term of endearment. Shit. ‘How’s life in theatreland?’

And so, I freak out for about half an hour. And then, theatreland does actually get quite hectic, so I have an excuse, and I don’t think about it again until I stumble through the door at midnight, and rather sensibly decide not to text back while hammered.

The next morning, I had to reply. I was being a total bitch otherwise. ‘Keep it breezy’, everyone had advised me, so I tried my damnedest.

‘Hey – theatreland’s a bit mental actually, sorry for the epic reply fail. Hope muso land is good x’

No questions. No questions.

Then a reply – bugger bugger bugger.

‘That’s okay, muso land gets like that sometimes too. Hope you’re having a great day.’

Oh, oh, oh. I am a bad person. I am a cold hearted bitch. In reality, if we’re honest, we all know this was doomed from the start. I declared my interest in this man, and he basically rejected me. Then I told him a few home truths and ignored him for a week, and he came crawling back. Against my better judgement, I gave it a second chance because otherwise I’d ‘always wonder what would have happened’, and then followed a series of time wasting non-dates, where conversation has been forced and even sex has become a bit awkward because it’s damn difficult to go from casual to not-so-casual and still maintain a bit of spontaneous passion between the sheets apparently.

Now, I’m in a bit of a bind. It was me who wanted this, in theory. But in my defence, I was kind of hoping ‘this’ would turn out to be some kind of passionate intoxicating romance, once we got past the elephant in the room and talked about our feelings and shit. Well, it didn’t. It isn’t. And I’ve spent a significant amount of hours on it. Frankly I just don’t have that many free hours, and so now that I’ve figured out that it’s not what I want, I’m loathe to spend any more on it.

And now here lies the problem. He is not just down the road, or even in another part of London. He’s in Brighton. After my last rather unsuccessful waste of an open return, I’m not particularly inclined to go all the way to Brighton just to endure another non-date and then have ‘that’ conversation at the end of it.

If I invite him here, it insinuates that he would be staying, which would be really awkward, and to drag him all the way to London just to dump his ass seems a bit cruel.

And so that, dear readers, is my conundrum. After all this shit, it appears to have fizzled. Yet it’s been such a damp squib from the get go, it looks like AF hasn’t even noticed a difference.

What the fuck do I do now??

RitziCx

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The Bitch Doesn’t Snuggle.

Posted on April 23, 2012 | 14 Comments

Okay folks, time for an update on AF. I must confess, I’ve been horrendously absent from the blogosphere, as it turns out dating someone while working a gazillion hours a week is quite challenging and doesn’t exactly lend itself to excessive blogging. The other little niggly thing is that I’ve found myself somewhat reluctant to tell all to the world, what with the whole ‘honesty and communication is key to a healthy relationship’ lark.

Well, as you can probably tell from the fact that I’m here, it’s all beginning to go a little bit tits up. As bloody usual.

Last you heard, AF was on his way to meet me in central for a midweek rendevouz, after very nearly cancelling on me and turning me into a crazy person*. He showed up and declared he would take me for port and cheese at Gordons (for all you non-Londoners, Gordons is a wine bar on the Embankment, which is pretty darn fine. I’ve never had port there before though, possibly because I don’t have a free bus pass)

After that, we went home and had a pleasant evening. We had some pleasant sex, followed by some pleasant morning pillow talk, and some pleasant texts throughout the day.

On Friday, we had a date. Three days before, he called all sheepish, and admitted that he’d been asked to guest at some super cool jazz gig, and would I hate him if he played at it. It would only be a couple of songs, he said, and we’d drink wine the rest of the time. He also mentioned that he had a free house for the weekend, which apparently translated to lots of wild sex on many surfaces.

Wine and jazz and wild sex? That almost sounds like a real date, good lord.

So I went to Brighton, and I watched some jazz, and I drank a lot of wine, and I had some awkward half conversations about a genre of music I really don’t care for, with people AF clearly knew but didn’t remember to introduce me to, and then went home to his for pizza.

