Vodka Vow

Lead me not into temptation – I can find the way myself!

Well, it’s proven now…. Patience is certainly not one of my virtues! It has been 3 weeks now. 3 weeks since that French speaking (or should I say French teaching!) Love God walked into my life.

3 weeks full of signs and no resolution in sight. 3 weeks where I’ve been living on my nerves. Honestly, it’s like an addiction. I cannot remember the last time fancying someone took this much energy! Of course…. its not a mere crush, it’s a full-fledged obsession. I’ve got to have him!

I think the vow of celibacy has totally backfired on me. I have to feed the beast. And she’s mad as hell!

Here’s a summary of the last 3 weeks -3 very long and painful 3 weeks!

Week 1. He kept looking at me. He kept touching me. The touchy feeli-less may well have been very student teacher appropriate, but for his good looks and my raging (haven’t-got-some-in-far-too-long) hormones fuelled imagination.

I kept looking back.

Unfortunately, that’s all that happened. But really, do you rest your whole arm on someone’s to write on their notes? He didn’t to the girl next to me. And when I refused to say my age (C’est un secret!) he nodded in understanding and winked at me! Be still my beating heart.

During the course of the lesson, he said how he lived all alone. A man on his own. And when he tried to give examples for the lesson, he described an ordinary day for a man living on his own. How when he reaches home (alone) … he takes off his shirt (flash, tanned, flat stomach) and balls it up and throws it away.

And proceeds to do the same with his trousers.

Since, you know – he was alone and all.

My mouth was dry, and I believe my jaw hit the floor. So much sexual tension, I tell you! I certainly hope shagging a student is not against the rules. This has GOT to happen.

Fast forward to Week 2. I'll quickly scoot past the bit where he encased my chair (with me in it!) while trying to "aid" the girl next to me. I was a puddle on the floor by this time. I knew exactly what it would be like to be caught up in those giant arms of his ....

When it came to our break, he shoved his cigarettes in my face. Stupid, STUPID me, just automatically shook my head, stupidly murmuring "I don’t smoke." He looked crestfallen. I was surprised. He gestured (he speaks French, I speak English … there’s a lot of gesturing! If he met me in a darkened nightclub, I would be speaking in the finest body language ever. However, it was daylight, and we were bound by the rules of propriety. Not to mention decency.) in a "Are you sure?" kind of way. I couldn’t give him my come-on 2 vices talk (alcohol and boys.) in French, so I just had to kind of … gesture a "No, thanks,"

And off he went on his lonesome self.

I can be sooo stupid sometimes. The Philosopher and I had language problems, but nothing compared to this!!!

At the end of the class – he had hung on to my pen, so I asked for it back, citing that it was my favourite pen. (I can say that perfectly in French, and was very proud). He leapt off his chair (I guess not just 20 year olds have that kind of energy) and excitedly kept chattering with me about the pen. How it was "c’est une brand superbe" and OMG, we have so much in common, yadda yadda yadda.

Mont Blanc, it certainly wasn’t. (Pilot)

Unfortunately, that was the extent of my French. So gulping back all the flirtatious lines I would have had in a second, had we be able to speak in English (Frustratingly, my natural talent was hugely crippled!) I could just look at him dumbly and utter simply … "Er, yes … and could I please have it back?"

Maybe he felt I rejected him? Later on, I bumped into him on the way to my car. Desperate for a last ditch attempt to make things right …. I opened my mouth … and ended up asking him some stupid admin question.

In English.

And just as formally, he spoke back to me. And that was that.

Sigh.

I was full of hope today (start of Week 3). Today was the day, I told myself. Either I get a date, or get asked my phone number or MAKE SOME PROGRESS.

When we were talking about an example that had to do with ironing of clothes, he gestured to his thigh, and smoothened down his trousers. My eyes were, still there, trained to the spot he bloody well pointed out as he continued. He’s a "boy", so he doesn’t iron (living alone and all), hence his trousers are crumpled. But look at my (point to smooth, clean lines on my jeans, thankfully, my dark blue denim ones that make my thighs look so much smaller and contained that they actually are). He didn’t actually touch my thigh … but … well; it all felt very real to me!

