"You already have a job," he explained. "From now on, your life with your husband is your job." He corrected himself. "It's more than a job. It's a career. Your husband makes the money, and you create the life. And it's going to take effort. You'll rise each morning and exercise, not simply to look attractive but to build endurance. Most ladies prefer yoga. Then you will dress. You'll arrange your schedule and send e-mails. You'll attend a meeting for a charity in the morning, or perhaps visit an art dealer or make a studio visit. You'll have lunch, and then there are meetings with decorators, caterers, and stylists; you'll have your hair coloured twice a month and blow-dried three times a week. You'll do private tours of museums and read, I hope, three newspapers a day: The New York Times, The New York Post, and The Wall Street Journal. At the end of the day, you'll prepare for an evening out, which may include two or three cocktail parties and a dinner. Some will be black-tie charity events where you'll be expected to wear a gown and never the same dress twice. You'll need to have your hair and make-up done. You'll also plan vacations and weekend outings. You may purchase a country house, which you will also have to organise, staff, and decorate. You will meet the right people and court them in a manner both subtle and shameless. And then, my dear, there will be children. So," Billy concluded, "let's get busy."

- 'One Fifth Avenue' by Candace Bushnell

Being the wife of a rich man sounds so damn boring! Early mornings? Yoga? Endless trips to the hairdresser/stylist? Three newspapers a day? Dinners in restaurants? Mingling? No time for sex? No, thank you.

The Concept of Love

"Philip?" she said shyly, teasing his penis with the tip of her nail. In the next second, he was on top of her again. Lola opened her legs, and after he'd come and was lying on top of her, exhausted, she whispered, "I think I love you."

When I got to "she whispered", I immediately knew what Lola was going to say. I found myself yelling aloud "NO! DON'T SAY IT! DON'T EVEN... NO, LOLA, DON'T." Then I read the words "I think I love you". I released an exasperating sigh, called Lola stupid, and found myself - at least for a split second - hating the concept of love. It led to an overwhelming feeling of compulsion/repulsion of love - I wanted nothing to do with it, good or bad. As fast at it came, it disappeared. I think I will always be a romantic at heart, hoping and wishing for "happy endings".

I've been trying to dissect my emotions, but... What is the concept of love? Being "in love", I thought I would immediately know the answer. Alas, I don't think I'm the least bit worldly enough to answer such a question.

Lola didn't get the answer that she wanted.

His head jerked up and he looked at her with surprise. Smiling and kissing the tip of her nose, he said, "'love' is a strong word, Lola."

But she did get bagels instead.

- EXCERPT FROM 'ONE FIFTH AVENUE' BY CANDACE BUSHNELL

Do you remember Paris?

You have never said much. You save words, I spend them. One of us is richer for it. As always I made my choices about what you were thinking. It made it easier for me, to assume an understanding of your desire.

"Clio, I wanted to have dinner with you because I love your company - I adore your company. You're so interesting and thoughtful--"
"Oh yes," she said, "very exciting that makes me sound. Interesting and thoughtful..."
"It is to me, you silly bitch," he said.
She stared at him. "What did you say?"
"I said you were exciting, to me. I find you very exciting. And today I was very proud of you and--"
"Yes, but what else?"
"I said you were a silly bitch. Ok? I'm sorry."
At the top of the escalator he turned and faced her.
"Look," he said, "I don't know how I can convince you that I like being with you. That I find you terribly attractive. You're driving me mad. What do you want, woman? A signed declaration? Here-" he pulled a sheet of paper out of the small Filofax he kept in his pocket, "here you are. I, Fergus Trehearne, find you, Clio Scott - I don't know what you're married name is, but if I could get hold of your husband I'd punch the living daylights out of him, for doing what he has to you, I find you incredibly exciting and interesting and desirable and I would like to remove all your clothing right here." He tore the paper off, handed it to her. "There. Will that do? Now then, we'd better go and find your bloody train."
Clio stood very still and stared, first at him, then at the piece of paper; then she said: "Fergus, I don't want to get the bloody train. And I don't have to. I want to stay with you. And I want you to remove all my clothing. As soon as possible. Only not just here, maybe."
"Well, where then?" he said, speaking very slowly. He raised his hand, tilted her face up to his.
Clio felt a lurch in what she could only describe as her guts. A strong, probing lurch. It led to part of her anatomy that had been dormant for quite a long time. It wasn't dormant now. It appeared to be on the rampage.
"I believe you've got a flat," she said very quietly. "And could you just say that once again?"
"What?"
"You know, about me being a silly bitch?"
"But why?"
"Well, because it proves you weren't just being polite. It's about the biggest compliment I ever had."
"I can do a lot better than that," he said, "you silly bitch." And he started to kiss her.

