The Secret Life of Melanie O.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
You can tell a man by his jeans
In the Vietnam era, every person under the age of 40 started to live in jeans. Jeans came off the farm and the mines, and into haute couture with Gloria Vanderbilt's black jeans. Jeans are great - you can dress them up or down, you don't need to wash them every time you wear them, and they're sturdy.

Some men (and women) shouldn't wear jeans. Jeans don't look good on everyone. If you're a curvy woman (like me), it's difficult to find a pair of jeans that flatter your figure. Jeans are honest - they don't lie about your shape (or anything else.)

I have a theory that you can tell what kind of man you are dealing with, by the kind of jeans he wears. Basically, there are four categories - all of whom I have either dated or been married to.

Guy Number One's jeans are always new or immaculate. He is always buying a new pair every few months, and tosses the older pairs away as soon as they a) get stained, b) get a hole in them c) go out of style or d) lose that crisp "new" feel. Beware this guy. He is always looking for what's new, flash, and hip. He changes girlfriends almost as often as he changes his socks. He won't commit to anything, especially not to you. You'll never be good enough. No one's good enough. Except for Mom.

Guy Number Two is Mr Half and Half. Half of his jeans are dressy, immaculate, and stylish. He wears them out with Italian boots and silk shirts to European style restaurants, but he has one or two pair of old, sloppy jeans at home. Maybe one's got a rip at the knees. This guy is the kind that's good at keeping up appearances, but when at home, likes what's comfortable and familiar. Overall, not a bad thing unless you look at his sex life. He likes having the comfort of a wife, but the excitement of having someone "on the side." It's worth giving him the benefit of the doubt, but as soon as he starts throwing away all of his "comfy" jeans, you know you're in trouble.

Guy Number Three's jeans are all at least three years old. They're all a bit big on him. There are holes at the knees and the seams are a bit ragged. He never wears a belt with them. The pockets have holes in them. His jeans see the washing machine maybe once a season - when they're nice and stiff. Beware this guy. He's charming, but irresponsible. He'll seem committed, but really, he just can't be bothered looking around for someone else. He still thinks he has a chance to become a Rock Star. If he has underwear, it's old and the elastic is tired and worn out - if he wears underwear at all. His appearance is a plea for a responsible woman to keep him in the manner to which he'd like to be accustomed.

Guy Number Four is what any woman would call a "catch." Most of his jeans are comfy, fit well, and are a little worn, but not falling apart. Some of them have motor oil or dirt stains on them. These are a working man's jeans. He uses his jeans for more than show. Jeans that show that a guy isn't afraid of getting down and getting dirty, without falling apart, is the best of all. This guy has premium jeanetic makeup and is welcome to mix in my jean pool.
posted by Melanie O. at 8:53 PM - 0 comments
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Hair, hair, everywhere
When I was growing up in the 60's and 70's, nothing much was said about a woman's body hair. The only "hairless is better" ads I ever remember seeing on TV were for Neet and Nair, but I never knew anyone who used them, with the exception of my grandmother, who, at the age of 60, found a hygienic way of disposing of her upper lip hair.

No one in my high school regularly shaved their legs. We were too interested in having the perfect Farrah Fawcett hairdo. Many of us girls didn't shave our underarms, except in summer, and no one had even heard of, much less contemplated, a Brazilian or Bikini wax. Guys back then didn't seem bothered by body hair, as long as we didn't have more than they did. Getting rid of body hair was for the Olympic swimmers. In fact, we girls firmly believed that too much shaving was a sure sign that someone was sexually active and, of course, that meant that girl was a slut. You didn't want to be a slut in my predominantly Catholic high school. Gossip could ruin you in those days. Exactly how it would ruin you, was a bit more uncertain, but we felt sure that, if your reputation was tarnished, you'd wind up married to an adulterer and be working the rest of your life in the local IGA as a check-out chick.

As I got older, however, hairy women seemed to go out of fashion, thanks, in great part, to the porn industry of the 1990's, which wanted to make sure that every bit of a woman's anatomy was visible to the camera. Guys who watched porn, expected their girlfriends and wives to look the same as the women on screen. I'll never forget the first comment a guy made to me about my hairy legs: "You need to shave." His subtlety knew no bounds. The hairy woman had plummeted from being an object of wholesomeness, to being a social retard who didn't like men or go out on dates.

