Wednesday 21 December 2011

Resolutions, Shmezolutions.

The concept of the New Years Resolution has never made sense to me.  I've always been of the belief that, the louder you announce your intentions, the less appealing they're going to sound, and the less likely you are to follow through with them.  Another reason I think New Years Resolutions are doomed to fail most of the time is that people make them in order to try to fix what isn't broken in the first place.  It seems to be a phenomenon that is particularly prevalent amongst single women, who are trying to render themselves unrecognisable in order to find love.  This is, of course, complete bollocks, so voice of radical dissension that I am, I have decided to turn the concept on its head.  So sit back, eat that extra Tim Tam, crack open a beer and enjoy reading through the list that I call my New Years Shmesolutions.

I WILL NOT give up my favourite foods.  I don't smoke, I don't gamble, and the fact that my credit rating is somewhere south of Hell prevents me from any 'therapeudic commerce' that my take home pay can't fund.  Chicken Byriani doesn't cause cancer, I don't have to fork out a month's rent to pay for my Junior Mints habit, and in my eyes the few extra centimetres around my waste directly attributable to my weakness for crusty baguette with brie and olive oil only makes me more attractive.  Newsflash: They don't call 'em love handles for nothing. 

I love Bailey's.  Deal with it.  Let me clarify something: I'm not a drunk.  I rarely drink alone, I don't bring alcohol home if my son's in the house, and I don't drink to get blotto.  Not intentionally, anyway.  I am that rare individual known as the one drink screamer.  In layman's terms, this means that it only takes one standard drink to take me from zero to chatty.  To explain the reason I adore Bailey's, I ask you to imagine combining a bowl of Coco Pops, a cup of cream and a generous slop of alcohol in a blender.  That's what Baileys is; a grown up chocolate milkshake.  Some men may be put off by the idea of a woman drinking, but seeing as these are usually the men who are also non-plussed at the thought of a woman swearing, having independent thoughts and talking back, I think we can all agree that they are no big loss.

I don't have to be a lady.  I dress more Hippie than (Audrey) Hepburn, I have no problem asking a guy out, and my Twitter and Facebook friends will tell you that I love a dirty joke.  I could resolve to be more refined, but what for?  Any guy I might win over with a ladylike facade is bound to be disappointed the first time he hears me swear at idiot politicians on TV, or has the misfortune to be inhaling when I am suffering digestive distress after eating Thai food. 

I like being a sixteen year-old in a thirty-nine-year-old's body.  My son and I have eerily similar taste in You Tube videos; most of my clothes come from Jay Jay's or Cotton On, and you won't find Celine Dion on my iPod.  Life's short enough as it is without forcing yourself to prepare for the grave before the halfway point.

As far as I'm concerned, I AM cool.  Confession time: I'm a dork.  I only go to the beach to read on the sand, I collect ceramic elephants, and my chief exhilarating pastime at the moment is decorating and furnishing a dolls house I bought from a discount store.  Hardly the list of hobbies one might expect of a single woman under sixty, but the traits listed above more than make up for it.  Besides that, they keep me calm and anyone raising teenagers alone will tell you that sometimes getting your geek on is the only thing preventing you from going online and ordering a mother load of horse tranquilisers. 

Trying to change yourself in order to get a man is the same as trying to change a man once you've got him; futile and fool-hardy.  Unless you're a damn good liar, the only resolution you should be making come New Years is to not make any more resolutions.  On that note, I'd like to wish all my readers the happiest of holidays and a wonderful new year.  I'll be taking a break from blogging for just over a week, in order to spend time with my son and indulge in all of the dalliances I mentioned in this post (and hopefully more). 
Cheers!  

Wednesday 14 December 2011

Baking it and faking it.

To counteract the residual effects left over from being involuntarily celibate for almost three years, I have discovered a brilliant distraction: baking.  No, this does not involve getting kinky with a wooden spoon and dessert products and strutting about wearing nothing but an apron, (PLEASE, for the sake of your mental and physical well-being, get that image out of your mind this instant).  It's more a case of tricking my brain into releasing endorphins by undertaking an activity that requires light physical labour, skilled hand movements and to-ing and fro-ing over a period of sixty minutes or more in order to produce something that gives me a brief high, warms me up and makes me sleepy.  Okay, so you can't spoon with a tray of blueberry muffins, or engage in post-feast pillow talk with a devil's food cake, but there are other benefits to baking.

1.  Sharing a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a cup of coffee with a friend who is going through a bad break up says 'I'm here for you.' Attempting to regale her with tales of the limitless ways the new marathon man in your life satisfies you three times a day says 'Sorry you couldn't be there, but check out our wicked slide show!'  

2.  Cleaning up is fun.  (Delving into this one any further will have me teetering over the edge of the already tenuous P.G. 13 barrier I have erected around this blog, but you get the idea).

3.  You can discuss the virtues of hand whisking over electric beaters with your Nan.  Initiate a discussion about similar uses for your hands in a different setting, and you're likely to put her in the coronary ward.

4.  Baked goods are terrific fundraisers.  Donating a hot guy wrapped in a festive tea towel to the school fete might bring in a lot of dollars, but it'll also make your next parent teacher night a tad awkward.

5.  A basket of goodies is a great way to welcome someone to your neighbourhood.  Having a hot naked guy 'hand deliver' them might make your septuagenarian neighbour's decade, but may prove problematic should she decide to send over her husband in an act of reciprocation.

Yeah I've drawn a pretty long bow with this one, and let's face it, it's complete bull honky, but if donning an apron and pretending I'm Nigella for a couple of hours takes my mind off the fact that the only item of furniture around here that squeaks is the beleaguered kitchen chair on which I sit my expanding arse to blog, so what?  It's fun, it's cheap, and I'm saving our glorious nation thousands of dollars a year in pharmaceutical bills.  Furthermore...piss off.

     

Sunday 11 December 2011

Taming the hazel-eyed monster.

Everyone has certain personality traits they aren't proud of.  Mine is jealousy.  Whether it became part of my nature organically, or grew there from the seed of the ever so slight sense of entitlement my mother unwittingly nurtured by making my room look like Toyworld to make up for the fact that I was an only child, the hazel-eyed monster has been with me for as long as I can remember.  It lays dormant most of the time, now that I am a (ahem) 'responsible adult' (snort), but there are still occasions when it threatens to come out of hibernation.  Engagement parties and weddings, births, and couples over the age of eighteen showing public displays of affection are occasions when the climate is particularly well suited to the re-emergence of the creature of covetousness.