Damn him all to hell and back, now I can’t stop thinking about his hand, ON my thigh!

Later on, when queried about an assignment I wasn’t too sure of, he confirmed. "Yes, you have to write a story. A love story." Yeah, baby you and me! ;)

Further on, he was explaining something to me that was at a more advanced level to my class. And he goes, "well, just between you and me" … bla bla bla. His explanation was lost on me as I concentrated on exactly what it is that could be between "vous et moi".

"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself." -Oscar Wilde-

Vive le Vin

Parlez-vous Francais?

It’s funny that the last thing I wrote about was being a teenager. I thought I felt like a teenager because I was with one. Now I realise, my oft quoted "you’re only as old as you feel" is true! Now, I’m nearing 30 (how near, I will not say) but as long as I pass off for 25 – I like to think, anyway! (sometimes 21 when the person complimenting me is being charming) I will only admit to that much! I will not give in and feel the old woman when there’s plenty of beans in me yet! (the jumping lima beans kind)

The man in question (at long last, a man and not a boy!) is 34…. But let me start at the beginning. The last time I had a crush - (oh, gawd, who could forget Mr. "Do you know how big my feet are") it ended in such a ridiculous manner. So you can understand why I’ve been rather hesitant about writing about anything that starts out with such girlish hope and naivete when experience shows that it usually ends in disaster.

That’s why the Philosopher or Jailbait or Rex, even…. They never made these pages until it was all over. No happily ever afters as yet, so its back to Square One for me. There have been a few men since I came back to Malaysia (well, 3 to be exact, 3 in 7 months!) – that I’d at least been attracted to, but nothing really came out of it. Interesting enough stories, but they were over with so quickly, I hadn’t had a chance to post.

But Zizou has lasted 3 weeks now, so one must hope … I know for a fact I will see him for a further 7 weeks, even if nothing comes out of it. But what of these 3 first weeks full of SIGNS? There’s a bloody game of tug-of-war going on, and I’m not sure yet who’s going to come out the winner.

Of course, if I win – well, then … we could both be winners;) (yes, my vow of celibacy went right out the window when I first clapped eyes on him. Anyway, I’ve paid my dues! 7 months now and counting!).

Lets start at the very beginning now, shall we? I’d finally decided to do something with my life. Just sitting around and moaning about not being in Europe and having work worries on top of everything was just getting too damned old! I’m not someone who sits around and complains about my lot in life (well, not for too long, at any rate!) without doing something about it!

Well, granted, the action came about 6 months later, but at least the long-awaited unfurling of my wings has reminded how much fun flying can be! I’ve found a new circle of friends whose company I very much enjoy, and we do things I’d only ever thought about doing! They have certainly reinstated my joie de vivre …. and I thank them for it. Life is indeed for the living!

I’ve restarted my French classes. After umming and er-ring for ages … I finally decided I was going to take the bull by the horns and master this language once and for all. I know if I’m to go where I plan to go, I need to parle le francais tres bien!

So there I was, on my first day … (being reminded me very much of my first day of - well, school or anywhere! And worse, a girl’s school!) There were mostly women (big surprise!) and all looking nervously at one another, sizing each other up. Who’d be Queen Bee? Who’d be the class monitor? Prefect? Geek? The most popular boy in class?

Que the testosterone!

The men walked in together, all in a row. It really was like a meat parade. Not that any of them were all that good looking, but they were all young and not bad looking! And all male! I looked my fair share as well, but I wasn’t at all hopeful. I’d taken French for years now, and none of my teachers had been the kind that conjures up visions of a paramour Francais. (Moet, they weren’t.)

And then he walks in.

Tall (check), dark (check), and omg, handsome – triple check! He was dressed all in white like a Davidoff model on a beach shoot (I’d say Calvin Klein black and white beach shot, but my thoughts weren’t the PG13 kind). White linen shirt and trousers to match … and beautifully tanned feet in sandals. Oh la la!

