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The Princess Diaries

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Dear Diary

This weekend was just so awesome!! On Friday I hung out at the Meat Market on Derry for the singles party with 15 of my closest girlfriends. I met the most crazy AMAZING guys there diary and at least ten asked me for my number (Amber says I totally would've, like, gotten more if I'd worn my red Stephan Maddens) and although I liked most of them, I'm SO hoping that the banker guy (can't remember his name, it was just, like, SUCH a crazy party diary I can't remember when last I drank so many kirs!!) will call me. Then on Saturday we went to the market and drank beer and ate Chinese pancakes and met the most amazing people and we hooked up with them later for dinner in Cramps Bay and then we (gosh, I'm so happy all my friends are single, so we all go out together whenever I want and have a party) painted the town RED diary, not like a shitty orange red like Amber likes, but like red RED, like crimson red and we danced until FIVE. And then we went to their house for an after party and sat around in the Jacuzzi drinking bubbly. And then on Sunday the banker guy called (his name is Sam Stephan) and we've set a HOT date for Wednesday and gosh diary, the days are packed! Can't wait till Wednesday (totally wearing the Maddens!)!!!

Love you lots,
Dot
XXXXXXXX

So, that's what happened in the parallel universe this weekend.

In my universe, the weekend was far, far less adventurous. Far less juicy. In fact, in this part of the universe there is a veritable drought. The only juice in this universe at the moment comes from the cocoa bean and the Pinotage grape. Preferably enjoyed with people I've known for years, in settings that have non-existent dress codes.

Ain't no raining men nowhere if you get my meaning.

And, right now, I just don't feel bothered about dowsing for them.

Let's put it this way. It's not that I don't want to meet Prince Charming; it's just that I don't feel like hanging out at the ball anymore.

It's just so much effort (not to mention expensive) getting there in the first place, what with gowns and carriages and mice and shoes, and after you've done the rounds of 'how do you do' and shoulder rubbing and coy summings up, it's all just the same blah blah, ball after ball, an endless tragicomedy of near misses.

Excuse me if this sounds jaded. Jaded is something I am not. I am so far from jaded I'm practically iridescent, but I do believe meeting your potential partner should be like the fairytales, where there's never any doubt as to who your prince is – there's always a sign, be it a pea or a glass slipper or a kiss or a special song or a wicked stepmother trying to kill you ... whatever it is, there should be very little effort involved in finding the guy and knowing it's him (shit, that Sleeping Beauty chick didn't even have to get out of bed!).

And, as is evident, I'm all about ease of meet right now.

If Prince Charming could be the guy delivering my take-away pad thai this Saturday night, I'd be most thrilled (as long as his delivery-boy stint was because he owned the chain and someone didn't pitch up for work, or he was some multi-gazillionaire who 'just wanted to try out the real world'...damn this Prince business is an issue whichever way you look at it...).

Ag. I don't know. Maybe all this ambivalence can be blamed on the weather.

Here in the Mother City the winter is still neither here nor there. I might be a summer girl, but, damn, if it's cold it should be raining. This autumnal partly cloudly bs is messing with my mojo. I'm looking for those stormy downpours the Cape is so popular for. A good week or three of rain. And if a hot man happens to drop out of the sky with my name tatooed across his chest and a bottle of pino in the one hand and a tub of pad thai in the other, what more of a sign would I need? See? Easypeasy.

Follow me on my blog here or on Twitter here


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