While I might look happy outwardly, holding my champagne glass aloft and toasting the happy couple alongside a hundred or so other close friends and family, inside I'm wondering when the damn speeches are going to be over so I can get to piling my plate full of comfort food from the buffet table.  While friends of the bride speculate in hushed tones as to what the groom had to hock to buy her a rock that big on his salary, I'm standing there thinking It could have come from a Kinder Surprise for all I care, point is, she has a man who worships the ground she walks on and all I'll be going home with is a purse full of canopes.  My mother's habit of bailing up mums in shopping centres and enquiring as to their baby's name, weight and sleep patterns is usually endearing, if a little embarrassing.  At the wrong time of the month however, a time I like to call 'Oestrogen Equinox,' my mind wanders back to when my son was a velvet-complexioned cherub whose face lit up whenever I entered the room.  The sight of people holding hands and looking at each other starry-eyed brings home the realisation that the last man to look at me like that was in his early sixties, and he wasn't looking me in the eye (see 'The dirty and the indifferent').  At times like these, I find that the best course of action is to focus on the positives.  Having no fiancee means I won't have to do eighty sit-ups a day in order to fit into a dress I'll only wear once.  Having no husband means I won't have to play referee between family members who will only sit in the same room for weddings and funerals.  And having no more kids means that it won't be long until my weekends are mine again.

I really do want to fall in love again, but coveting what other people have is like holding a Weight Watchers meeting at Pizza Hut; all you come out with at the end is guilt, depression and three kilos that you need about as much as an extra uvula.  Jealousy is the Big Brother of emotions; it serves no useful purpose other than to debase and humiliate people, making them ponder doing unspeakable things in order to win a prize they only value when they see other so-called winners.  To sum up, my advice the next time you feel a twinge of envy working its way out is to get the hell over it and change the channel.                                              

Saturday 10 December 2011

Angry Arthur.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that my son and I are very close, and he will always come first.  Anyone considering friendship or something more with me is informed of this early on.  While I don't define myself by my role as a mother, I do adore my child and put him into consideration with every major decision I make, including inviting a man into our lives.  My mother was always very careful about choosing the kinds of men she dated, and was quick to send them packing if it looked like they were having difficulty understanding the mother-child dynamic.  Arthur was your typical Aussie alpha male; loud, jolly, and always quick with a dirty joke after seven or eight beers.  His bombastic nature took me back a little, seeing as I was only five at the time, but he made my mum happy, and that was the important thing.  It didn't hurt that he had a ten year old son who I thought was the best thing to come along since Ernie first captivated me with his crazy Muppet laugh on Sesame Street.  Because my parents divorced when I was three, the only males I had had any interaction with up to that point were my uncles, and they were cool.  Jokes, trips to the movies and the beach, and days out with my cousins were the highlight of my holidays, and Uncle Ken and Uncle Simon were the standard by which I judged all men.  Unfortunately, for Mum and for me, Arthur did not meet this standard.

I soon came to realise, young as I was, that drunk Arthur and sober Arthur were two different people.  Drunk Arthur was funny.  Sober Arthur was as mean as a rabid junkyard dog with it's foot caught in a bear trap.  Patience was not a virtue to which Arthur subscribed, and what seemed to particularly incense him was my lack of coordination.  On a day at the beach, I noticed the contemptuous snarl on his face when I stumbled along in the wet sand.  I picked up on his resentful tone when he and my mum were discussing my sleeping habits.  Mum somehow missed these and dozens of other hints as to his ill will towards me, but it was before a Sunday drive that she got an eye full of the real Arthur Fitz.  I was sitting in the back of Arthur's car and we were all ready to go when Mum realised she had forgotten something.  For my five year old self, fastening a seat belt was the equivalent of solving a five hundred piece jigsaw puzzle, so Mum was always the one to make sure I was safely strapped in before we went anywhere.  On this particular day, for some reason, I decided to give it a crack.  I fumbled around for ages trying to get the clip to fit inside the slot, my cheeks burning with the effort.  The clinking and scraping of metal on metal must have irritated Arthur's detoxifying brain more than anything else I had ever inadvertently done, because it was at that moment that I really bore the brunt of his angry arseholery.

'Clip the bloody thing in properly!'  He bellowed.  I shrunk back into my seat, trembling hands still clinging to the seat belt.  Then Arthur looked out the window, and his expression changed.  Mum had seen everything.  Needless to say, we did not partake in an afternoon drive that Sunday, and my mum refused to take Arthur's phone calls from then on.  The memory of Arthur Fitz and his allergy to me is one of the things that has shaped my approach to dating as a single mother.  Adolescent mood swings, selective deafness and all, G is the sun around which I revolve, and until such time as I become utterly unnecessary and uncool to him, any other planetary bodies wishing to occupy the same solar system as me will need to keep that in mind.             

Thursday 8 December 2011

Why chocolate can sometimes be better than love (she said in jest).

Ever wondered why you feel like you're on cloud nine when you eat chocolate?  No, Cadbury's, Hershey's and co do not slip a certain plant-derived secret ingredient into the mix, but cocoa does contain a compound called cannabinoids.  Yes, you read that right; cannabinoids are a compound similar to cannabis that induce a similar euphoric sensation, albeit a milder one.  That's one explanation for my nocturnal eating habits, but I think there's more to it. 

CHOCOLATE IS ALWAYS THERE FOR YOU.  You've had a day that would test the patience of the Dali Llama, and all you're getting from your so-called loved one is shrugs and well-worn platitudes.  You go home, slam the front door, and throw open the pantry to see if you can rustle up some comfort food.  Finding nothing but tomato sauce, baked beans and two minute noodles, desperation is turning to despair.  Then you remember your emergency provisions.  Slowly, and with the reverence of a child pilfering the coveted last chocolate chip cookie, you reach up to the top shelf and take down the Tupperware treasure chest that holds your rich, delicate bounty, (and Kit Kat, and Hershey, and M&M's, etc).  With your very first bite, placation starts to waft over you.  Troubles?  They don't exist.  All there is is chocolate and happiness. 

