Any Other Night, by Sharissa

This song was playing when I was out at a club last Saturday with my girlfriends and I couldnt help but smile... One day, one day...

[Verse 1:]
Any other night, you woulda been somewhere with your friends
Any other night, you'd a had things to do (ooh)
Any other night, I woulda been home alone, in my bed
Any other night, I would wanna see you

[chorus]
Boy you picked the wrong time, cause I got company
Boy you picked the wrong time,

yeah I got anotha n*gga layin up with me
Boy you picked the wrong time,

and it coulda been you but you're too busy
Boy you picked the wrong time,

whats a woman to do when shes feelin lonely

[Verse 2:]
Any other night, I'd a had to page you more than once
Any other night, I'd been waitin for your call (yeah)
Any other night you're too damn busy, for me
And any other night, it woulda been good but not tonight

[chorus]
Boy you picked the wrong time, cause I got company
Boy you picked the wrong time, and it woulda been you with me
Boy you picked the wrong time, layin in my bed, in my bed, in my bed
Boy you picked the wrong time, but whats a shorty to do when shes feelin lonely

[Brige:]
Dont be surprised boy, you shoulda known that I,
would not just keep on chasing you around,

I called you cause I wanted to see you

but you said, you were too busy, so i found someone else

[chorus]
Boy you picked the wrong time,

Boy you picked a fine time, to show up
Boy you picked the wrong time, did you get my 2-way,

you didnt answer your phone at home

Boy you picked the wrong time, noooo, yeah..
Boy you picked the wrong time, whats a girl to do..

[Verse 3:]
(Boy you picked the wrong time)
Any other night, it woulda been cool to chill wit Ree
(Boy you picked the wrong time)
And Any other night, you coulda been makin love to me
(Boy you picked the wrong time)
But not tonight, its his night, its his night
(Boy you picked the wrong time)
And any other night, woulda been your night
Boy you picked the wrong time..
Boy you picked the wrong time..
Boy you picked the wrong time....

That 70s Housewife

Saad and I operated in stony silence yesterday, a full 24 hours waging a cold war until late last night when he finally caved and deigned to call me. We had a pleasant enough conversation, made no reference to our argument the previous night, I was more than civil, and yet somehow, am left feeling resolutely dissatisfied. What is it about women who need an explicit acknowledgement of culpability and a grovelling apology before they are even remotely placated?

Right. Rewind. Replay.

We’ve been dating for almost a year and it seems that the things that attracted me to him in the first place are precisely the same things that completely and utterly infuriate me at the end.

Historically, from as far back as I can remember, I have always been wary of commitment and never really dealt very well with the idea of relationships. All that conscientiousness, consideration and organising yourself around someone else, well… it was just a bit much for me really… I like doing my own thing as and when I want, with whomsoever I choose, wherever I decide without having to run it by someone else to start with. O God no, I couldn’t quite bear those invisible handcuffs. Besides, I would much rather have my pick of men instead of ‘man’, because miaowww, there is a deep pool when it comes right down to it!

So when Saad and I first starting spending time together, and I have to admit he got under my skin, I was quite pleasantly surprised by his relaxed, laid back attitude. He never pressured me to meet or questioned my lack of phone calls or scrutinised my social diary. He was never jealous of the time I spent with platonic guy friends and some not so platonic ones, and didn’t even raise an eyebrow at the various exes who, for whatever reason, enjoyed calling round. Compared to my previous boyfriends, most of whom were generally obsessive compulsive, possessive suicidal wrecks, this was unimaginably liberating. Finally, here’s a guy who is confident enough in himself and in me to let me have my own life and yet keen enough to integrate me into his.

And therein lies the problem. Whilst I had initially though that Saad was demonstrating an acute sensitivity to my needs as a chronic commitment-phobe and therefore practiced an unmistakable maturity in giving me my independence and breathing space, it was in fact his innate inability to plan his time or make any plans at all despite the various state of the art PDA’s within his possession.

Literally a case of being so laid back, he’s horizontal, it never occurs to him to find out what my diary looks like or how that might fit in with his plans and certainly the idea of planning a “date” (like a real date, where we go to dinner and then the movies, or just drinks with me) is entirely alien. Somehow, it inevitably comes down to me to make sure we make time for each other every week. In fairness, that’s not to say that he’s not interested in seeing me, for he consistently pops up on my doorstep unannounced and spends a huge portion of his time at my apartment. He even has hanging space in my wardrobe, a shelf in my storage cupboard and toiletries in my bathroom.