Then he got a bit sleepy on the sofa and suggested snuggling in bed.

SNUGGLING? My god man. Where are your balls?

So ‘wild sex on many surfaces’ became me jumping him and having a lovely time of it getting myself off. And the next morning, despite the fact that I had to leave at 11 in order to make it to Twinkle’s birthday bash, he still thought it a good idea to snuggle his way through an epic lie in. In the end, I just took my clothes off and waited patiently for him to notice. He did, and there followed some pleasant sex, which did contain at least one orgasm, but other than getting rid of my early morning horn, did not exactly rock my world.

Yes, I’ve been overthinking things and am therefore prone to overanalysing, but I gotta say I really don’t think it’s a good thing if you’re just a couple of months in to the dating process and you favour ‘snuggling’ over wild sex. It just doesn’t make sense to me, especially as I know damn well I am awesome in bed.

AF is being great. He’s making an effort, and saying all the right things, and paying for dinner and wine, but while I’m not exactly into PDA’s I’ve got to get something outside of the bedroom or I will go completely and utterly bonkers. I need to be sitting at that jazz gig with a hand under the table, creeping up my thigh with the promise of what’s to come later. I need a lingering kiss before he gets up to go to the bar. I need SOMETHING.

But I don’t think AF has it.

Which, considering how much hassle I’ve had and comfort food I’ve eaten during the course of this courtship, is a fucking travesty.

The girls got it right on Saturday at Twink’d bday bonanza when they said; ‘you just don’t seem all that fussed Ritzi,’ and it’s true. After all that fuss, I’m not all that fussed. I thought he’d pull it out the bag and man up, but he hasn’t.

So I’m just going to be a cold hearted bitch here and say… it’s not enough for me.

Now I just have to figure out how to tell him.

RitziCx

*read: more of a crazy person.

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From Poncho To Honcho… Sort Of…

Posted on April 16, 2012 | Leave a comment

That’s still one of my favourite taglines ever to grace E4… but I’m not here to talk about advertising genius worthy of Don Draper, I’m here to tell you how the heck I ended up at the birthday party for the Sultan of a little known country somewhere in Southeast Asia*…

It was a Wednesday, nothing much was happening and I’d spent most of my afternoon locked in a horrendous cycle of excel documents and invoices. My blackberry buzzed with a text from Priscilla, one of my favourite gay dads, and  veritable pillar of the fashion industry.

‘Hey Ritzi babe,’ (it said) ‘Do you fancy helping out at a show I’m doing on Saturday? My assistant’s dropped out. xx’

Help out backstage at a fashion show? Will there be male models? I reply that yes, I am free, and enquire as to just what I might need to do. I get no reply… which is pretty normal for Priscilla really. Bless him, he don’t do texting all that well.

Being me, I immediately forget about it. Until Friday, when I’m up to my eyeballs in promotional performance hell, fighting off photographers and trying my damnedest to keep track of randy West End actors backstage at a show with rather more half naked dancers than is necessary. When I actually paid attention to my blackberry, I noticed that among the 300 odd boring work emails, there was also one from Priscilla. With a call sheet. On which I was listed as ‘assistant director’.

Oh fucking hell.

I called Priscilla immediately, pretending that I’d totally not forgotten all about it and mentally working out if I could realistically fit in a Saturday morning gym session before making a tit of myself at a fashion show.

‘Don’t worry darling, you’ll be fabulous. Just be my eyes and ears and make sure everyone walks in the right place at the right time… wearing the right dress, of course.’

Right, okay. I could do that.

‘Oh, and don’t touch the royals, or talk to the royals unless they talk to you first.’

Wait… what?

See, up until this point, Priscilla had failed to mention that this fashion show was designed to accompany the desert course of a right royal banquet. Fer cryin’ out loud.