CHOCOLATE IS ALWAYS PRESENTABLE.  It's a fact that human beings let themselves go as soon as they begin feeling comfortable in a relationship.  The well-dressed, clean-shaven guy you once knew, who put deodorant on before and after jogging, dropped the handsome gent facade like a cockroach on fire a month after you gave him his own set of house keys.  Not so with chocolate.  It's never loses its silky smooth finish, and always intoxicates you with its rich, sweet aroma whenever you peel off its crisp, shiny robe.

CHOCOLATE GIVES WITHOUT THOUGHT OF RECEIVING.  Give and take, who needs it?  With chocolate in your life, you need never feel guilty about receiving the pleasure to which you are entitled again, much less feel obligated to return it.  Health regulations, public and private decency, and the law in some countries, prevent you from completely replacing a mate with chocolate, but when was the last time you were able to say that the dessert you got at the end of the meal was a fitting reward for the truly heroic couple of hours you put into the main course?

CHOCOLATE TASTES GOOD.  Speaks for itself, really.

CHOCOLATE DOESN'T HAVE RIDICULOUS STANDARDS.  So you don't wake up looking like a supermodel.  So you're no Nigella Lawson (nor do you HAVE to be).  So you were fired from your job for calling your bosses know-it-all cousin a steel wool-headed bitch.  Whether you're Miranda Kerr or Phyllis Diller; buxom food maven or cranky gruel server; polite team player or unemployed union rep with an axe to grind, chocolate is always ready and waiting with a sweet, velvety Hershey's Kiss that melts your heart, sets your thighs ablaze, and lights up your soul like a fireworks display on Chinese New Year.   

Saturday 3 December 2011

You'd better not cry.

I adore Christmas.  Let me just put that out there right now.  You will not find another person in this world with a more chronic case of the holly-jollies than me.  From December the first to the twenty fourth, I live the life of a manic elf with a Benzadrine addiction.  I hop around the house, draping every surface and inanimate object in tinsel; I make enough shortbreads and truffles to put even the healthiest person into a diabetic coma; and I spend hours perusing store shelves to ensure that every gift I give represents the receiver's personality and taste to a tee.  In short, I'm a poor man's Martha Stewart.  But like late season hay fever, this condition doesn't last.  The place you are most likely to find me on Christmas night, once my son has gone to bed, is curled up on the couch eating my fourth helping of plumb pudding and wondering where it all went wrong.  I'm not unique; Christmas is statistically the time of year when depression and suicide rates are at their peak.  Don't worry, I plan to stick around and confound people with my self depricating ways for the next fifty years or so, but I do share the dubious honour of feeling about as wanted as cheap fruitcake once the last carol has been sung. 

What is it that triggers this horrible affliction?  In a word, anticipation.  Love is something we are told is the be all and end all of existence from when we're too young to know how to spell it.  The princesses in the fairy tales we were read back then always got their man.  Or rather, he got them; all the princess had to do was make a wish and wait to be rescued, (don't even get me started on why that incenses me so much).  Christmas is equally as well-hyped.  Kids are told that if they're good all year, they'll find exactly what their little hearts desire under the tree.  We realise of course that this is a complete crock once we reach adulthood, but it doesn't stop us from believing it until we rip off the expensive wrapping and find a ten dollar Chanel no 5 knock-off that smells like toilet deodoriser.  The truth is, if you build up an experience too much in your head, you will only be twice as gutted if it doesn't happen.  That isn't to say that it won't, and I'm not suggesting that you surrender all hope of finding someone who will cuddle up with you on the couch and feed you truffles, (am I alone in that fantasy?).  I am simply saying that just telling Santa what you want will not guarantee waking up to find your perfect guy under the tree, wearing nothing but a strategically placed festive ribbon.  Us grown-ups have to work for what we want.  Go out, socialise, make new friends.  If nothing else, you'll have other people to swap Surprise Santa/Kris Kringle gifts with, and that sure as hell beats post-holiday indigestion.             

Tuesday 29 November 2011

Giving business the business.

I received an email three days ago from a Dan T****ns, (I decided not to blank out the surname entirely so as to inspire just the right amount of terror in the sender), that went as follows:
 
Hello,

Long time no see. I was wondering what you are up to this weekend?

Dan

Because my email service providers spam filter has been working like a government minister on a fact finding mission in Tahiti lately, I was naturally a bit suspicious, and sent the following reply:

How do you know me?

Two days later, I received an email, in my spam filter this time, about an 'Exciting new service for singles,' signed off on by its creator, one Dan T****ns.  This aggravated me for two reasons.  The first, obviously, is the fact that this person/money-making concern was able to bypass my spam filter by posing as an individual.  Insidious to say the least.  The second, and most important reason, is that it came on the very same day that I sent out several aggrieved responses on Twitter to the seventeen or so companies who followed me under the guise of individuals.  Some of these companies were also dating services; one offered to bypass dating altogether for a fee, if you know what I mean.  My blocking these users and exposing their tactics to my seventy or so followers resulted in yet more faux individuals following me, which I could only assume was either a pathetic attempt at revenge, or a barely literate programmer's misapprehension of exactly what I was driving at.  My regular readers will know that I like to give dating sites, and matchmaking services in general, a thorough going over with a rusty chainsaw, and for good reason; they take advantage of lonely people in order to fund their creator's lifestyles.  So, Mr Dan T****ns, and any other individuals/concerns with designs on bilking me out of my hard-earned child support, I offer the following response:

I am not now, and will never be, interested in utilising your services.  Whilst companionship would certainly be desirable at this point in my life, I would prefer to rely upon my own, admittedly sketchy, judgement and good taste when it comes to procuring it.  I thank you for your kind offer, and wish you luck with your business endeavours in the future.  On that subject, I've noticed that there are several underground pharmaceutical companies advertising their services in much the same way; perhaps you should consider a joint venture?  I should imagine the earnings you could derive by finding companionship for lonely eighty year-olds who have regained the use of their penises after twenty odd years of flaccidity would be more than substantial. 

Too much?  

Saturday 26 November 2011

Hot and Funny.