So what’s the problem?

Well the problem is that he just doesn’t seem that interested. Laid back? Yes. Relaxed? Yes. Integrating? No. Keen? Not so sure. After all, what if I’m busy? What if I’m not home? What if I’m sleeping? What if I have guests? What if the only days I’m free are the days that he isn’t? What makes him so sure that I will be around if he doesn’t secure his time with me? And more importantly, why doesn’t that bother him? Is it because he thinks that I will always make myself available to him? Or that he’s just not that fussed whether he sees me or not.

Either way, whatever it is, it’s not good.

To make matters worse, what prompted the cold war was not just his failure to make any plans with me this week but the fact that he was able to make various plans with any number of his various friends except me.

Bad sign when the “boys” take priority over the “chick”.

So I finally snapped (again).

…

Perhaps the greater injustice is that he seems quite content to have me play “wife”, charged with decorating his new apartment, hosting his dinner parties, organising his legal affairs, counselling his younger brothers whilst simultaneously playing the glamorous girlfriend and effectively running the show, but not, in fact, invited to the show. Now if I didn’t know any better, I would have said that this was a bad case of the 1977 Housewife (v2) upgraded to the 2007 special edition. But then again, do I know any better?

Builder Boys and Builder's Bums

I was hit on by a builder again today. I don’t know why, but somehow builders like me. Like really, really like me. Ordinarily this would be a good thing I suppose, but that operates on the basis that all London builders are built like porn stars with rock hard abs, tousled dark hair that would be heaven to run your fingers through and a natural golden tan to match those puppy dog brown eyes…

Now back to earth.

The London builder however, is none of the above, grey, skinny and stubbly or young, large and flabby. Either way, it’s far from encouraging. Yes ladies and gentlemen, “builders bum” looks even less appetising than it sounds… Add the receding hairline or the overhanging beer gut – well, let’s just say you couldn’t pay me to even consider the idea.

Still, credit where credit is due, in my experience at least, and as far as the dating game goes, builders seem to quite categorically represent the “Alpha Male”. Confident, forward and yet charming, they always have a slight boyishness to them and a wicked sense of humour. They are personable, engaging in conversation and seem genuinely interested in what I have to say, and I know this because of the well placed comments or follow-up questions to the thread of conversation that have nothing to do with my breasts, bum or legs. Not that I have any issue with men looking at my breasts, on the contrary, it’s quite flattering. But it takes a real man to create an illusion of real interest in my person over that of carnal desire for my body. And from there perhaps, might be lucky enough to generate the chemistry required to seal the physical deal with my body.

Anyway, back to the builders –

They are generally quite rough around the edges I find, but that’s as a man should be. They also seem to operate with a straight forward honesty that is lacking in so many of the City types. Straight-up and straight talking, they will tell it like it is, tell me I’m fine, state their intentions and ask me out. The ‘No Frills 3 Step Approach’. No games.

So far, in my rather extensive encounters with various builder types, and it is extensive I can tell you that much – for a City as old and as flat as London, there is a surprising amount of building work going on! As I was saying, in my extensive experience, my ‘builder boys’ have never been pretentious and have never tried to impress with just exactly how big their cars/houses/bank balances/etc are. Okay, so maybe that’s because they don’t have any of those things, but that’s not the point. Why can’t the lawyers/doctors/engineers or bankers (and we all know that they’re the worst of the lot!) take a lesson. The number of times I’ve had to sit in with the City boys all loudly outraged over their ‘meagre’ six figure bonuses this year was just tiresome. Yeah, okay I get it. You’re rich. And what? As Catherine Tate would say “Look at this face. Am I bovvered??”

And another thing, I’ve also noticed that my tailored suits, designer heels or must-have, oversized sunglasses never seem to faze them either. I like that. I really like that. Why is it that these ‘builder boys’ seem to be so much more self assured than these other ‘professional’ types, the ones whom society at large would consider to have made it in life? The ones who have great jobs, nice cars, plush penthouses, more than healthy bank balances yet somehow can’t screw up the courage to talk to a pretty girl in a suit?

