Floating on a Vicodin cloud
Phew, having my wisdom teeth out wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I was expecting. It only took the oral surgeon about 15minutes to whip them out and thanks to the Novocain it was wonderfully pain free. He prescribed a week worth of antibiotics and painkillers, advising me to pick up the prescription immediately and take the first dose before the Novocain wore off. That had me a bit worried about exactly how much pain I would be in, but I’m happy to say it’s been a breeze, not a sniff of any swelling and the medication is DIVINE!!!! I'm a bit 'my-body-is-a-temple' about drugs and what not - well, except for wine and $12 cocktails - but I'm all for enjoying the benefits of legitimately prescribed medication every once in while. I floated on a Vicodin cloud for the best part of four days this week and enjoyed every moment of it. I’ve never slept so well in my life. I have a newfound understanding for all those celebs and their addictions to painkillers.
Eating wise it’s also been easier than I expected, a mere 6 hours after leaving the surgery I managed to suck down some baked beans and scrambled egg that I’d mashed together. Clearly the mark of a culinary genius at work, Joel Robuchon must be quaking in his boots. Ha ha. Disgusting as it sounds I had to get something in my stomach as the antibiotics were making me a bit queasy. Happily the cupboards were stocked with comfort foods from last weekend’s trip to Myers of Keswick, the English grocery in the West Village.
I love Myers of Keswick, but it’s an odd shop, decor-wise it's like going back in time, but with prices from the future. You could get five tins in Asda for what they charge ($2.99 for a tin of Heinz tomato soup), but as far as I know it’s the only place in New York where I can buy Tizer, Walnut Whips and pickled onion Monster Munch, so I’m willing to cough up the dosh for those special occasions when only a tangy corn snack in the shape of a monster's paw will do.
Sadly I had to leave the Monster Munch on the shelf this time; probably not the best food choice post oral surgery. Instead I restricted myself to purchases of easily suck-able food; baked beans, Heinz tomato soup, ambrosia rice pudding and Devonshire custard. Mmm mmm mmmmmmmmmm!!!!
I was quite productive in my recuperation and posted a profile on an online dating site aimed at health conscious singles which I'd read about in Shape magazine. I'm not usually one for online dating; too much frog kissing before you meet your prince and really, who can be bothered? It also gets a bit disheartening after a while to keep putting yourself out there without much luck. I think people can be too picky online, plus it never feels good to know the person you're seeing probably has a whole harem of internet dates, but with Valentine's day looming I've been feeling the pressure of being single, a feeling not at all alleviated by last week's "Why You're Single" Time Out cover. Cheeky f****rs!!!
Still, nothing ventured nothing gained I suppose and I like the idea of meeting someone similarly health conscious, although initially I was a bit leery of the site being full of body builder types, but I checked it out before signing on and the men looked normal enough, so here goes. Unfortunately I made the mistake of telling Miles who has taken it upon himself to set me a goal of dating “at least one internet man a fortnight.”
Miles was my manager in London before I moved to New York and, at times, clearly thinks he is still in charge of me. Love him to bits, but he can be a little over zealous with setting targets for friends. Last year he reduced one to tears by making her complete a diary of her alcohol and cigarette consumption out of concern for her health. Good thing I live 3,000 miles away and he’s unable to berate me for any potential dating disobedience in person, well, except for the fact that he is over to visit in a few days.
I also started a new salsa class this week with a different instructor, a female this time. I thought the change of perspective would do me good. I’m in desperate need the practice since moving to the advanced beginner class with my other instructor has been more of a leap than I expected. Most of my new classmates are at level 3 and only take the level 2 class for extra practice. I'm feeling a bit out of my league, so taking another class to polish up on the basics couldn't hurt.
I enjoyed the new class a lot. It moves faster than my other class, although she is less of a stickler for how well you do the steps, so I think his class will make me a better dancer, but I had a lot of fun and was walking on air when I left the studio. I like the fact that the students are closer to my own age, late twenties/early thirties-ish, about 20years younger than my other classmates. There are probably twice as many people in the class too; about forty or fifty; which is not so great for personal attention from the instructor, but it might be good for getting to know a few more people to go out social dancing with. Some of the socials can be a bit intimidating for a beginner so it’s good to get to know people to go with.
I was also happy to note a sprinkling of rather attractive guys, including one cutie that’s the spit of Beppe from Eastenders, albeit a taller, leaner, Latin version. I was thrilled to rotate around to him three times. He’s a pretty good lead to say he’s only been taking classes a few weeks, holding me firmly but not too tight and not letting me spin off to the side on the turns. I was a bit off in controlling my turns this week and rarely ended up in front of my partner as I’m supposed to. I think the Vicodin had a lot to do with that. Salsa dancing and prescription painkillers are not such a good mix. Still, it was nice to have Beppe catch me and he had a very very hot bod going on underneath his conservatively attired exterior; I could feel the muscles on his arms and shoulders rippling as we danced in closed position, his biceps were so toned it was as if he was smuggling a couple of tennis balls up his shirt sleeves. Phew!! I feel a bit hot all of a sudden for some reason.
A couple of guys in class looked as if they were straight out of central casting. One was like a stereotype of a Brooklyn Italian (fuhgeddaboudit) a la John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, or Joey-Bag-of-Donuts as my Brooklyn born friend Melody likes to call them. Next to him was a swarthy Latino hunk, straight off the cover of a bodice ripper romance novel. He had mid length black wavy hair, and was dressed in a black shirt unbuttoned a little too far, chest hair on show and - I kid you not - a medallion. He was a pretty good lead and, I suppose, attractive if you like that sort of thing, but not really my type, a little too ‘Fabio’ for my taste. I definitely got the impression from the way he stared intently at me, occasionally wiggling an eyebrow, as we danced that he fancied himself as a bit of a ladies man. I half expected him to run a moisten finger over an eyebrow and growl at me Austin Powers style. It was highly amusing.