- 'Sheer Abandon' by Penny Vincenzi

"The Dana Taylor Syndrome"

'So, how far does this little game go in that sordid mind of yours?'

He smiled a slow, sexy, dimpled smile. 'You really want to know?'

Not in the cold light of day she wouldn't. But she was currently in the realms of fantasyland. The thing was, could she live with the inevitable consequences of this one night when the sun came up again? Guilt, recrimination, regret?

One of my favourite parts of the book i'm reading:

"What is it?" He asked to her puzzled expression as he stood in the buff right in front of her. "You don't think i'm reasonably endowed?"
"You're..." she swallowed, her mouth a little dry after surveying his manhood, "perfectly endowed."
Her puzzled expression wasn't puzzlement at all but rather bewilderment. She had a slightly embarrassing issue that was an elephant in the room, at least for her. How do you tell someone you're a virgin? How do you tell someone you're a virgin after acting like wanton woman hell bent on seducing him?
"What is it?" He asked as he climbed onto the bed next to her, his hand gliding over her bare leg for she was also naked. "You can tell me." It was a half whisper as his lips found her warm neck and began softly kissing the nape.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she enjoyed the tingles of pleasure his lips always brought her. It was hard to concentrate on figuring out just exactly how to confess her secret to him.
Eventually she managed to find enough resistance from within herself to push him away slightly. "I did to tell you something."
Her blue eyes widened as they looked into his passion laced brown eyes. She looked as excited as he was, he noted, but he could see that there was something clearly holding her back. He curbed his urges to pull her on top of him, put on his patient face, and awaited to hear what she had to say.
"I'm a virgin." The words tumbled out fast and all at once.
A smile tugged at his lips. "No..." He said. "I don't believe that."
Her cheeks flushed scarlet red and she wished the ground would swallow her up.
Then his hand was upon her again, caressing her hip, his fingers drawing circles on her skin. He leaned in and kissed her lips and was surprised... Her usual talented, quivering in pleasure, soft lips resembled a teenagers: slightly nervous and unsure.
"Seriously...?" He whispered with his lips half an inch away from hers.
She nodded. She couldn't manage words for the crazy wanting of his lips on hers she was feeling.
With one swift movement he pulled her naked body on top of his and held her close. She wriggled against him, fitting perfectly on top of his muscular body, and rest her head on his chest.
"You don't act like a virgin..." He stated. Her foreplay earlier in the night was...
She heard his heart beat change into a faster rhythm and immediately knew what images had sprung to his mind.
"I said i'm a virgin, not that i'm deprived of all sexual interaction. I just haven't had sex...yet." She raised her head to look at him. "But I want to..." She sat up. Her legs slightly pressing against his rib cages. "I want you inside of me." With a seductive purpose, her hands glided up his smooth chest.
He let out a frustrated groan.
His eyes heavy with need as he watch her hand move up her thigh and over her torso to caress one of her breasts. His hand soon covered hers and helped with the caressing.
"Please take me right now..." Her voice husky as he squeezed gently on the breast that was now solely in his possession.
No longer could he wait, he flipped her on to her back.
"Tell me you want me to make love to you." He ordered. His lips assaulting her chest with feathery light kisses.
She whispered the words he wanted to her and the repeated them louder and louder as he began suckling on her breasts.

I hate this horrible but completely innocent love triangle! It's so sad! I don't know who to feel sorry for most. Gah.

Tremaine walked into the room in silence, closing the hardwood door softly, stopping to look over Helena; she was standing so still, her slender arms wrapped around her slim body, biting her lip, looking at the floor not even noticing him. He leant his back against the door, he didn’t feel like having intruders, and he paused to look her over again.

“Hey, gorgeous. Are you going to tell me what’s up?” He had always called her ‘gorgeous’, ever since he developed a crush on her after his treatment had ended years ago, and the compliment had stuck and became a nickname.

Looking up from the floor, she offered him a warm yet nervous smile. Instead of moving closer to him, she kept her distance, opting for a chair facing him at the dining table.

A silence took hold but before it could turn awkward Helena asked the question she was so nervous to ask. “Is it true that you love me?”

Tremaine immediately tensed at her soft spoken question. He was no longer leaning against the door but stood up, straight backed and a little defensive.

“I don’t want lies or half truths, Tremaine. I want—”

“Yes.” Before she could even finish her sentence Tremaine had answered her question. “Yes, I do love you. You’re my best friend, Helena, of course I love you.” He explained.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Tremaine paused for thought after hearing a catch in her throat. Was she upset? Why was she upset?