He looked like Zidane. But with hair … and a tan. He was almost as brown as any Malaysian you may see walking down the street. Delightfully so. I couldn’t take my eyes off the Zidane type piercing stare.

I thought, no way. NFW, will God be so kind and gift this to me.

And who walks into my classroom? With a name as romantic and as French as he looked?

OMFG!

Summertime Sangria

Scheveningen Beach 2007.

"Do you remember,

Or should I rewind,

To that summer when you caught my eye,

I played it cool,

The weather was hot,

You had the beauty and the beach on lock"

There’s this song that’s been getting a lot of airplay on our radio stations that has just stuck in my head. For some reason – and not just the fact it was summer (despite it being summer all year long here in Malaysia), the words reminded me of my last summer, when it was all about fun, frolicking in the sun and teenage love. (despite the fact I was nearly a decade past all that.)

But there was also something strangely familiar about the voices. I’d been trying to get the name of the artists or even the song, but I always seemed to miss the big announcement. Then yesterday, like a blast from the past, I finally caught the D.J saying, "That’s New Kids On the Block, with their hit, Summertime."

If you thought my Il Divo phase was mental, you should’ve met the 12 year old teenybopper that I was. My walls were floor to ceiling plastered with the grinning faces of the "5 bad boys from the Beantown land." I went through all kinds of phases – I adored the squeaky clean Donnie Wahlberg (before the mutilated himself with tattoos and piercings and getting himself arrested for arson.) Then came the dazzling Jordan Knight (I couldn’t see the effeminate persona, I was just awed by that lethal grin, those "luminous eyes" and dance moves.) But in the later years, it was the quiet, always in the shadows, shy and reserved Jonathan Knight I fantasised being swept of my feet with.

Ah, the New Kids on the Block. How apt. I couldn’t stop smiling.

"With your flip flops, half shirt, short shorts, mini skirt,

Walkin’ on the beach, so pretty,

She wasn’t lookin’ for a man,

When you saw me in the sand,

But you fell for the boy from the city"

I was like, "hey, girl, can I get your number"

I remember what you told me too,

"Don’t call after ten"

But you know that I did,

‘Cause I couldn’t stop thinkin’ ’bout you"

Our start was nowhere near that clear cut. I was asked to this party by his "friend", the Surfer Dude, and when I was there, I was half on a date (well, more like a quarter as the date was being shared with 3 other women!). The Philosopher joined me and my new friends just as we were plotting our escape among the largely very young, very drunk and mostly high Dutch speaking crowd.

The Philosopher, like the rest, spoke flawless English but unlike the rest, was happy to keep on conversing with us in English. He seemed to be very interested in our backgrounds, and our corners of the world. He chatted in French to my Canadian and French friends, then was intelligent about Malaysia’s history, culture and even cuisine. He uttered some Malay words that I was gobsmacked that he’d even HEAR about, let alone know what they meant. ("Do you know sambal petai"" left me speechless. Where in the world does petai grow other than Malaysia? I could've even begin to explain it in English, let alone like it!)

We were huddled by the campfire – the cold North Sea air chilled you to the bone, even in the summertime. The Philosopher took a swig from his wine bottle and offered it without a thought to me. I have to admit, I was looking at his pink, still wet cupid’s bow and thinking phwoarrr! Would I like a taste of that! (That’s when I knew he liked me …. And then later when we said goodbye, when he kept hugging me and kissing me on the top of my head.)

But he let me go without asking my number, or having any way of getting in touch with me. Confused, I walked away, after the third longing hug and kiss. I was mumbling to myself when the little French guy I was with stopped in his tracks and went "Wait, you like him?" I didn’t see why I should deny it so I nodded. At that, he turned and sped off back to the party. I had no idea what he was up to, but my phone rang seconds later, and a familiar voice burst out joyfully:

"Can I see you when you’re in Amsterdam this weekend?"

I think about you in the summertime,

And all the good times we had, baby,

Been a few years and I can’t deny,

The thought of you still makes me crazy,

I think about you in the summertime,

I’m sittin’ here in the sun with you on my mind.

You’re my, my summertime.

Happy "Anniversary", my Schatje.