I first tried shaving my legs at an early age and wound up skillfully removing a long strip of seven layers of skin on the back of my heel. As the blood poured forth from my wound, I thought there had to be a better way. I used my meager pocket money to buy a cream depilatory. I followed the directions. I softened the hair with warm water, slathered my legs in depilatory, and checked after the required twenty minutes. Forty-five minutes later, my leg hair was still there. Those suckers wouldn't budge. I went back to shaving using a man's triple-bladed razor. I tried to see how long I could go before the stubble got to a point where it stabbed me in a hundred places when I crossed my legs. Once I started shaving, I couldn't stop. I had to shave my legs and "bikini line" at least three times a week. And my underarms? Every single freakin' day.

A few boyfriends later, I was told "You're supposed to shave all the way up," in reference to my upper legs. Of course, the guy who told me "to shave all the way up" turned out to be married, but apparently, my imperfections were the ones worth pointing out.

For the past couple of decades, I have been stuck in a never-ending cycle of shaving, depilatories, and plucking, and I'm sick of it. I must spend a vast fortune every year on disposable razors. I have noticed that other women I chat with, are sick of it, too. Why the hell do we need to look like a porn star? We don't have pneumatic breasts and we don't get paid heaps of money to have sex. My new mantra will become "when you pay me like a porn star, I'll look like a porn star."

Of course, because hairlessness is such the norm these days, there's a backlash coming. Web sites are springing up that sing the praises of hairy, "natural" women. Hairy legs and hairy pubic areas are displayed in full color, like exotic flowers. I wish I could be one of them. I think it's going to be an uphill battle. Today, my husband handed me a razor while I was in the bath. He shaves twice a week. And wears a beard. Life is so unfair.
posted by Melanie O. at 7:48 PM - 3 comments
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Darwin was wrong
According to Darwin's Theory of Evolution, humans descended from ape-like creatures. I beg to differ. Men descended from ape-like creatures. Women, I'm convinced, descended from fish - or at least, I did. What makes me think this? Well, here is the evidence:

My husband stays warm no matter what the outside temperature. It can be hovering around the freezing point, and he is outside, working, in shorts. Granted, he has nice legs and should show them off, but in the middle of winter, when everyone else is wearing a jacket and a hat?

As for me, I wear a jacket in the summer. Too much air conditioning gives me goose pimples. My husband swears that if he ever has to cross the Sahara desert, he's taking me with him because I will find the coldest spot in the daytime. We can go hiking and work up a sweat, but my hands will still feel (*dare I say it?*) clammy.

Add to this, our ideal vacations:
His - staying at home and playing with tools in the garage
Hers - sun-drenched beaches, snorkling on a coral reef, and cold drinks

Personal hygiene:
His - quick shower
Hers - leisurely bath complete with head immersed in water and outside world shut off. Bubbles a bonus. (Little diving man and plastic treasure chest not required.)

His - action packed, man-grunting, explosions, babes, typhoons, disasters
Hers - placid, romantic comedies, teary-eyed blubbering, "intellectual"

General attributes:
Him - Perpetually child-like. Thinks farts are funny. Likes loud music and playing in the dirt.
Her - Constant dazed look from having too many distractions. Prefers soothing sounds and staying clean.

Need I say more?

posted by Melanie O. at 8:24 PM - 2 comments
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Birth control
Warning: bringing a woman into your life will change it forever. Sure, sex on demand is great - if only it was on demand. You will find, as a man, that women have control over your love life.

A woman's life goes in cycles. Why do you think those pagans held all of those festivals on the full moon? All the women in the tribe were fertile then. Think about it - they all had cycles that were in synch with the moon. This gave each woman in the tribe the equal chance of passing their genes on because they were all fertile at the same time. You can see this amazing natural phenomenon in action in a college dorm, where the inhabitants' monthly cycles will slowly come into synch with each other.

Imagine being the father of girls, like my father was. In any given month, there was a household of three women, all with PMS at the same time. The monthly expense in paper and hygiene products was enough to cover the GNP of a small country. You could mark the occasion of PMS by observing the sailing of pots and pans across the room, and the echo of expletives on the air. Fortunately for my father, he had a garage and a hobby car: a 1936 Packard. If you are a man reading this and are contemplating marriage or cohabitation, plan ahead and make sure you have a hobby like bowling, auto restoration, or iceberg sailing, for safe escape.

Now, for every down side, there is an up side. The up side is a woman's fertile time. She will be raging with hormones and you'll be wondering just what she did to earn her pocket money in college. Imagine your surprise when she turns from being a placid being, into a wild woman who exhausts you and leaves you with your eyeballs spinning. You'll almost be able to feel the hair growing on your chest. Most men love this time in the cycle. But they also fear it, because this fertile time can also mean unplanned pregnancy. As with most fun things in life, the amount of raging hormones a woman has, is in direct proportion to the laxness of her application of contraceptives. Therefore, the man, should he not want to pass his genes on, will have to take extra precautions, himself.