Concern grew in his eyes, she saw it. “I just need to know.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes burned into hers as he tried to figure out why she was asking such a dangerous question but it was useless to even try – Helena didn’t give away any clues. But she did look helpless, and he hated that. “Yes, Helena, I’m in love with you.”

She closed her eyes as she felt the heartache twisting around her heart.

“I’m in love with you, ok? I don’t know when it happened but for as long as I can remember, I’ve been in love with you.”

Silence. She wasn’t saying anything. She still had her eyes firmly closed.

He crossed the room to her, got down on his knees, and shook her by her arms. “Damn it, woman, will you say something?” She owed him that at least, didn’t she? After it nearly tore his heart out to admit his love to her...

Her eyes finally opened after his shaking had stopped. Her pretty blues looking into his darkened browns and she reached out to caress his cheek. “I’m scared that I’m in love with you, too.” She admitted in almost a whisper.

His breath caught in his chest as his heart beat faster. This was crazy - completely and utterly crazy.

“I don’t know when or why or how it happened but I think I’m in love with you, Tremaine.”

He caught her hand and held it still against his cheek. “It’s ok, Helena. You don’t have to be scared.”

“Yes I do.” She told him, her eyes beginning to well. “I do because I love my husband so much too. I love my husband, Tremaine, but I love you too.”

Warm tears began streaming down her cheeks only to be caught by his thumb wiping them away.

“Listen to me, sweetheart... Don’t you feel better for telling me?”

Considering his question, she inhaled some deep and calming breaths. Did she feel better? Yes. She nodded her head to confirm.

“Now...we both are married and we both love our partners, don’t we?”

There was another nod in answer.

“We’re best friends who happen to be nothing but very close to each other, do you understand?”

Helena nodded.

“It’ll be ok.” He half helped her up so he could wrap is arms around her and hug her. “It’ll all be ok.”

Sparkle

Carrie Bradshaw mentioned the "sparkle" in one of the Sex and the City movies, someone wrote a whole book about it, and we have lost it. Anyway, "life is like a washing machine" so...make sure you have a good plumber on stand-by? Or something to that effect. It's late and my brain is mashed. I'll leave you with this excerpt of relevance to how i'm feeling right now from a book I read once:

There was an unsettling feeling in her stomach. Not just the pit of her stomach like if she was upset or ashamed. But a stirring in the whole of her stomach, unsettling her, because she sensed what was coming.
"In light of the situation," she found herself saying, "I think we should--"
"No." He interrupted abruptly. "Take a break? No. Split up? No. I'm not having that."
Exasperation made her rolls her eyes.
"It's not just your decision, Stace."
"It's not just yours either." She countered. "And besides," she added to her argument, "when I start messing you around THEN you can come at me with that." She exhaled the stirring tension in her stomach. "I am sick to death of how you're treating me - I'm tired of the whiplash of changing emotions that you cause me."
Silence.
What was she expecting exactly? A better expectation for his questionable actions? An apology?
She exhaled calmly again.
"I don't know what you want me to say..."
She offered him a wan smile, her usually unwavering sympathy disappearing into thin air, and then she nodded slowly.
"When it comes to me, you never do."
He opened his mouth to protest.
He's socially awkward. He's not a good communicator. He's unable to think up conversions. He's inept at speaking his own thoughts.
"Yet when it comes to anybody else, you become a poet with your ideas and your music and your stories..."
By the end of every day, the only thing he had left for her was a simple goodnight when all she wanted was to know about his day.
"Stace..."
"Stop." She held her breath for exactly ten seconds, she counted in her head.
That's when she walked away. She could no longer deal with the stress of this conversation.
Or if she was quite honest with herself, she was fed up of having the same conversation over and over again. The awful thing about it was that she knew when she woke up the following morning things will resume their normality.
Life is like a washing machine, it has plenty of different settings, but she was pretty sure hers was faulty and was stuck on a repeat spin cycle.

I read a unique article online about Karlie Kloss's photo-shoot at Masaya Volcano National Park (by Ryan McGinley for The New York Times Style Magazine). This part of the article I liked especially:

It’s about 4 o'clock on a Thursday, and a caftan-bedecked Karlie Kloss is perched on the edge of a gigantic, fuming volcano crater, her bare legs and feet dangling into the hazy void.
‘Make it look more adventurous,’ calls out Ryan McGinley, the photographer snapping her from an equally precarious spot on a nearby outcropping of rock.
‘It’s pretty damn adventurous,’ Kloss yells back.

Like, she had her legs dangling inside a steaming volcano...what more do you want?