 Someone once said that a sneeze was like an orgasm.  This was a misquote of a remark made by a famous television sex therapist and has since been scientifically refuted, but it got me thinking about another involuntary response that's just as therapeutic: laughter.  I'm not saying you should carry a change of clothes everywhere you go, just in case you happen to overhear a well-timed zinger while waiting for your morning train, but to me, a good giggle fit (induced by the right person) is akin to foreplay.  I would much rather spend a lazy Sunday afternoon in with a funny guy than with a man who thinks mega earnestness is an access all areas pass.  Yes, I want to know your thoughts on globalization and marriage equality, (and if you DON'T support the latter, the deal is off), but who wants to get romantic with the six o'clock news playing on an endless loop in the background?  Another great thing about humour is that it can't be faked.  Sure, there are as many variances on what people find funny as there are actual people in the world, but unfunny is the universal equivalent of a cold shower.  A good rule of thumb when trying to spot a faker on a dating site, (if you haven't yet discovered that dating sites are full of them and should be avoided like shaking hands with a dysenteric hobo), is not to believe the guys who say 'All my friends say I'm funny.'  Generally speaking, they're not, and their friends are either sadists or idiots.

There is a direct correlation between humour and intelligence.  Any idiot can jump up on stage on improv night and make fun of celebrities, it's too easy.  It takes genuine wit and observation to wail on yourself and the world around you without having to consult TMZ for material.  To all you doubters who argue that women always say they look for a sense of humour above anything else, but throw that consideration out the window when it comes to making their choice, I submit my list of current comic crushes, in no particular order. Make of it what you will.

Ray William Johnson
Jason Bateman (okay, he's an actor, but he's still damn funny)
Zach Braff (see Jason Bateman)
Brad Sherwood
Wayne Brady
Ryan Reynolds (see Jason Bateman)
David Tennant (see Jason Bateman)

Still doubt me?


                                      

Thursday 24 November 2011

My hippie tendencies explained.

I'd like to say here and now that I have no shame in aspiring to be the 'Cool Mum.'  The reason I'm okay with it is that my definition of the term is not what you might expect.  I don't let G stay up until midnight, scarfing bowls of mega-sour warheads and playing enough Call of Duty to give himself survivor syndrome, nor am I happy to lovingly scruff his hair and write off his ever increasing mouthiness as 'Growing Pains.'  The area in which my Hippie tendencies really come into play is love; or at least the teenage facsimile thereof.  Unlike most so-called 'liberal' mums, I am fully prepared not to like my son's first girlfriend.  She will be cute, funny, smart, a bit geeky and probably cheeky.  Just as I'm about to chuck the damn PS3 out the window following my fourteenth request for him to turn it off, she will tear him away from it with one phone call.  After I've laboriously downloaded all the pod casts of his favourite You Tubers as a reward for studying well, she'll be the one he'll want to watch them with.  And when more than a decade of affirmation and congratulation has never quite been enough to convince him that he's deserving of his place in the world, she will convince him he's cool by holding his hand.  What will my response be to this little usurper coming in and taking my role as the chief influence in his life?  First, let's consider what my mother's response would have been in the same situation.

My mother spent my formative years convincing me that boys were evil, and only out for 'one thing,' and that I and my raging hormones wouldn't want to get involved with them, lest it should ruin my life.  Conversations like these really resonated with me; I was already convinced I was the ugliest girl in school, so when I had my first kiss at thirteen, with a boy I didn't even like, my immediate feeling was confusion.  Now that I'd let him get to first base, he wanted to go further, and I almost let him.  If someone wanted me, Horror Head, who was I to say no?  Especially given the enormous kick in the gut it would be to my mother, who I understood, even at that age, had her own reasons for 'protecting' me from boys.  Fortunately, I didn't give this one what he was after, and he went on to seduce another girl my age, but my mother's advice about boys was still ringing in my ears throughout my adolescence, stopping me from giving even the nice ones the time of day.  The only guy I ever dated that she did like was Aaron, my first boyfriend, who you will no doubt remember from one of my early posts, 'What I left on the ocean floor,' and I strongly suspect that the reason she thought so much of him was that she knew he wouldn't be a problem for long.  My mum is a wonderful lady.  She is strong, loyal, loving and completely devoted; but her reluctance to want to share me with anyone as a teen was one of the things that lead to the choices I made later on.  I was a smart kid; I had even proven it by fending off the clumsy advances of a nineteen year old at a time when most girls my age were too afraid to say no.  Had I entered into society with an open mind, as well as some constructive parental advice, I would have made the right choices eventually.  As it was, I dove into bad long term relationships in my twenties with the zeal of a prize fighter, both as a means of escape and to prove her wrong.

Yes, when my son introduces me to his first girlfriend, I'm sure I won't like her. 

I'll love her.          

Saturday 19 November 2011

Driving Miss Lazy

I don't drive.  It isn't because I can't afford a car, like to live an ecologically friendly lifestyle, or have a moral objection to lining the wallets of oil magnates.  By choosing to use public transportation, I am doing my part to ensure that there is one less dangerous driver on the road in a city full of motor heads, lane lingerers and brake huggers.  I didn't get my license until I was twenty-three, and that was at the insistence of my then boyfriend, who was afraid he might end up becoming my personal taxi driver.  It took four, (count 'em, four), attempts but I did pass, mainly because I happened to pull off a textbook parallel park; a trick I was never able to repeat.  I was on the road for three whole weeks before a catalogue of driving disasters saw me throw my boyfriend the keys to his early eighties tank/sedan and vow that I would rather spend the rest of my summer afternoons glued to a vinyl bus seat with my own bum sweat, squashed up against the window by old men who wreaked of cigarettes and vino than endanger the lives of innocent people a moment longer.  Sixteen gridlock free years later, I got to thinking: what if we could take the concept of public transportation and apply it to our love lives?  Sounds weird, I know, but imagine the possibilities if you could dispense with Internet dating and club hopping, and just hop on a bus and end up exactly where you wanted to be!  Of course, there would need to be a ticketing system. 