Men are ripped off in the contraception department. Women have all kinds of things available to them: pills, sponges, creams, gels, barriers (*Hey you! yeah you! Let me see some ID!*), and flannel pajamas. Men are limited to one thing and one thing only. Condoms. BORING. Men hate them. They don't want to use them, but they have fun playing with them - blowing them up into huge balloons and wearing them on their head. So, I have some ideas for making condoms that men will actually use:

Condoms should have cars printed on them. They wouldn't look like anything in their original rolled up condition, but as they are unrolled and expand - hey! Look! It's a midnight blue Maserati GT! Each condom could be a "surprise." You won't know what hot sportscar you're wearing until you put it on. Larger sizes could be printed with Monster Trucks.

Condoms could have a nudie pinup printed on them that only appears when the condom is warmed up to body temperature. You know, like those color change novelty "stripper" glasses. Who's it this time? Why, it's Penthouse Playmate April '98! Or, for those with other tastes, Mr. Universe, 2002.

They could come with coupons: bring in proof of purchase for twenty packs, get free tickets to see AC/DC!

Condoms could come with complimentary cigarettes for those who like to smoke afterwards. *Gentlemen, try our new Stuff 'n Puff pack. Now, in menthol!*

Now, what guy wouldn't want to use those? I mean, c'mon. He'd be chomping at the bit to use them. Somewhere, there's someone in product development who has really fallen down on the job. Pass the Viagra.
posted by Melanie O. at 8:20 PM - 3 comments
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Butch the cat
My husband and I don't have any kids of our own, so we adopted one. He currently weighs about 8 pounds and has beautiful blue eyes. He's his father's pride and joy. His name is Butch. He's a Ragdoll cat, and has got to be the most cuddly, mushy cat in existence.

Cats are the perfect pet for sensuous people. Their fur is soft, like a rabbit's, they're playful, and love to snuggle when you've decided to make yourself comfortable on the sofa. One of Butch's favorite games is called "Ambush." And it doesn't take any special equipment to play. Just walk past him when he's in a mood, and you'll feel soft little paws batting your ankles as if he's trying to capture you. Of course, rules of the game dictate that you must chase Butch down the hall, catch him, tickle him, and run away again.

My husband is a Cat Man. It takes a certain kind of man to be a Cat Man. He can't be someone who wants to control a pet and make it obedient to his commands. He has to be the kind of guy who wants a pet he can respect. He has to be the kind of guy who sneers at wimpy, cowering, tail-between-its-legs pets. No drooling, barking, hole-digging, neighborhood menacing Disney dogs!

No! He's the kind of guy who swears ... when he has to throw away his work bag because the cat peed in it. He also has to be good at giving the cat his medication.

Butch, while being a loveable ball of fluff, is also a sickly cat. We had to rush him to the emergency clinic one night a couple of months ago, when it became painfully obvious that he couldn't breathe. Fluid had collected in his lungs to a point where he had less than 20% lung capacity. One emergency operation, lots of tears, consternation, and $600 later, Butch could breathe again, but now he has allergies and is perpetually sneezing and snuffling. He snores louder than my husband now.

One would think that my husband would get tired of trying to force medication into a cat who thanks us by throwing up on the carpet. No so Dan, who is doggedly determined (excuse the pun) to make sure that Butch is around for a few more years. Butch is our Toilet Troll and lap warmer. My husband calls him "my little man." You've not seen anything until you've seen a 6'3" truck driver turn to mush over his pet. Who needs kids? I'm married to one.
posted by Melanie O. at 4:45 PM - 0 comments
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Real men ask for directions
My husband is the exact opposite of the men you hear about. You know, the ones who forget birthdays and anniversaries. The ones who forget to call you if they're coming home late. The ones who always have to figure it out on their own and who won't ask for directions.

I wouldn't call him a Metrosexual. I hate that term anyway. It gives me visions of overweight guys with desk jobs, who wear Armani suits and drive "Beamers." My husband drives a Beamer, but it's a 1986 model in need of a lot of body work due to a run-in with a kangaroo late one night. (But that's another story.)