Troublemaking at the library...

Excuse me, miss - could you hand me that book over there?

No, the one further down... all the way down - yes, bend over like that. Bottom shelf, please.

No, not that one... further to the left.

What? No, I'm not feeling your bum, just steadying you. It's hard to keep your balance bent over like that wearing heels and all.

Why, the inside of your thigh is very smooth. Do you mind terribly if I put my hand a bit further up your skirt, miss?

Steady... yes, just hold on to that shelf. Doesn't this feel nice? It seems like I've found a rather wet spot up here. Let me just pull these knickers aside...

Really, I think you have a bit of a problem here. Let me see if it helps if I just slide my thumb inside... like this. And now I can just cup your pussy with my fingers, and keep my thumb in there nice and snug.

Miss, you've got to keep quiet... this is a library after all.

Come now. Straighten up. Look - see how wet my fingers are? Now what are we going to do about this?

- MON MOUTH

Anyone know the moral of the story?

A DEA officer stopped at our farm yesterday.
"I need to inspect your farm for illegal growing drugs."
I said, "ok, but don't go in that field over there..."
The DEA officer verbally exploded saying, "Mister, I have the authority of the Federal Government with me!" Reaching into his rear pants pocket, the arrogant officer removed his badge and shoved it in my face. "See this fucking badge?! This badge means I am allowed to go wherever I wish - on any land! No questions asked or answers given! Have I made myself clear? Do you understand?"
I nodded politely, apologised, and went about my chores.
A short time later...I heard loud screams, looked up, and saw the DEA officer running for his life, being chased by my big, old, mean bull.
With every step the bull was gaining ground on the officer and it seemed likely that he'd sure enough get gored before he reached safety.
The officer was clearly terrified.
I threw down my tools, ran to the fence, and yelled at the top of my lungs. "Your badge, show him your fucking BADGE!"

It's Just Sand

When things in your life seem, almost too much to handle... When twenty four hours in a day is not enough... Remember the mayonnaise jar and two cups of coffee.

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him.

When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous ‘yes.’

The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

‘Now,’ said the professor, as the laughter subsided, ‘I want you to recognise that this jar represents your life.’ The golf balls are the important things - family, children, health, friends, and favorite passions – things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, house, and car. The sand is everything else —the small stuff.

‘If you put the sand into the jar first,’ he continued, ‘there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls.’ The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

So…

Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical check ups. Take your partner out to dinner.

There will always be time to clean the house etc.

‘Take care of the golf balls first — the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.’

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented. The professor smiled, ‘I’m glad you asked’, he said. ‘It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend.’

Sheer Abandon

She was crying now, out of control, hurting dreadfully. 'Go away, why don't you? Just go away and-'
'But - but what for?' His voice was genuinely bemused. 'What would be the point of that? We love being together. And I really do love you, Jocasta. It's very unfortunate for you that I'm an immature commitment-phobe. But I am maturing. There has to be hope. And meanwhile, why can't we go on as we are? Or - is there someone else? Is that what you're trying to tell me?'
'Of course not.' she said, sniffing, reaching for the handkerchief he was holding out to her. 'I wish there was.' She managed a half smile.
'Well, I don't. And there's certainly no one else for me. Never could be. Not after you.' He reached out tentatively, stroked her cheek. 'Please, Jocasta, give me just a little more time. I'll try very hard to do some growing up. I do want to, I promise.'
'Well-', she hesitated. He leant forward and started to kiss her; tenderly at first, then harder, his mouth working on hers. Against her will, against all common sense, something stirred deep, deep within her, something dark and soft and treacherous. He pushed his hand under her t-shirt, began encircling one of her nipples with his thumb. She shivered in anticipation, then pulled back from him; his eyes on hers were very bright, very tender.
'I meant it,' he said, 'I do love you. I'm sorry if I don't make it plain enough. Now - shall we go and lie down and recover?'
But all through the sex which followed, lovely and healing as it was, Nick gentle and tender, waiting for her a long, long time as she softened, sweetened under him, coaxing her body skilfully in the way he knew best, into a mounting, brightening pleasure; even as she felt her climax gather and grow and then spread out into starry, piercing release, she felt still wary, still hurt; and as she lay beside him, his hand tangling in her hair, his eyes smiling into hers, she knew however much he said he loved her, it was not enough.

- Penny Vincenzi

I'm one fifth of the way into this one hundred and seventy page novel about three women: Clio (who is locked in an unhappy marriage to a self-obsessed, arrogant surgeon), Martha (who gave birth and abandoned a baby in a cleaning cupboard at an airport without telling anyone she was even pregnant), and Jocasta (who's in love with a charming journalist); they're bonded by a secret that was made some fifteen / twenty years before when they all randomly met whilst travelling Asia and Australia.

