CBMused

From my travels:

“Eww… that’s disgusting!” she said in a sharp voice that caught my attention.
“Ugh… dreadful. Tasteless,” he replied with equal repugnance.
“I wouldn’t eat there! Dreadful.”

I looked at them both expecting an elderly couple expressing their distaste at the sign advertising a café only to find an ordinary looking couple in their twenties.

And I wanted to slap a sense of humour into both of them.

Ah… to me a man!

Remember this and what he said to me? Go on… click on it and skim read the post to the part where he speaks. I promise it’s worth the read.

It happened once again. I thought I had mentioned it in another post but I must have deleted it out of boredom.

Yesterday, strike three. I was returning home from a run and was greeted by the barrage of compliments below. It works best if you read it with a Spanish accent, very fast, without pausing for breath, hence the lack of punctuation.

Heloo. how are you? nice to see you you are so beautiful you make me so happy that I see you this morning I was coming here to clean and I pray to god I see you remember last time I said you’re so beautiful Aïe Aïe Aïe you make my life very happy if I had a woman as beautiful as you I would be the happiest man on earth You have a man? A husband? Children? (wtf?!?!?) He must think every morning what a lucky man he is what is your name my name is Felipe you have made me so happy today I can go home and thank god for making me see you I can tell you all this and no one would know Just you and me you are so beautiful bless you may god bless you beautiful…

When I finally got a word in, I said thank you, you’re a nice man to say such things, have a good day. Then I quickly I opened my front date and locked it behind me and disappeared inside.

What the hell was that all about?

Let me describe the scene. I was in no way ‘beautiful’. Every woman knows herself. Granted the first time he saw me, I looked good in a causal summer dress, a suntan and sunglasses. The second time he saw me in jeans, boots and a casual top. But yesterday I wore a daggy old tracksuit that is most unflattering to my figure, a cap that covered half my head and messy hair. My face was mostly hidden behind big sunglasses. I was hot and sweaty from a run, having huffed and puffed up a hill. Damn ugly, wouldn’t you say?

After I locked the front the door, I felt creeped out all of a sudden. It wasn’t a sweet compliment like the first time. And it bugged the hell out of me.

So I’m asking you for your opinion. Am I overreacting to a compliment or is this a creepy man?

I slip my arms through the long coat and button all the way up to the collar. It feels heavy and warm on my frame. I tie a woollen scarf around my neck and get ready to go out. I sink my hands deep in the pockets. And I feel them. I trace the pad of my finger around their edge. I feel the corners. I hold them in my hands and squeeze.

And they take me back.

To that cold evening in the middle of winter, to the chic city pub where we all met and huddled, to the stories and laughter, to the beer and vodkas, to the smell of barbecue chicken on skewers, to the quiet affirmations, to the recent past when everyone had worked together.

An evening like many before it but unlike any other.

To walking around town looking for another venue. To letting the boys have their way in a private room, down a dark dingy place with sticky floors and a hose-down vinyl couch. To the dodgy drinks and deafening tunes over microphones that screeched. To the moment when it got way too loud and body language spoke.

And when the time was up, and the two token girls entwined arms with the merry boys, there were trains to catch and buses to ride. Long goodbyes were said as one quickly relieved himself on an old park tree. The collective thought of what an evening we just had echoed throughout time, an evening still fondly remembered by all.

I remove the cards from my pockets and take another look. Two complimentary passes to an upmarket strip bar with pole dancing where the boys didn’t want to go but the girls didn’t mind. It is time to leave. I put the cards back in my coat pockets. I walk out the door into the icy breeze, and smile.

Anyone who has perused this site’s archives would not miss the Martini references scattered throughout various posts, images, footer credits and now the new chic banner I have designed. Apart from my appreciation for the art of mixing a good Martini and partaking in this libation, it has somewhat become a celebratory ritual.

The Martini Life may have its roots in opulence, stylish fashions and a nostalgic bygone era triggering visions of elegantly dressed men and women imbibing or posing with the drink. Granted, there is an element of decadence when your freezer is replenished with Vodka and Gin, and olives and lemon twists have a ubiquitous place in your fridge. However, this new mantra by which I live is not a reflection of a decadent carefree lifestyle, but the reverse.

When focussed on a half full glass, we neither see above or below the line, nor do we move forward or in reverse. In making a good Martini, we measure the spirit level, carefully deciding how much an olive would contribute to filling a glass, or if a lemon zest provides the desired zing. With a shaken Martini, the focus is on the mix, not the level of the liquid. And when a toast is made, the first sip taken with eyes briefly closed, and the glow of the potion seeps through the mind and body, the ritual becomes a celebration of life itself.

Towards the end of last year, I was inspired by a friend’s new mantra on life. He began celebrating little achievements as and when they occur instead of waiting for the big picture. I decided to follow suit and started living the Martini Life.

Be it a celebration of a minor milestone, the completion of a tough task, finally redecorating that room or replacing that small appliance you have always put off, even a quiet little achievement in writing, they are all reasons that befit a Martini toast to celebrate the small things in life.

Just as mixing different types of spirits strengthens their alcoholic content, the celebration of small achievements that make you feel good has a compound effect on overall happiness and well-being.

And that is how I live my Martini Life.

At exactly 7.18 am today, cbmused.com clocked its 10,000 hits. A small milestone, I agree but one that deserves a mention, if only to thank every one of you for your support and your visits. The lucky winner, drumroll…. I am thrilled to announce wasn’t a random search for French manicure in a man, but none other than the Flamboyant Egan.

1,Martini cheers for you, Monsieur Singe!

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While on the subject of blogger friends, a Martini Cheer goes to the gorgeous Lil Bit with the “purple soul” who has given me and General Boy the Brilliant Weblog Premio 2008 award. And for being sharp eyes with discreet minds, we get to share in her alphabet cookies. I’m not usually a sharing type of person, but having known Gboy for a while, as I like to call him, it’s an honour to be mentioned together. But I get to eat cookie C and Z for-zed-not-zee, okay?

A warm Martini cheer to both Lil Bit and Gboy!

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Thanks for all your responses to this week’s post, In the Buff. Although I asked intimate questions, it has raised some interesting facts and as a result I started a little experiment as I described in the comments. If anyone is willing to try something different, as it was mentioned by a couple of comments, please feel free to add to the comments here and I will keep comments open longer than the usual period.

And a Martini cheer goes to sleeping in the buff!

Have a great weekend everyone!