No, my husband can fix things, but he knows when he has to call in a professional for the job. This past year, we've paid for locksmiths, the washer repair man, and the telephone technician. We've also gotten a lot of repairs done on the ol' Beamer (named Hildegaard.) We had another Beamer named Chloe (a 1990 318i.) What a bitch she was! High maintenance - a real "taker." I heaved a sigh of relief when I traded her in for my reliable little economy car.

My husband looks equally sexy in jeans or in dress pants and a collared shirt. The one thing he can't stand, however, is a tie. He won't wear ties. He will wear Italian leather boots, however.

He drives a truck for a living. You know, one of the Big Ones, with a trailer, for hauling around container boxes at the port. They come in off the ships, get quarantined, emptied, and then stacked in a container yard. He gets paid good money for hauling them around all day. You'd think that might make him a bit rough around the edges - but no. He loves Classical music. He reads more than I do (right now he's reading Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything.)

I never thought I'd be married to a Blue Collar guy. I grew up in a household where my mother was a teacher and my father worked with computers. So, I always assumed I'd be married to a guy with a desk job. I was married to this kind of man. Our marriage just kind of faded away.

I'll take my diamond in the rough any day over the guy with the desk job. My husband thinks he got a "glamour babe" when we got married. I hate to tell him, I got the better end of the deal. I'm the one who tends to forget dates. I'm the one who forgets to call. I'm the one who always has to figure it out on her own and won't ask how to do things. He's the one who asks for directions.

Today, he's been fixing things. He was so excited, and just exclaimed to me:

"I think I just pulled a hat trick, my darling! First the curtain brackets, then the phone, and now the TV! And I fixed the toilet seat. This should get me laid for a month!"

Did I mention that he can read my mind, too?

*Addendum: he just pulled some glow-in-the-dark plastic stars off the bedroom ceiling. They had been left behind by the previous tenants' kids and we've been meaning to get rid of them for months. He just walked in, tapped on my desk with his screwdriver, and proclaimed: "Six weeks."

posted by Melanie O. at 3:31 PM - 0 comments
Friday, October 14, 2005
Why I love model trains
I commute to work every day. It's not an easy commute. First, I have to drive to the railway station, which is about 15 minutes away. I then have to fight with other hassled commuters to find a place to park. I then take the train into the center of Sydney, after which I have to change trains to get to my final station. After alighting the train, I have a 10 to 15 minute walk to the building that I work in, all uphill - both ways.

The worst part of the commute is not the running up and down the station stairs to change platforms, nor is it about getting a new ding in my car from the person next to me in the parking lot who can't seem to pull straight out of a parking space. No - the worst thing about the commutes are the rides on the train.

As a kid, you think that trains are cool! Trains are fun! Trains come in HO scale and run around on oval tracks in your grandfather's basement with fake smoke billowing. But, as an adult, you find that local commuter trains, especially, are a pain. Mainly, they're a pain because of the kinds of people you are subjected to. For the sake of brevity, let's look at a few categories of what I like to call: the Riders from HELL.

First, there is the person who insists on eating something really, really smelly and repulsive, stinking up the entire carriage. This could be anything from tuna fish, to an overripe banana, to curry or something else pungent and lasting. These people seem oblivious to your watering eyes and the silent heaves undulating from your body.

Then, there is the person who hasn't bathed in two weeks and who has an aversion to deodorant. Sometimes this is a cultural thing. Sometimes, it's because there's a homeless schizophrenic riding in your carriage. This can, of itself, make for a very colorful journey. I have decided that I would rather spend an afternoon in the zebra pen at the zoo, than be stuck in a carriage near a non-bather/non-deodorant user.

crazy man crazy lady
You get to encounter plenty of scary types on the trains.

The third type is the dimwitted loud-mouth. Sadly, I have come across more women than men who fit this type. We used to call them "Crazy Ladies" in the days before Political Correctness. She is probably an ex-con. This is the kind of person who thinks everyone is in their way and starts shoving everyone off to the side as we all wait for the doors to open so we all can get off at the next stop. This person believes the world revolves around them and everyone else is an idiot. Hon, you know what they say: "It ain't everyone else. It's you."

The fourth type irritates me, only because it makes me wonder where we're headed as a society. These are the young men mostly, who sit in the vestibule and won't give up their seat for an elderly person, disabled person, or noticeably pregnant woman. I only have two words for you guys, and the first word starts with the letter "F."