So Saturday rolls round and I show up, as instructed, in my blacks as if I’m ‘backstage in a theatre honey’. Priscilla is also in black. And a fucking cape. I shuffle my baggy black trousers over my sensible black Flossies (damnit, why didn’t I fork out the extra £30 for actual Toms?)

Half way through rehearsal, we realise we’re lacking an item in the props department. Priscilla is adamant that his show will be ruined unless he has an over-sized birthday card for the Sultan, so off I go into town, on a mission.

Unfortunately, the only card shop around is… Clintons.

I can’t buy a fecking Sultan a birthday card from Clintons! I can see it now… ‘Happy birthday your majesty… I hope you like Tatty Teddy! Or maybe Forever Friends is more your bag…?’

And the fun didn’t stop there – due to an agency balls up, we were down an actor, and didn’t fancy trying to get any of the models to actually do anything other than wander around in couture looking smokin’ hot, so I was told, four hours before the show, that I had to find another actor. On a Saturday.

Enter… Irish. Oh thank goodness I know so many fabulously talented actory types, or I would have found myself trying to squeeze my ass into the £8000 dress and dancing around like a twat for the assembled royalty myself. And while Priscilla assured me that thing was one size fits all, I’d hasten to disagree, considering a few hours later Irish and I become more closely acquainted than ever before as she poured herself into it. And that girl is a skinny bitch.

It wasn’t all bad though… once the couture arrived, I had the pleasure of marking up the male models costumes. These rather attractive men have no qualms about stripping off to their teeny tiny pants in the presence of anyone dressed in black and carrying a clipboard. And GOOD LORD. I caught the eye of one of the more coherent, English-speaking models and she grinned at me and said;

‘And that’s why I do this job.’

Too bloody right dear.

A few hours, and more than a few bags of Haribo and five cans of diet coke later, it was all over. And I still had my head, which I figure means I didn’t offend any royalty.

And that, my friends, is how Ritzi ended up at the birthday party for the Sultan of Mjhdfiwehfoiweoirjeper.

I seriously get everywhere.

RitziCx

PS – Once I met Marc from Ugly Betty. I shook his hand and told him I loved him a little bit. As I recall, his hand was unnaturally spongey. And I was rather hammered.

*I’m not posting the country on the blog (not in this post anyway, those of you who’ve been paying attention will recall I did mention it a few posts back) due to the fact that I don’t fancy any scary palace officials trawling through my sordidness if this post pops up on their google alerts…

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Lessons In Not Being Completely Bat-Shit Crazy

Posted on April 11, 2012 | 4 Comments

Honestly, I don’t know how I’d cope without my girls sometimes. If Carslberg made girlfriends… well, actually no, they probably wouldn’t be like mine. They’d be all blowjobs and bosoms…

Actually, on second thought maybe Carlsberg did make my girlfriends…

Anyhoo, the point is, that without them to talk me off the ledge on a regular daily basis, I’d probably be locked up in a crazy house by now. Take this prime example;

Yesterday, AF texted me on his way back home from his band rehearsals in North London. ‘I’ve been stuck in traffic for hours,’ he moaned. ‘Can I stay with you tomorrow night? If you’re not busy of course x’

Well, duh. Of course Ritzi’s not going to turn down a chance to prove she’s a regular domestic goddess (no sniggering Blondie) as well as being a fabulously cosmopolitan corporate ho. I reply that yes, that would indeed be agreeable and that I shall make us some amazing food for dinner (well, he did provide me with a hairdryer AND a pain au chocolate on Monday. Girl’s gotta show her appreciation somehow).

This morning, I got up and waxed instead of going to the gym. Then, I neglected to pick up my spin bag for Fitty McSpin’s Wednesday evening class as I knew I’d have even more sordid cardiovascular activities to be getting on with, and merrily headed off to the End of West to start my day. I’d only been sat at my desk for an hour, when my phone buzzed:

‘Might have been a bad idea of mine to come to yours from rehearsal. Route planner says over an hour without even accounting for the fact I’ll be in rush hour traffic. I think considering how stressed I’ve got just driving here, driving through London might finish me off! x’

Not trusting myself to reply in any coherent shape or form, I immediately forwarded this to the one person I know is usually in a similar position to me, tied to a desk the other side of the Thames. 52 First Dates legend, CTS.