Maybe what I’m trying to say is “More power to the people” or rather “to the Builders”. They seem a genuinely likeable lot, and although I can’t comment on this authoritatively, give me the impression that they would take really good care of a girl like me…

O. God. I'm going to be Fired!

9.49 p.m. and still at work. I guess that’s the price to be paid for lounging around in the sunshine all day. Well what can I say? Summer in London lasts all of three days and today was one of them. What with the view from my office, overlooking a crooked little sunshine speckled street and the sky as blue as it was, the pink gerbera’s outside my window sill calling my name, or as good as. Really, I was doomed from the word go.

If only I could pass off my time in the park as careful and analytical ruminations plotting out the next strategic step on any of the variety of projects on my desk. Yeah, if only…

Sigh… one must pay for her deviances so here I am…

Yet somehow, still not working and writing this instead. Obviously, I’m a sucker for punishment.

O yeah, someone’s going to get a P45 tomorrow…

Tomorrow begins the day of reckoning. I’ve slacked off all of last Friday, again for the same sun worshipping reason and today well… what?? It’s not like I planned it. It just happened… Honest!

Hmmm. I wonder if that excuse will be any more effective in the office tomorrow than when a cheating lover is caught in the act? Probably not.

O. God. I’m going to get fired.

Here’s a thought: Do any of you ever wonder where your boyfriend’s go when they’re not at home? And why they always say “I’m going to meet a “friend?”’ Well of course, they’re going to meet a friend!!! Who else would they be meeting? Surely not an enemy!!!???

Well I suppose my P45 might not necessarily have to be a bad thing. Who can argue with endless days of lounging around doing nothing, sleeping in till lunchtime, picnics in the park, all night DVD marathons… or sex-athons? Now there’s an idea… until reality sets in and rents have to be paid, bills to be settled, groceries to be purchased – Life is expensive.

Cue rich boyfriend who supplements extravagant tastes… and maybe that’s why we never ask where they’re going, or indeed who they are doing it with…

So on that note: I had best start some work to avoid that very same predicament…

My Ex-Boyfriend’s Best Friend

I had lunch with my ex-boyfriend’s best friend today. Incidentally, he’s also one of my best friends – how that worked for him playing “piggy-in-the-middle” I never quite figured out, particularly given our messy break up, but it never seemed to phase either of them way back in the day. Or at least, if it did, it was a closely guarded secret between the two best friends and something I would never have been privy to. Having said that, I suspect the lad never quite caught on to just exactly how much of a bond his best mate and I shared. Now, don’t get me wrong, Taye and I have never hooked up, at least not in the way you’re thinking. All I’m saying is that had the roles been reversed, I may or may not have been entirely comfortable with it myself. But then again, that too would have been my jealously guarded secret.

In any event, Taye was passing through on business and as per usual we jumped at every incidental opportunity to steal a few moments together in the sun. Quintessentially London, we chose to sit outside a small side street café, on a crooked cobbled stone street in tribute to our elusive summer sun, who for whatever reason, had finally deigned to show his face. We caught up over the usual City Worker’s staple sandwich lunch and crisp diet, swapping stories since our last meeting some six weeks ago.

So I’m seeing someone new now, after a year and a half of being on my own (and not for want of offers either). I mean sure, hook ups – there had been a few, perhaps more than a few to be fair, but a real adult relationship, I had, until late last year, been bolting like a deer on ‘Speed’. Part of it stemmed from fear. My ex and I had had after all, big plans for our future. Despite my chronic commitment issues, I was ready to marry the man. Sometimes, I think, you just know…

But then again what am I saying? Here I am two years down the line with someone entirely different all together. Well, I guess that doesn’t necessarily make him any less the man for me than what he was two years ago. Regardless, all purely academic. This entry is not at all about my ex, but rather the connection that Taye and I share. Yet somehow, despite the fact that Taye and I have shared deeper and darker secrets, and quite apart from the fact that I am completely content and happy with this gem of a lad I quite clearly adore, I found myself intrinsically incapable of articulating to Taye any aspect of my now not-so-new relationship or even any element of emotional content pertaining to the new man. So I stammered and stuttered and finally coughed up a feeble “er, yeah… he’s good. Uh, yeah, we’re good. Yeah, good…”

What was that about?

It must be blindingly obvious, but still, I can’t seem to figure out why?