The Quick Trip, a one way fare, would be for passengers who weren't planning on returning that day, but also had no intention of extending their outing beyond twenty-four hours.  This, as you would expect, is a relatively cheap ticket.  The Long Haul would be for those travelling for business and pleasure.  Whether the journey lasted a week, a month, a year, or a lifetime, this ticket would be well worth the cost.  The Final Destination, as the name implies, would be more for the, shall we say, 'seasoned' traveller.  The equivalent of a seniors pass, this ticket would suit those who had thousands of kilometres under their belt with nothing to show for it, trying to outrun fate by taking the express route to the last stop on the map; Nothing Specialville.               

How's that for a business venture?  Kiss my grits, EHarmony!

Wednesday 16 November 2011

Played by your playlist.

Take a look at my Blogger profile picture.  I look pretty normal, right?  Your average thirty-something mum.  You'd probably assume, judging by the deep pink top I'm wearing, that I'm 'girly.'  My regular readers will know this isn't the case, but what if this was your first time reading my blog?  You wouldn't have the slightest idea that I have hairy toe knuckles, can belch on queue and can't start the day without the hard core stylings of Disturbed jolting my brain into action.  We all make assumptions, and assumptions make asses of us all, which brings me to something I found on my latest round of Google search bingo.  A study commissioned by Cambridge University in 2009, (I know that was two years ago, but if I only just discovered it, it's new), found that people judged one another by the contents of their iPod playlists.  The architect of the study warned that sharing your playlist could damage your social standing by 'reinforcing stereotypes and social prejudices.'  Why not take it to the next level and do a study on the effects of sharing your musical tastes with someone who you'd like to be pressing more than just your click wheel?  I'll pretend for a moment that I actually take these sorts of studies seriously, and share with you the top ten most played tracks on my girly pink Pod.  Judge me if you dare!

10.  APPLE STORE LOVE SONG - FATTY SPINS/RAY WILLIAM JOHNSON.  Who doesn't adore the idea of going shopping for a laptop and finding someone whose lap you'd like to be on?  To me, loving this song says that I have a fully functioning sense of humour, and that I believe in love at first sight, but I can see where a guy might find it troubling.  For one, almost anything baring the Apple logo is expensive as hell, so men with modest incomes and a tendency for taking things literally might find hanging out at the Apple store in anticipation of my arrival a tad intimidating.  They might also make the assumption that I have a thing for short men with brown eyes and a ribald sense of humour.  One of those assumptions would be wrong...I don't shop at the Apple store.
    
9.  BOSSY - KELLIS.  I'm no man magnet, the last time I wore 'grills' was when the orthodontist fitted them, and my toughness can best be summed up by the admission that I've seen Dumbo seventy times and it still makes me cry hysterically.  The reason this song is in my top ten is quite simply because it's an awesome track, but a read through the lyrics might lead potential suitors to picture me sitting on a velvet nightclub couch, dripping in bling, holding court over a crowd of rich, powerful men.  The last guy I dated was an accountant who was into The Little River Band.

8.  SPEAKING IN TONGUES - EAGLES OF DEATH METAL.  The rocking guitar on this song is what makes it essential listening when I'm having a bad day, but the title could imply something entirely different to the, ahem, nocturnally minded.  Contrary to what the title suggests, and I think I'm speaking for a lot of women here, any thoughts of an amorous nature quickly dissipate when I'm forced to use a napkin to mop saliva from my face.

7.  DOING YOUR MOM - FATTY SPINS/RAY WILLIAM JOHNSON.  This is one of the funniest songs I have ever heard, which says a lot coming from an armchair feminist, but lecherous younger men are warned here and now that any attempt to take the lyrics literally will result in me 'doing you' physical harm...unless you happen to be the artist.

6.  SIR PSYCHO SEXY - RED HOT CHILLI PEPPERS.  Yes, this song is the lyrical equivalent of an STD, but once again, it's just a song.  Whatever conclusions less astute men may draw about me from it, I do not want to know.

5.  DREAM A LITTLE DREAM - THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS.  There have been many versions of this song, but Cass Elliot's rendition is my favourite.  I used to sing it to my son when he was a baby, and I like to listen to it on lazy Sunday afternoons when making a cup of tea and changing out of my pyjamas is the most activity I can muster.  Would finding it on my Pod alongside Hendrix, The Beatles and The Doors out me as Hippie?  Possibly.  Do I care?

4.  SMILE - LILY ALLEN.  Lily's songs sound like sweet indie pop, but her lyrics soon put paid to the idea of categorising her in any way, which is exactly what's so cool about her.  Before I play this to any man, I plan to explain to him that the only revenge I ever got on a guy was through my blog.  Yeah, that'll put his fears to rest. 

3.  THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT - THE SMITHS.  A lot of Morrissey's tunes have a touch of that emo 'let's slash our wrists and bleed out together' sensibility about them, and I couldn't really blame a guy for being put off by lyrics like 'If a double-decker bus kills the both of us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.'  I don't suppose chasing him down the driveway yelling 'Please come back!  I'm not emo, I swear!' would help matters, either.

2.  SEETHER - VERUCA SALT.  What does a song about a chick tending her own garden say about me?  Who the hell cares when the guitar's this good?  

1.  HE'S MY THING - BABES IN TOYLAND.  It's no secret that I love my 'grunge' rock, and Babes in Toyland are about as 'grunge' as you can get.  Lyrics like 'He's my thing, I keep on a hook,' might give men the impression that I have psycho sexual, homicidal tendencies, but hey, whatever keeps a relationship interesting. 

*Note: the above remark was a joke.  My house has no basement, nor do I own butchery implements with which to restrain unsuspecting men.  I still have to watch horror movies in the daylight, for Pete's sake!

The most any half way intelligent man is going to glean about me from this will probably be that my musical tastes are somewhat bi-polar, and there's nothing wrong with that.  I'll have no qualms about handing over my iPod to my next boyfriend and letting him scroll through three hundred of my favourite songs, because I don't happen to be attracted to judgemental people.  Besides, if anything is going to scare him off, it'll be my mother!

