I loves me this song: Mr Hudson & The Library - Upon The Heath. It reminds me of sunny London afternoons full of lazy mischief.
Apparently Kanye West thinks they’re the shiz too. Tsk, he just wants to be me 
One of the dating possibilities that’s only just occurred to me is the romancing of younger men. Sometimes I’m slow off the mark like that…
From my first [insert air quotes] serious relationship aged 18 with a man 12 years my senior, I’ve always been on Team Older Man. Even the fact he was allergic to his own sweat and had a penchant for faux leopardskin didn’t dull his old-dude allure.
*Coughs* Unresolved father issues *Coughs*.
So imagine my surprise having just entered my third decade to find that nubile young men are coming out of the woodworks, all [insert ghetto voice] F.I.N.E. and showing interest in ‘lil ole me.
Is it my worldy air? My old-lady squishiness? Or did they read about me on the men’s toilet wall?
Whether it’s all or none of the above, I’m looking forward to seeing where this new trend goes. Specifically with the 25-year-old Brazilian model I’m seeing this weekend.
Does anyone know the Portuguese for ‘Well, if it’s good enough for Madonna…’?
Love this article in the weekend’s Observer. Join the Fauja Singh Appreciation Society on Facebook here.
Ohhh, I’m rubbish at this blogging business, aren’t I? After an initial flurry of activity I haven’t posted for almost two months. Yikes. And I never did get around to trying to pick up random boys in bike shop. Humph.
What I did do, however, was fly to my London for a week and catch up with some of my favourite peeps in the world, and I’m currently in Australia with more of my faves preparing to celebrate my 30th tomorrow. Yikes.
I don’t know about you, but I’m a big fan of lists. I should clarify - not guest-lists or shopping lists, but Life Lists (yes, I am aware that the capital letters make me sound like a Tosser, but what are you going to do, eh?) So I thought I’d share with you Shoeboobies’ Dirty 30s Travel Life List (work in progress).
Writing it put a completely new spin on my bday. Less ‘Doom dooooommmm’, more ‘Ohhhhhh yeeeeaaah!’ And part of me thinks that just the act of writing these things down sets the cosmic wheels in motion.
Feel free to write me if there’s anything you think I should add:
Here’s hoping it’s not so long between posts next time.
* Not my ass, unfortunately.
As I edge towards my 30th year, there are surprisingly few things of which I am certain.
A list, you say? Well OK then.
1. Ummm…
2. Well there’s…
3. Death
*Ahem*. Can I start again?
Foot, Meet Mouth
As I hurtle cruelly towards my 30th year, there’s only one thing of which I am certain: drop me in a social situation that calls for even a sliver of coolness and I will invariably muff it up.
There was the time I referred to myself as the ‘Nancy Drew of metrics’ during a job interview. Or the time I blew kisses at my CFO because I couldn’t decide if it was appropriate to kiss his cheek or shake his hand.
Add a cute boy to the mix and, well, I’m pretty much screwed. Picture if you will:
Shoeboobies and beau whom she thinks is The Shiz gazing adoringly into one another’s eyes as they lie on her single bed in a flat overrun by backpacking antipodeans somewhere in West London.
Shoeboobies: [Gushy sigh]
Former Beau: Oh, oh, ouch, owww.
Shoeboobies: [Alarmed but still adoring] What is it?
Former Beau: Owww, I’ve got my foot caught
Shoeboobies: [Sexily] Well, count yourself lucky if that’s the only thing you catch, Baby…
THE END
I know. Hots, right?
Which is why the thought of putting my money where my blog is and testing some of the dating tips in ‘Cosmo’s Guide to Meeting More Guys!’ (US Edition, June ’09, pg 108) has got me clenching muscles I didn’t know I had.
Let’s review the material, shall we?
‘Fresh Meet Markets’.
1. Local Campaign Headquarters
2. Long Tables at Restaurants
3. The Lunch Line at Chipotle
4. Behind the Scenes at a Big Event
5. Dodgeball or Kickball Leagues
6. Dude-Specific Book Signings
7. Sneaker Boutiques
8. Bike Co-ops
Hmmm. Which to choose? Alas, 1,4, 5, and 6 are out as they involve pre-planning.
2’s also a no-go - I am lanky of leg and inevitably flash my undercrackers when attempting to sit at long tables.
Chipotle? And say what? ‘Did you know that burrito has over 1,000 calories?’ (Knowing me, yes.)
By the process of elimination it’ll have to be 8: A bike co-op. Where, according to Cosmo, I should ‘ask a cutie there to show [me] a nearby trail.’
Wish me luck!
Ummm, one last thing… What’s a Bike Co-Op?
My brother, upon hearing about my new bloggity-blog-blog… blog, told me that all future conversations are strictly off the record.
I’m almost certain he meant starting tomorrow…
Seems you say ‘blog about dating’ and boys hear ‘means by which to virtually grab hold of a man’s testes and ram them firmly up his left nostril, via the colon.’ Or something.
So I’d like to take this opportunity to briefly outline what Shoeboobies is. And what it ain’t.
IS
- Low-brow analysis of articles and books females consume in order to Get. The. Guy.
- Catalogue of ways I make a tit of myself through the medium of dating
AIN’T
- Means by which to virtually grab hold of a man’s testes and ram them firmly up his left nostril, via the colon
So listen up, boys, ‘cause I’m only going to say this once…
I like you.
I like your shoulders.
I like the way you smell.
I like that you can strike big, important business deals but you can’t remember not to scratch your bollocks in public
WHEN ONLY THE BEST WILL DO FOR YOUR BOLLOCKS
I like that you don’t count calories.
I like that you’re always up for a laugh.
Hell, I even like the way you look naked
I don’t pretend to understand you, but I like you.
Now you know, and I know, Cosmo gets guys.
So when they say they can ‘plant me in the path of dozens of quality cuties’, then hells, I adopt the brace position and prepare for the man-pede.
But when my eager eyes drift from the article’s tagline to the full-page photo opposite, I begin to wonder…
*NOT ACTUAL PICTURE FROM MAGAZINE! JUST A DRAWING!*
The three shirtless men-folk flexing their muscley bits are plenty purdy, with nein a hair on their sculpted torsos (and I looked so hard I crinkled the paper with my breath).
Note to Cosmo: I’ve already met plenty of these guys. We sing Kylie together, and discuss the merits of being a Top VS a Bottom while quaffing Appletinis.
And for the love of Ryan Seacrest, if you want me to put my lack-lustre lovelife in your capable hands, puh-lease, nix the men’s skinny white jeans. I like a man I can spill on (without risk of being biatch-slapped by his boy bangles).