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February 15 - February 21, 2019
It struck me as pretty ridiculous to be called Mr. Darcy and to stand on your own looking snooty at a party. It’s like being called Heathcliff and insisting on spending the entire evening in the garden, shouting “Cathy” and banging your head against a tree.
As my friend Tom often remarks, it’s amazing how much time and money can be saved in the world of dating by close attention to detail. A white sock here, a pair of red braces there, a gray slip-on shoe, a swastika, are as often as not all one needs to tell you there’s no point writing down phone numbers and forking out for expensive lunches because it’s never going to be a runner.
Oh, why am I so unattractive? Why? Even a man who wears bumblebee socks thinks I am horrible.
Sometimes you have to sink to a nadir of toxic fat envelopment in order to emerge, phoenix-like, from the chemical wasteland as a purged and beautiful Michelle Pfeiffer figure.
After all, there is nothing so unattractive to a man as strident feminism.
Sometimes I look around the office as we all tap away and wonder if anyone is doing any work at all.
Why is entire world geared to make people not involved in romance feel stupid when everyone knows romance does not work anyway.
Sharon maintains men—present company (i.e. Tom) excepted, obviously—are so catastrophically unevolved that soon they will just be kept by women as pets for sex, therefore presumably these will not count as shared households as the men will be kept outside in kennels.
One should never, apparently, talk to anyone at a party for more than two minutes. When time is up, you simply say, “I think we’re expected to circulate. Nice to meet you,” and go off.
Most importantly, one must never go to a party without a clear objective: whether it be to “network,” thereby adding to your spread of contacts to improve your career; to make friends with someone specific; or simply “clinch” a top deal. Understand where have been going wrong by going to parties armed only with objective of not getting too pissed.
At 8:45 last night I was running a relaxing aromatherapy bath and sipping camomile tea when a car burglar alarm started up. I have been waging a campaign on our street against car burglar alarms which are intolerable and counterproductive since you are more likely to get your car broken into by an angry neighbor trying to silence the burglar alarm than by a burglar.
“Oh, but Mum, I have to work with Daniel, I—” “Darling—wrong way round. He has to work with you. Give him hell, baby.”
I think Dad is having a nervous breakdown. Mind you, if I’d been married to Mum for thirty-nine years I’d have had a nervous breakdown, even without her running off with a Portuguese tour operator.
Ugh. Would that Christmas could just be, without presents. It is just so stupid, everyone exhausting themselves, miserably hemorrhaging money on pointless items nobody wants: no longer tokens of love but angst-ridden solutions to problems. (Hmmm. Though must admit, pretty bloody pleased to have new handbag.) What is the point of entire nation rushing round for six weeks in a bad mood preparing for utterly pointless Taste-of-Others exam which entire nation then fails and gets stuck with hideous unwanted merchandise as fallout?