Saturday 12 November 2011

Imparting some wisdom

One of the benefits of being single over thirty is that I can give my son, G, dating advice without fear of him saying 'What would you know?  The last time you went on a date, Britney Spears was still a virgin!'  He's just turned thirteen, and I'd be lying if I said the thought of him going to parties and kissing girls didn't make me want to reach for my migraine medication, but the good thing about the inevitable is that you can prepare in advance for its arrival.  The idea of the parent/son dating talk probably sounds a bit Growing Pains/Who's the boss/(Insert any cheesy 80's sit-com here), but where else is he going to learn this stuff?  YouTube?

A GIRL IS NOT YOUR PERSONAL PS3.  This is a piece of advice he won't need until he's at least sixteen (god willing), but any woman who still harbours vivid memories of trying watch a movie while fending off tentacle attack will agree that it's wisdom that needs to be imparted. 

BITCH IS NOT A TERM OF ENDEARMENT, EVEN IF YOU HAVE YOUR ARM AROUND YOUR GIRLFRIEND WHEN YOU SAY IT.  Being privy to other kid's conversations while waiting to pick up a sixth grader from school has led me to question the wisdom behind any parent letting sixteen year old boys babysit their younger siblings.  This will probably sound strange coming from a card-carrying Hippie, but had I been blessed with a daughter, my advice to her re. dealing with boys like this would be to do what their mothers should have done and smack them upside the head.

IT'S NOT WEIRD FOR A GIRL TO ASK YOU OUT.  Hopefully this won't still be an issue by the time my boy starts dating, but it is now so I'm addressing it.  We can't expect girls to be confident and secure in themselves if they can't ask a boy out without being labelled desperate, so with that in mind I have given my son the following piece of advice: if a girl you like asks you out, shut up, smile and say yes.

BE CAREFUL WHAT MOVIE YOU PICK FOR YOUR FIRST DATE.  This isn't to say that girls only like Rom-coms; my regular readers will know I have a pathological hatred of them.  Nor am I about to make the gross generalisation that girls hate action movies; millions of women loved every kick-arse minute of Kill Bill and Terminator II.  I illustrated my point to G by recalling the first date I had with his father, in which I had to sit in the dark with someone I hardly knew for the longest one hundred and seventy-seven minutes of my life.  Factor in the sex scenes, and I think you'll concur that Braveheart was not the ideal first date flick. 

DON'T HOLD WOMEN TO RIDICULOUS STANDARDS.  Fear of dumb grandchildren was the motivation behind this one.  I would like to confess here and now that in spite of my feminist leanings, I love Two and a half men.  I'm of the belief that it's okay to laugh at the questionable wisdom spewed from the mouth of an ageing man whore, as long as you realise that taking it seriously means that your i.q is on par with the vitamin content of an M&M.  This is what I reminded my son of the day he looked at me with his soulful brown eyes and said: 'Mum, I'm going to marry a girl like Candy one day.'

THERE ARE LIMITS TO CHIVALRY.  I don't think there's anything wrong with a guy holding a door open for a girl whose arms are loaded with shopping, or offering to take on some of the load if he can see she's struggling.  Manners are a wonderful thing for a guy to have, providing he's not patronizing about using them.  It's one thing to offer to pay for dinner, it's another to order for her.  Any guy who stands between me and a bacon cheeseburger is bound to end up eating alone.              

BEING DUMPED SUCKS.  Contrary to popular belief, boys do have hearts and they can be broken.  G would kill me if he knew I shared this with you, dear readers, but one day last term he came home from school looking like someone had ripped out his heart and played Saw Monopoly with it.  'She likes someone else,' was all he managed before running to his room and slamming the door.  Once I knew it was safe, i.e when I heard the PS3 booting up, I went into his room with a cup of hot chocolate and we had a talk.  I told him what my mother should have told me at his age, which was that your first love is never your only love.  Being spurned is like a kick in the guts; it hurts like hell and makes you want to heave uncontrollably, but the pain and the sickness do subside, and there are plenty out there with more discerning taste who would kill to love you...and I'm not just saying that because I'm your mother.

A V-CARD DOES NOT HAVE A FIXED EXPIRY DATE OR FREQUENT FLYER POINTS.  Thankfully, my ex had the sex talk with our son when he was twelve, (*sends out mental high-fives to every other single mum who's glad she had a boy), but G did come to me recently and ask when it was okay to lose his virginity.  My answer was a three parter: 

a)  Losing your virginity, life changing as it may seem, does not make you any cooler, and amassing a collection of conquests does not garner you legendary status.

b)  Losing her virginity does not make a girl fair game, nor does it make her a ho.
            
c)  You're only a kid once, so forget about sex for now and get back to burping the alphabet, telling Michael Hawk jokes and watching =3 with the sound down, thinking I don't hear it (a YouTube reference, for the uninitiated).

The best I can do as a mother is provide a good example and give advice that comes from the heart.  Whether or not my son chooses to heed my words, I can still sleep better at night knowing that I've done my utmost to prevent the unleashing of another Guido/Stud/Legend onto society, and keep him out of the cross hairs of Daddy rifles.


      

Tuesday 8 November 2011

The boyfriend interview

Wouldn't it be great if you could approach dating like a job interview?  Imagine for a moment that you could sit all the potentials for the position of, (pardon my crappy hallmark moment here) 'Keeper of your heart' (thank you), in a waiting room and grill them one by one on their qualifications?  How much easier would it be to go into a relationship with someone with your arms and your eyes wide open?  What kinds of questions would you ask to sort the dudes from the duds?

*Note:  As with 98.9% of my posts, the following is not to be taken entirely seriously...I came up with this post in the shower this morning.

1.  What's your relationship with your mother like?  Freudian, I know, but you really can tell a lot about a guy by how close he is to the most (soon to be second most) important woman in his life.  If he has a picture of her in his wallet, it's a good indicator that he was raised a gentleman.  If he constantly refers to her as 'Mother' rather than 'Mum', becomes visibly shaken at the mention of her name, or says things like 'Every boy needs his mother,' run.

2.  How long was your last relationship?  If he tells you how many years he was with his last partner and leaves it that, not a drama.  If he calls her the love of his life, recounts every significant moment of their time together in date order, or says something like 'She really broke my heart, but I'm over it now; I've got you!' carefully stash your letter opener in a drawer.