‘You need chill out ladyface.’ (she bats back instantaneously, like a pro) ‘You had a wonderful Sunday slash Monday together, and he’s right, London traffic is the absolute pits, he was obviously being over-optimistic, and if he’d stressed himself out driving over, he’ll be in a terrible mood when you see him. You can live without the gym for one night, and I’m sure you can find another West End soiree to get yourself into tonight, and if not, then settle yourself for a night in with the delightful Ernest and Julio, paint your nails and enjoy a night in being a girl. It’s not the end of the world, he’s given you plenty of notice to find other plans, so don’t fret, you will rearrange.

I’m not sure who Ernest and Julio are… but I take her point. Calm the fuck down Ritzi, don’t say anything stupid.

And so, I take a deep breath and a sip of coffee. I reply with a sad face (emoticons speak louder than words in these situations) and I do not freak out that he doesn’t immediately reply because I know perfectly well he’s rocking out and writing songs for hours (preferably not about crazy West End girls who send him emoticons instead of actually communicating).

And the moral of this story?

Lunchtime hits and I get:

‘How about I just abandon my car and get the central line to you?’

Someone give that boy a gold star!

RitziCx

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Day Return My Arse

Posted on April 10, 2012 | 1 Comment

On Sunday, I dragged myself out of my pit of gay wedding hangover hell, forced myself into the shower and headed off to Brighton to give AF another shot.

Oh guys, he did rather well.

First thing’s first – how did Brighton get so cool? I mean, seriously. Due to my epic near death status, AF first took me to get vast amounts of coffee in a place that looked like an Indie movie props department had thrown up on it. Sooty and Sue dangled above our heads in a hot air balloon made from a paint can and an exercise ball, while Gordon the Gopher perched precariously on top, drinking Jim Beam.

John Hughes couldn’t even write that shit.

Anyhoo, after coffee (and cake – I was hungover, what of it?) we strolled down to the sea front and wandered down the beach, marvelling at tiny dogs and getting distracted (him not me) by hobo guitarists.

THEN, he took me for dinner. At a vegetarian restaurant. And paid.

Who said romance is dead?

After dinner, we went in search of wine. Soon enough, we were a bottle down, and the day return ticket I’d bought earlier that day with the intention of being very very good didn’t seem particularly inviting, so of course I jumped on the band wagon of all expectation and stayed.

The next morning I came out of the shower to find a cup of tea and a pain au chocolate waiting for me. And a hair dryer.

Anyone would think this boy was making an effort or something…

RitziCx

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Who’s To Say That’s The Way?

Posted on April 8, 2012 | 2 Comments

It’s all gone a bit roses on the relationship front. Blondie’s all gooey with her Perfect Match, Flora’s permanently tied to a bed with 8 Inches, and even I am currently on my way to Brighton to give AF another shot.

The thing is, none of these fairytales are particularly run of the mill. Blondie met her guy through a reality TV show, t’was science that declared she and her young vertically challenged fellow were destined for each other, and despite some early doubts (mainly about the fact that she’s facing a lifetime of flats), she’s attempting to be the bigger person* and giving it a go. Reports say it’s going rather well, who knew?

Flora met her guy when she… moved in with him. They became friends, they snogged, she accidentally stumbled and landed on his enormous cock and they’re now so loved up that she has been known to cancel lunch dates at short notice because she just can’t tear herself away from it.

And me… well. After I told AF where to stick it, a week went by and then I got another little email. Basically saying, ‘c’mon Ritzi you muppet, we’ve not actually really even tried the dating thing. Maybe this whole crazy female blow up thing was a tad premature?’ Of course I was immediately put out and declared him a dick, and then both Blondie and CTS pointed out that he had a fair point. Well, can’t argue with that. If I’m going to listen to anyone over the inane ramblings of my own mind, it’s those two. So here I am, hungover as fuck from last night’s gay wedding, on my way to ‘give it another shot’.