The fifth type is the drunken loud mouth. You wouldn't think there'd be too many of these on a week night, but I routinely encounter about one a week. They abuse the women near them, ignore the men, and just generally prove that all life evolved from amoebas.
The sixth type should just not take the train at peak hour if at all possible. These are the Mums with Prams. You know they aren't coming home from the Office - they're out with the kids. They take up 3 spots on the trains while people, weary and just wanting to get home, get to listen to their screaming children who want their dinner. I know this sounds rather intolerant of me, but it's difficult to be tolerant of these prams, which are just mobile army units outfitted with juice boxes, toys, nappies, blankets, and often, two children in tandem screaming and crying.

The seventh type is the person who wants to "be your friend" and chat during the entire trip when you just want to close your eyes and take a snooze. Fortunately, this type is rather rare, as most commuters are sleepy and sullen in the morning, and tired and sullen in the afternoons.

The eighth type is The Groper. The Groper is why you will never ever actually be able to sleep on the train.

The ninth type is the backpacker or commuter who feels the need to carry a small wardrobe with them in a huge
backpack, and then doesn't bother to take it off before entering the train. As it usually happens, I am stuck in peak hour, standing, squashed next to a backpacker whose pack is battering my head and my boobs. I am nearly a D cup. I don't need my boobs battered by someone's backpack. This makes me very irritable.

I'll take the model trains over the real ones, any day.

posted by Melanie O. at 10:09 PM - 3 comments
Saturday, October 08, 2005
The spider
I resent radical feminists telling us women that men are only good for one thing (taking out the trash.) Every woman knows that men are good for more than that. Mine is good for getting rid of spiders.

I love to take baths at night. They relax me, open up the pores in my skin, and since we've got a spa bath and I have lots of lovely bath products, bath time becomes my escape time and I can choose whether or not I want to be surrounded by the scent of roses, lavender, or Dove. Ooo-ooo-la-la! Heaven.

So, imagine my indignation, when I recently went to pour my bath, and there was a great big spider just hanging out in it. No - a great, big, UGLY spider, like a big black mole on the white complexion of my spa.

Now, I live in Australia, reknowned for the fact that 90% of all spiders that reside here are poisonous to varying degrees. It was going to be him.... or me. And it sure wasn't going to be me! Being the determined woman that I am (I wasn't going to let one measly poisonous spider keep me from my appointed ablutions,) I did what any assertive American woman would do: I yelled for my husband.

Now, my husband's way of dealing with the spider would have been to swish it down the drain and wash it away with a cold blast of water, or coax it into a glass so that he could return it to the garden. My way of dealing with the spider was different:

Me: What are you doing with that hand towel?
Him: I'm going to swish it down the drain.
Me: *going over to toilet and grabbing wad of toilet paper* - Just squash the darn thing.
Him: But I hate killing spiders. I was thinking I might be able to get it back out in the garden.
Me: No you weren't. You just said you were going to flush it down the drain. What do you want to do, give it a slow, agonizing death from drowning and asphyxiation, or just kill it mercifully - *splat* - quick and painless. It won't know what hit it.

*"splat" was interesting sound effect I made that was a cross between a fart sound and another fart sound.*

In the end, it was a compromise. First, he squished the spider using the toilet paper, and THEN he flushed it down the toilet, which is, after all, a drain. That's what marriage is all about. Compromise.
posted by Melanie O. at 10:13 AM - 1 comments
Friday, October 07, 2005
My four sons
They say that having kids changes you forever. I can say that's definitely true. In some ways, you are changed for the better. In other ways, you are changed for the worse.

My mother warned me about having more than one child. She said that having two children wasn't twice the fun, it was half the fun. I have to disagree. It WAS twice the fun, but it was also twice the work. Imagine what my life was like with FOUR sons. It was a regular carnival side show - complete with oddities, oddballs, clowns, and juggling. Not for one moment could I relax. I understand now why lionesses are more dangerous than lions. They have kids to look after!

Having children is like having a mirror held up to yourself. They show you the best of what you are, and the worst. When a child has an accomplishment, you are so proud as a parent, because you think: they got that from me. But when a child fails or gets into trouble or has behavioral problems, you blame that on their father's side of the family. This way of dealing with a child's shortcomings has been handed down for generations, like a prized family recipe.

Junior is a talented artist or musician. Hey - he got that from ME!

Junior gets angry easily and lashes out at people with his short temper. Well... he obviously got that from his FATHER's side of the family.

This is how it works in many households.

My four sons the last time they were all together in the same room

There was never a dull moment, raising four sons. If one wasn't breaking a bone, another was in trouble at school. If one wasn't jumping off the neighbor's roof, another one was trying to paddle across the lake in the middle of a gale force storm. I thank the Powers that Be every day that they all made it to adulthood, even though our house was often like a zoo.