3.  What's your idea of a perfect date?  This is an invitation for him not only to show you his interests, but also his motivation.  Interest wise, pretty much anything is acceptable, provided it is something you are actually interested in.  If he tells you it's a fun place, it's supposed to be a good movie, or he hears the food's incredible, perfect.  If he refuses to divulge where he's taking you, says 'It's gonna be a big surprise, hey,' or refers to your upcoming meeting as 'Our Hot Date,' hang up and change your phone number post haste.

4.  What are your best qualities?  Trite, yes, but revealing nonetheless.  As with a job interview, the more detailed his answer to this question, the better.  If he uses well-worn responses like 'I'm sensitive,' 'I'm caring,' 'I'm down to earth,' or 'I have a good sense of humour,' and offers no evidence to back them up, refer him to Oasis Active or Match.com.    

5.  Describe yourself.  See above.

6.  What do you look for in a girlfriend?  This can go one of two ways; either he'll be balls-out honest with you (in which case you'll get the picture very quickly, pretty or not), or he'll take the politician's approach.  If he takes the first tack and says things like: 'Someone who's not gonna try to run my life; I hate that,' or 'Someone who'll take care of me,' chances are he has unresolved issues with his ex, or his mother, or both...*shudder.  If he dances around the question, revealing nothing at all with responses such as: 'Someone to have fun times with,' and 'A real woman,' he is in fact telling you everything you need to know.

Those were the most I was able to come up with before the water went cold, so how about you?  Have you asked someone questions like these and gotten some eye-opening responses?  What questions would you ask if you could?  Let me know in the comments, or hit me up in any of the ways mentioned at the top of the page; I'm dying to hear!

Sunday 6 November 2011

My community service

The following post is a community service announcement. 

I love you all, my dear readers.  Three times a week for the last eight weeks or so, you have loyally checked in and read each of my posts, and have in turn validated my choice to pour everything I have into them.  Your loyalty means the world to me, which is why I am willing to risk the wrath of the powers that be behind dating sites such as Oasis, RSVP and Zoosk in order to warn you not to make the same mistake I and, judging by Google search, plenty of others, have made.  Regardless of the mission statements made in their ads, dating sites were not designed to find you love.  They were created to line the pockets of the self-serving bastards behind the scenes.  A few posts ago, I told you I had killed off my online alter-ego, and now I am advising you to do the same.  I am not the least bit afraid of the consequences I may have to face by mentioning actual company names here; in fact, I'd actually get a rather perverse kick out of watching their C.E.Os try to sue an unemployed single mother.  Form an orderly cue with the other debtors, guys. 

I have read countless horror stories online about women and men who have had all manner of dreadful experiences with online dating, ranging from the bizarre to the fatal.  What you must first realise is that anyone can create a dating site.  One particular site was created by a man whose credentials consist of a diploma in computer systems technology; hardly the background one would expect from a man whose vocation is to help decide people's romantic fates.  His site, as with the ones I mentioned above, generates the majority of its revenue through advertising, and is estimated to have earned him over ten million dollars thus far.  But wait, I hear you protest, what's wrong with making money?  Absolutely nothing!  I have no moral objection whatsoever to people who can live comfortably while following their passions.  You Tubers, for example, can make a very tidy living, netting thousands of dollars a year from sponsorship deals and banner advertisements.  Why do I not have a problem with this?  One word: motivation.  I don't think any of the film makers on YouTube suddenly went down to their local electronics store one day and bought a camera with dreams of early retirement dancing in their heads.  What shows in the final product is that they do what they do because they love it, and I along with thousands of other fans happily come along for the ride.  Call me cynical, but I struggle to imagine that the aforementioned computer genius embarked upon his little business venture with altruistic dreams of mending broken hearts the world over. 

It isn't only the site creators/administrators whose motives I am calling into question.  How many of you have spent hours chatting to people you've met on dating sites, nodding approvingly as they say everything you want to hear and more, only to meet them and realise that they were feeding you lines from your own profile; using it as an auto-cue to put in an award winning performance, with you as the trophy.  Sometimes, these bottom feeders don't even care enough to carry the play through to the final act; the ultimate catalyst for writing this post was a recent phone call I received from a guy I had chatted to over a month ago and made tentative plans to have dinner with.  My creep radar started blipping during one of the previous weeks conversations, when he casually mentioned (several times) that he regularly stayed in a hotel.  Anxious to get him off the phone, I made my excuses and hung up.  The following week, he called again, asking when we were going out on our 'hot date' (Blip; Blip; Blip).  I informed him, falsely admittedly, that I was emotionally unwell and could not possibly think about dating anyone at the present time.  I breathed a sigh of relief when the call came to its inevitable end, confident that that would be the last I would hear of him.  Undeterred, our horny little hero called again yesterday afternoon, suggesting that he may be able to alleviate some of my suffering with massage - I kid you not.  I told him my therapist advised me to stay away from dating for a while.  He countered with 'Oh, you shouldn't listen to therapists.'  Finally gathering up the courage to tell it like it was, I told him that I was under no circumstances interested in dating him.  'Oh,' he said, 'Well how about just sex then?'  Any shred of diplomacy I was still hanging on to went the way of disco and I hung up on him.  Sadly, this is not the first encounter I've had with men who think women on dating sites are volunteer sex workers.  I can look back on it and laugh, but I wonder how many lonely, more vulnerable people have actually been conned by this sort of sexual profiling.  Hear me and hear me well: no amount of loneliness should be enough to convince you to settle for less, especially from yourself.  Internet millionaires and their Lothario clients do not have your best interests in mind.  Matchmaking services rob you of your money, your dignity and your time.  The only person who truly knows what you want and need in your heart of hearts is you, so how about you erase that profile, turn off your laptop, and start listening to yourself.  You might just learn something.       

Wednesday 2 November 2011

The five best uses for a boyfriend.

Don't let the title mislead you; I am not saying I need a boyfriend; I'm a strong, capable woman who had no Daddy issues last time she checked, as I'm sure are you.  My motivation for writing this post was a conversation I had with my friend Tina shortly after she read 'Femmish to English.'  Ever the constructive critic, she looked up from her laptop screen with an expression eerily similar to the one on my Nan's face when I told her I was pregnant thirteen years ago. 

'You make fun of men too much; people will think you don't want a boyfriend.'