Lost & Found

Reeeeally love this part of the book:

He descended the plane steps, forward to seeing Gina. Trying not to look exhausted. Trying to look as if he was eager for this visit to begin.

Gina wasn’t in the small bunch of waiting people. Instead... His heart sank. Georgie. Georgie Turner.

He’d hoped she’d left town by now. What Gina saw in this...tramp, he didn’t know.

‘Hey, Alistair.’ She waved and yelled as he crossed the tarmac.

She was chewing gum. She was wearing tight leather pants and bright red stilettos. She had on a really tight top – so tight it was almost indecent. She was all in black. The only colour about her was the slash of crimson on her lips, her outrageous shoes and two spots of colour on her cheeks.

‘How’s it going, Al?’ she said, and chewed a bit more gum.

‘Fine,’ he said, trying to be polite and not quite succeeding. ‘Where’s Gina?’

‘See, she was expecting you yesterday. So today she and Cal are running a clinic out on Wallaby Island. The weather’s getting up so they thought they ought to go when they could.’

‘You couldn’t have taken her place?’

‘Hey, I deliver babies. Gina’s the heart lady. There’s not a lot of crossover. You got bags?’

‘One. Yes.’

She sniffed, in a way that said real men didn’t need baggage. She turned and headed for the baggage hall, her very cute butt wiggling as he walked behind her.

It was some butt.

Ok, that’s what he couldn’t allow himself to think. That was what had landed him into trouble in the first place. She was a tart. Somehow she’d gained a medical degree but, not matter, she was still a tart.

But even so, he shouldn’t have tried to pick her up.

Now they stood side by side at the luggage carousel, waiting for his bag. It took for ever. There were other doctors there from the plane.

‘There’s some other wedding happening here,’ he ventured for something to say, and Georgie nodded, looking at the baggage carousel as if it was she who’d recognise his bag.

‘Yep. One this Saturday, one next. Planned so those going to both needn’t make two trips. We were starting to think they’d be no guests for the first one.’

‘It’s some storm down south,’ he said reflectively. ‘That’s how I met these guys. The trip from New Zealand should have been cancelled. We hit an air pocket and dropped what felt like a thousand feet.’ Anyone who wasn’t belted in was injured.’

‘You got called on as a doctor?’

‘A bit. I was asleep at first.’

‘Off duty,’ she said blankly, and he winced. There was no criticism in her voice. It was a simple statement of fact, but she knew how to hurt. When he’d woken to discover the chaos he’d felt dreadful. He’d helped, but other doctors had been more proactive than him.

‘Look, I-’

‘It this your bag? It must be. Everyone else has theirs.’

‘It’s mine,’ he said, and she strode forward and lugged it off the conveyor belt before he could stop her. She set it up on its wheels and tugged the handle, then set it before him. Making him feel even more wimpish.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘My wheels are in the carpark.’

‘Your car?’

‘My wheels.’ She was striding through the terminal, talking to him over her shoulder. He was struggling to keep up.

He was feeling about six years old.

‘Hey, Georg.’ People were acknowledging her, waving to her, but she wasn’t stopping. She was wearing really high stilettos but still walking at a pace that made him hurry. She looked like something out of a biker magazine. A biker’s moll?

Not quite, for her hair was closely cropped and cute - almost classy. The gold hooped earrings actually looked great. She was just...different.

- 'THEIR LOST AND FOUND FAMILY' BY MARION LENNOX

The Insomniac's Club

Good evening (nearly midnight) everyone. Funny how things work out - I was up all night last night, tossing and turning. Welcome to the Insomniacs Club.

The Insomniac's Club

Insomnia sauntered nonchalantly into my bedroom, fully aware that the click-clacking her four-inch stilettos made as they struck my hardwood floors was sufficient to wake me. Her utter lack of consideration wasn’t due to the fact that she knew I was already wide awake; she just didn’t give a shit.

It was three o’clock in the morning.

She made herself cozy at the foot of my four poster stainless steel canopy bed, and sparked up a Lucky Strike. In the moonlight I couldn’t tell if the gossamer frock that clung for dear life to her every curve was maroon or scarlet. What I could discern was: it had spaghetti strings, no back, and beacoup décolletage. I asked her politely to leave; she flipped me the finger.

“Is that how it’s gonna be?” I asked, bleary eyed.

READ MORE HERE: http://www.jackfrombkln.com/the-insomniacs-club/