Grrrrrr baby!!!!
Eating wise it’s also been easier than I expected, a mere 6 hours after leaving the surgery I managed to suck down some baked beans and scrambled egg that I’d mashed together. Clearly the mark of a culinary genius at work, Joel Robuchon must be quaking in his boots. Ha ha. Disgusting as it sounds I had to get something in my stomach as the antibiotics were making me a bit queasy. Happily the cupboards were stocked with comfort foods from last weekend’s trip to Myers of Keswick, the English grocery in the West Village.
I love Myers of Keswick, but it’s an odd shop, decor-wise it's like going back in time, but with prices from the future. You could get five tins in Asda for what they charge ($2.99 for a tin of Heinz tomato soup), but as far as I know it’s the only place in New York where I can buy Tizer, Walnut Whips and pickled onion Monster Munch, so I’m willing to cough up the dosh for those special occasions when only a tangy corn snack in the shape of a monster's paw will do.
Sadly I had to leave the Monster Munch on the shelf this time; probably not the best food choice post oral surgery. Instead I restricted myself to purchases of easily suck-able food; baked beans, Heinz tomato soup, ambrosia rice pudding and Devonshire custard. Mmm mmm mmmmmmmmmm!!!!
I was quite productive in my recuperation and posted a profile on an online dating site aimed at health conscious singles which I'd read about in Shape magazine. I'm not usually one for online dating; too much frog kissing before you meet your prince and really, who can be bothered? It also gets a bit disheartening after a while to keep putting yourself out there without much luck. I think people can be too picky online, plus it never feels good to know the person you're seeing probably has a whole harem of internet dates, but with Valentine's day looming I've been feeling the pressure of being single, a feeling not at all alleviated by last week's "Why You're Single" Time Out cover. Cheeky f****rs!!!
Still, nothing ventured nothing gained I suppose and I like the idea of meeting someone similarly health conscious, although initially I was a bit leery of the site being full of body builder types, but I checked it out before signing on and the men looked normal enough, so here goes. Unfortunately I made the mistake of telling Miles who has taken it upon himself to set me a goal of dating “at least one internet man a fortnight.”
Miles was my manager in London before I moved to New York and, at times, clearly thinks he is still in charge of me. Love him to bits, but he can be a little over zealous with setting targets for friends. Last year he reduced one to tears by making her complete a diary of her alcohol and cigarette consumption out of concern for her health. Good thing I live 3,000 miles away and he’s unable to berate me for any potential dating disobedience in person, well, except for the fact that he is over to visit in a few days.
I also started a new salsa class this week with a different instructor, a female this time. I thought the change of perspective would do me good. I’m in desperate need the practice since moving to the advanced beginner class with my other instructor has been more of a leap than I expected. Most of my new classmates are at level 3 and only take the level 2 class for extra practice. I'm feeling a bit out of my league, so taking another class to polish up on the basics couldn't hurt.
I enjoyed the new class a lot. It moves faster than my other class, although she is less of a stickler for how well you do the steps, so I think his class will make me a better dancer, but I had a lot of fun and was walking on air when I left the studio. I like the fact that the students are closer to my own age, late twenties/early thirties-ish, about 20years younger than my other classmates. There are probably twice as many people in the class too; about forty or fifty; which is not so great for personal attention from the instructor, but it might be good for getting to know a few more people to go out social dancing with. Some of the socials can be a bit intimidating for a beginner so it’s good to get to know people to go with.
I was also happy to note a sprinkling of rather attractive guys, including one cutie that’s the spit of Beppe from Eastenders, albeit a taller, leaner, Latin version. I was thrilled to rotate around to him three times. He’s a pretty good lead to say he’s only been taking classes a few weeks, holding me firmly but not too tight and not letting me spin off to the side on the turns. I was a bit off in controlling my turns this week and rarely ended up in front of my partner as I’m supposed to. I think the Vicodin had a lot to do with that. Salsa dancing and prescription painkillers are not such a good mix. Still, it was nice to have Beppe catch me and he had a very very hot bod going on underneath his conservatively attired exterior; I could feel the muscles on his arms and shoulders rippling as we danced in closed position, his biceps were so toned it was as if he was smuggling a couple of tennis balls up his shirt sleeves. Phew!! I feel a bit hot all of a sudden for some reason.
A couple of guys in class looked as if they were straight out of central casting. One was like a stereotype of a Brooklyn Italian (fuhgeddaboudit) a la John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, or Joey-Bag-of-Donuts as my Brooklyn born friend Melody likes to call them. Next to him was a swarthy Latino hunk, straight off the cover of a bodice ripper romance novel. He had mid length black wavy hair, and was dressed in a black shirt unbuttoned a little too far, chest hair on show and - I kid you not - a medallion. He was a pretty good lead and, I suppose, attractive if you like that sort of thing, but not really my type, a little too ‘Fabio’ for my taste. I definitely got the impression from the way he stared intently at me, occasionally wiggling an eyebrow, as we danced that he fancied himself as a bit of a ladies man. I half expected him to run a moisten finger over an eyebrow and growl at me Austin Powers style. It was highly amusing.
Grrrrrr baby!!!!
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