The mystery box, part two

About five minutes ago, I accepted Delightful Date's invitation for a date tomorrow night. While I'm looking forward to it - ie., already wondering if I have anything to wear - the truth is that I'm having some mixed feelings, too.

Namely, I am lusting after someone else.

It's an unrequited passion, and I'm trying to put it behind me, but with limited success. Sometimes I find myself hoping that my obscure object of desire will eventually change his mind.

(Which proves, once again, how foolish I can be regarding the male of the species.)

The mystery box...and a poll

... is still wrapped as pristinely as when it arrived, and sitting on my bedroom dresser. Correction, it's in the bedroom dresser keeping my lingerie company. I don't want it to get lost under a bunch of laundry or magazines.

I've given the challenge, for that's what I think it is, some thought. To backtrack, Delightful Date (DD) has been nothing but a complete gentleman each time we've gotten together. In addition to our first date last month, we met a couple of other times before he left for the business trip. He's never pursued more than a bit of snogging. Not even a hand up my skirt or down my blouse.

When pondering the mystery box earlier today, I remembered something he said during our first date. We'd exchanged an initial, Oban-flavored kiss in the Down elevator when leaving our last destination. It ended abruptly when I realized, out of the blue, that he didn't know my real name. He'd never asked and I'd never offered.

When I pointed this out, he responded that anyone could find out my name, but he wanted to know things about me that nobody else knew. So I let it slide.

Don't forget to vote in the Mystery Box Poll. It's just to your right.

The return of the delightful date

I arrived home just before dark this evening, after spending most the day wondering if I should start looking for another job (my employer's latest earnings figures came out today; they were nightmarish) and after a difficult kung fu class. Every time the sifu shows up during class, you know you're going to chi ku - "eat bitter".

After letting the dog out and feeding the cats, I went back out to the front porch to retrieve the mail. I spotted a FedEx box under the porch glider and brought it inside, assuming it was for my friend/lodger. I hadn't ordered anything and wasn't expecting anything.

After a bowl of shredded wheat for dinner, I looked at the Fedex box again and realized it was addressed to me.

This puzzled me since I couldn't remember ordering anything. But it turned out to be something else entirely; it was from last month's delightful date. (see blog entry dated March 27)

The box contained a handwritten note asking me if I were available Saturday evening. There was also a smaller box inside the bigger Fedex box, wrapped in gold paper like a present. A card attached to it asked that I not open the box until Saturday evening.

Of course, this promptly drove me half-mad with curiosity. I jiggled the box 10 different ways, and even held it up to my nose, hoping I could determine if it contained chocolate or anything similar. But there was no way I could open and reseal it before Saturday without his knowing what I'd done.

Saying I opened it by mistake wouldn't fool him. This was/is the same man who made a special trip to Saks before our first date to check out my perfume, as I had told him I wore Miss Dior - not that vile Miss Dior Cherie, which smells nothing like it - and only Saks sells it.

The plot grew even thicker when I checked my Filofax. He was returning from a three-week business trip five days ahead of schedule.

So ... will I accept the date? Will I take the box over to Baylor and have my doctor friend x-ray it for me? (He's x-rayed his own Christmas presents so don't underestimate him.) Or should I simply open the box and tell him I'm busy Saturday night?

Flaming Underpants Links Update

I recently realized a few of my links were a bit stale, plus I was omitting a blogger who kindly links to here. So the links that make my knickers* burst into flames have been updated.

Warning: a couple are silly. And it's best to turn down your speakers if you click on Viking Kittens unless you're a Led Zeppelin fan (Led Zep fans should turn their speakers up).

In the meantime, I'm still wondering why I dreamed about Jeremy Irons last night. Although I think he's an above-average actor, he also reminds me of a despondent beagle.

* The English refer to their underpants as knickers.

Nightmare on the runway

Last night I dreamed I was back in Hong Kong - a place that had encouraged a love-hate relationship. In some ways it was great fun to explore; it was nearly impossible to be bored as long as you liked to shop. But the dirt, the greed, and the claustrophobic nature of the place brought me down at times. And my only good job there ended abruptly with our departure to Manila.

Anyway, in this dream I was back at the job I'll never admit to any of my girlfriends: I was a runway model. The prototype 5' 11" European model makes the local Chinese models look like six-year olds, so 5'8" or 5' 9" is the ideal height for the token European model. (I'm 5 foot 8, at least in the morning.)

When I was doing freelance work at Esprit, one of the designers asked me to be a fitting model for an afternoon. After about an hour, she asked if I was doing anything later in the week; when I said no, she said she needed a European model my height and was I interested. I lusted after the free clothes. Too bad they didn't happen.

I still remember the crash course in walking like a model, which gives me sniggers even today, and how the makeup would begin to itch like buggery almost exactly 30 minutes after it was applied. I'm not even sure I still have any photos from my short and non-glamorous career as David found them so hilarious. The makeup almost always disguised my identity, and my hair was ironed flat as a board.

But I digress. In this dream I was actually a very happy model, as we were doing a show for the English designer Boudicca; a designer I like in my waking hours. The problem is that I was the only model who could actually do the runway walk, the turn at the end of the runway, and back without any problem. The Chinese models were doing everything but modeling.

Several would simply wander off and start talking to members of the audience. One decided she didn't like her outfit, and pulled off the jacket halfway through her walk. And during the mega-fast costume changes, there was always a model asking me for a light, or a stick of gum. I was becoming livid as the show was turning into a disaster. It was my turn to go out again, so I put my shoulders back and walked the line. I was in a really cool Boudicca outfit kind of like this one from the 2006 collection:

Then I spotted someone in the audience I knew: the English architect I dated briefly when separated from my then-future husband. He was captain of the Hong Kong Cricket Club team. He was tall and cute.

I did my best walk, turn and strut, looking him in the eye the entire time. He yawned.

The show went all to pieces after that and the audience began to leave. I decide to sneak out a side entrance and run smack into the actor Jeremy Irons. He grabs my shoulders, begins shaking me, and keeps saying "Who are you?" over and over.