Everyone loves children when they're little - well, almost everyone (W C Fields being a notable exception). When children are little, parenthood is a breeze. Your children look up to you with admiration and awe. They depend on you for everything. It's easy to discipline them by removing toys from their play circle and demanding apologies on behalf of a sibling. Kisses can take the sting out of scrapes. They are eager to learn, and love your company.

Children are more difficult to love as they get older and start asserting their independence. They test everything you've ever taught them (sometimes with disastrous results.) They don't share their thoughts with you as often and do more things behind your back. They laugh at you if you try to take privileges away in order to punish them for household infractions and do the forbidden thing any way. It gets to a point where you have to hire a guard 24/7 in order to enforce being grounded or removing phone privileges. There were days I hoped they would run off and join the circus.

But then, a miraculous thing happens. They grow up. They start being responsible. They learn that Mom isn't going to bail them out all of the time and that they'll have to take their lumps if they make bad decisions. They enjoy your company, and you enjoy theirs. You can carry on deep and meaningful conversations. They become... dare I say it? Better than when they were little kids.

posted by Melanie O. at 4:46 PM - 0 comments
Sunday, October 02, 2005
The Birthday
It’s tough getting older, especially once you pass the age of 40. OK – Sheryl Crowe says that 40 is the new 20. Maybe so – especially if you can afford a trainer, a nutritionist, a stylist, and Botox – but for most of us, 40 is still 40. And now I’m over 40. I’m at the Top of the Hill, looking down at the other side. What else can you do but laugh and enjoy what’s left?

So, a birthday celebration should be a Big Deal. My husband, Dan, made sure it was by calling me at work every day for the week previous to my birthday, and announcing: “it’s your birthday Saturday.” Hey, at least he didn’t forget!

He had a few surprises for me, and wouldn’t give me any clues. He knows what a good guesser I am! Actually, it’s not so much that I’m a good guesser, but that we think so much alike. I’d probably read his thoughts and spoil his surprise for me.

The day started out on a high note and just got better. I woke up, half-zombie-like, in my flannel pj’s (the ones that Dan likes to call my “Teddy Bear jammies” even though there are no teddy bears on them), and I was instructed to check out our dining room table. On the table were a birthday card and some flowers. He knows how much I love red roses, so I received a few roses from my Eternal Sweetheart. That would have been enough for me, but I was whisked out of the house at 10 am and taken to a beauty salon for a one hour full body massage and facial. Bliss!

Usually, I’m the one giving out the massages, so it was so nice to have someone else give me one. My masseuse had me so relaxed that she could have gotten away with mutilating my hair or drawing a fake moustache on my face, and I would have smiled my way through it all. Her skilled hands worked out all of the kinks in my muscles – I had no idea how tense they were until she found those pressure points and worked on them.

The facial came afterwards, and she complimented me on how nice my skin was. Not too many clogged pores or blemishes. If she only knew how I suffered from pimples when I was a teen! The compliment was worth the time in the salon, alone.
After two hours had whizzed by, I was taken back home to relax for a while and pass the rest of the afternoon, until it was time for dinner. Dan didn’t tell me where we were going (although I pretty much guessed,) and we arrived at Larousse French restaurant in Brighton. Ooo-la-la! I had dressed to kill, with a shapely dress and CFM stiletto shoes.

I must have been “lookin’ good” (either that, or he’s seen my TV stuff in the USA or thinks he's seen me somewhere else,) because the owner came over and introduced himself and told us he wished us a pleasant experience. We dined on brie in a pastry shell, poulet Larousse and tournedos au Camembert, and finished with sorbet and chocolate mousse. The owner then had a glass of port brought to us “on the house.” When it was time to leave, after spending two fantastic hours indulging in gustatory delights, the owner came over to personally assist me with my jacket.

Come to think of it, maybe he thought I was a food critic! But so much attention (especially since it was my birthday, and he didn’t know it,) was very welcome and appreciated.

I’d like to think that old jingle is correct: “You’re not getting older. You’re getting better.” I guess I will have to visit that restaurant more often – just to make sure. Up until yesterday, I've always hated being called "princess," but now I can say that my husband makes me feel that way. To think other women rejected him because he's a truck driver.

I struck gold!

Post Salon: Me and my gem, Dan
posted by Melanie O. at 8:10 PM - 0 comments

About Me
Name: Melanie O.
Home: Durham, North Carolina, United States
About Me: Female, American health and beauty-conscious professional who has rekindled a childhood love of dolls.
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