I should add that I’ve got a day return. I’m giving it another go but I’m not completely stupid.

And so it’s gotten me thinking. How do any of us know what’s the proper way to start a lasting relationship? I’m not saying either of these three examples will work out (least of all mine) but whether we meet a guy in a bar, at work, on a reality TV show or even in the living room we share, does that have any kind of effect on what happens next?

I’m not sure this thing with AF can ever really be real, purely because I have this ridiculous ideal in my head of what I want my perfect relationship to be, and even how I want it to start, and this uncertain stumble toward each other just isn’t it. That said, a wise person once told me if you don’t get the practice in with the less than perfect men when the opportunities are offered to you, you won’t actually know how to react when the perfect man does show up.

This may be sense, or it may just be a drunken ramble, but heck, I ain’t got any better ideas.

Ritzi out.

RitziCx

*yes, I went there.

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I’m Sorry, Are You Being Nice? I’m Not Familiar With This…

Posted on April 2, 2012 | 5 Comments

Oh tweeps, I am a fool.

It appears Ritzi has been floundering in the ocean of sewage that is one sided London dating for so long, that she’s actually forgotten how to read the signs of what could actually be a decent guy.

Picture the scene – it’s Sunday afternoon/evening, and after an epic lunch with the girls, I arrived back home and surmised that it was still far to sunny to sit and write my OU assignments inside, so I took a good old fashioned notebook and pen down to the park, perched myself on a bench, and disappeared into the literary world for a few hours.

At one point I hear a, ‘pardon me?’ and I look up to find a slightly short but cute American fellow standing before me. ‘You haven’t seen any keys around here, have you?’

‘Uh… No, sorry.’ I reply. Well, I hadn’t seen any. And that was that. He toddled off, looking for his missing keys, and I returned to a world of time lapse prose and omniscient perspective.

An hour or so later, it got a tad chilly (maxi dress and cardigan is all well and good until 7pm comes around) so I strolled back through the park to my house. En route, I’m stopped by the Key Guy again, as he jogs after me.

‘Sorry – got another random question,’ he pants. Bless, he’s not fit. ‘Do you live in the neighbourhood?’

I bite back a comment about how we don’t call them ‘neighbourhoods’, silly yank, and replied that yes, I did indeed.

‘Do you know anyone renting rooms?’

I think about it briefly, which is a bit stupid because I know in an instant that I don’t. My friends are all looking for rooms, we don’t have them going spare. I suggest SpareRoom.co.uk, he comments on my writing in a park, I reply that it’s too nice a day to stay cooped up inside, he agrees.

And then Ritzi says nothing. Because she’s an idiot.

A slightly awkward, ‘well thanks, I’ll see you around,’ a cheeky grin and a wave, and the Key Guy was gone. It was only when I was half way home, shaking my head at his naivety if he thought there was ever a chance of ‘seeing someone around’ in the suburbs of this crazy town, that I stopped and slapped myself in the face with my own stupidity.

A zillion responses should have popped into my head, ‘I don’t know anywhere but here’s my card, drop me a line and I’ll let you know if somewhere comes up,’ is the key one. What a complete muppet. Relatively cute guy, unused to physical exertion, jogs after you and by not giving him a way in, you effectively tell him to jog on. Well done Ritz, I’ll just go see about those cats, shall I?

(Note – this whole post is rather third person centric, mainly because it’s being written by my subconscious mind, who can’t quite believe a single human being could be so dense.)

If by some miracle I actually do see the guy ‘around’ in the ‘neighbourhood’, I should probably marry him in an instant because I doubt the powers that be would forgive me that monumental fuck up of fate twice.

Yours ever lonesome,

RitziCx

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