I think the little disclaimers I throw into my particularly ribald posts should suffice, but just in case they don't, here's another: my posts are written with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek, and are not meant to be taken as an indictment on mankind.  Guys, the world would be a much darker place without you.  I adore you all and always will.  To prove it, I have compiled a list of the top five best things about having a boyfriend.  As always, it is addressed to my fellow ladies, but you fellas will have the satisfaction of knowing that it was you I had in mind when I wrote it. 

1.  GETTING RID OF UNWANTED GUESTS.  Whether it's door-knockers strong arming you into changing utility providers, or little old ladies in hats trying to convince you that the afterlife is an exclusive nightclub where Jehovah is the bouncer, nothing ruins a girls Saturday more than intruders hell bent on making us see the error of our ways.  Cue the boyfriend!  Once he answers the door wearing nothing but a come-hither smile, the pests will run screaming down the driveway, stabbing at their eyes with their pens and praying for our souls.

2.  KEEPING THE COUCH WARM.  If your next significant other turns out to be a gamer, don't be tempted to donate his X-Box to the Salvation Army, or install a stripper pole in front of the TV to get his attention; take advantage of the situation!  How often have you sat down on the couch on a cold winters night, only to find it colder than a plastic Alaskan toilet seat?  Fear no more!  After a three or four hour Call of Duty marathon, your guy's backside will have generated enough heat for that couch to become an incubator for an ostrich egg!

3.  SHUTTING YOUR MOTHER UP.  Anyone who has read a little post I wrote about a month ago entitled 'My mother, my pimp,' and can identify will not need me to explain this one any further.

4.  TENSION RELIEF.  Whether you're angry at your boss, nervous about an upcoming traffic court appearance, or experiencing palpitations after a Johnny Depp movie marathon, having a boyfriend to come home to is a better relaxant than Valium and a whole lot more fun to take.  Oh yes; I went there.

5.  BIRTH CONTROL.  This might sound wacky, but bare with me.  If you don't wish to become a mother in the near future, being in a 'physically fulfilling' relationship will give you that much more incentive to be careful.  Unconvinced?  I have five words for you:  'Mummy, can I come in?'

Hopefully, that should go someway toward appeasing any of the male members of my readership I may have offended in previous posts.  If there are any pro-boyfriend advantages you think I've missed, leave them in the comments section, or Facebook, Tweet or Email them to me!
                      

Saturday 29 October 2011

The dirty and the indifferent.

Know what it feels like to want attention, only to get it from all the wrong places?  Welcome to my world.  I don't know whether it's my non-threatening face, my tough stance against velour tracksuits, or just some 'Come get it while it's lukewarm' vibe I'm inadvertently throwing out, but lately I seem to have become the pin-up girl for a clique I really wish I wasn't cool enough for: The Dirty Old Men Club.  While guys my own age remain relatively indifferent to my charms, I'm getting hit upon by fellas who are a few little blue pills shy of being my Dad's drinking buddies. 

The first incident started innocently enough.  While dropping my son off at a birthday party, I was invited in for a coffee.  I sat down and chatted with the birthday boy's mother and a family friend for awhile, thanked them and left.  A week later the family friend, a man in his late fifties, arrived on my doorstep with a DVD in hand.  He explained that my son told him he was a huge fan of stand up comedy, and had put together a compilation for him.  I told my son to thank him and invited him in for a coffee.  The true nature of his visit was revealed when he remarked how astonished he was that I was still unattached, and I had to spend the next twenty minutes or so balancing my coffee cup precariously on one crossed knee while using my hands to cover the area toward which he was directing his compliments.  Once I casually dropped into the conversation the fact that my (fictitious) brother was a policeman and amateur boxer who would shortly be getting up, my guest took the hint and left, never to be seen again.    

You might want to reserve that sharp intake of breath I sense you were about to have...it gets worse.

After my landlord sent me an inspection notice, I went into panic mode and started calling professional cleaning services to ask what the going rate was for cleaning and sanitising a three bedroom petri dish.  Shocked, but unsurprised that every one of them said they couldn't do the job for anything less than a Brazilian kidnapper's ransom demand, I began mentally cataloguing my DVDs and wrapping my glassware in newspaper to prepare for moving day.  Then my mother reminded me that she knew a guy.  Nigel had been cleaning her apartment, and those of her neighbours, for the past twenty two years, so I gave him a chance. After taking a quick tour of the place, he quoted me half the next best offer, and I hired him on the spot.  It was only when I was seeing him off at the door upon completion of the job that I found out what my slovenly habits were really going to cost me.

'Listen,' he said, 'I know you must find it hard being on your own, so if ever you feel at a loss, just give me a ring.  My wife goes interstate to see her mother every second weekend - we could catch up.'  I slammed the door in his face and, needless to say, my newly spruced up house might have appeared spotless to my landlord, but it sure felt dirty to me.  I'll sum things up and spare you the horror stories of spurned semi-retired taxi driver advances and the grinning pizza shop proprietor who offered to throw in extra cheese for free, if you'll pardon the double entendre, lest I put you off whatever meal you might be trying to enjoy while you read this.  I marvel at the fact that I spent my mid to late twenties committed to a man whose football got more physical contact than I did, and never cheated on him despite the offers I got from men who were also in their twenties at the time.  Now that I'm single again, men my own age seem to be beating a path to the fire escape, while their Dad's chat me up at the bar! 

If there's a lesson here, I think it's that whoever you are, however old you are, the universe is a perverse old bastard with a wicked sense of humour who enjoys getting shits and giggles at our expense, and the best thing to do is to laugh it off and move on, which is what I'm going to do...once I'm done changing my locks and throwing out all my v-neck tops.
             

Tuesday 25 October 2011

Making fate my bitch...

After a month and a half of publishing posts that have probably made dating site administrators cry themselves to sleep at night, I decided enough was enough and deleted my profiles.  Yes, my Online Doppelganger has been returned to the parallel universe from whence she came and I am once again completely reliant on good old Madame Fate.  I know some of you might be thinking; why are you limiting your options?  I honestly don't think I am.  In fact, I think that anyone who relies solely on dating/matchmaking services to find love, or a facsimile thereof, is destined to spend a whole bunch of quality time with their keyboard and a lot of Saturday nights on dates that leave them feeling like they're auditioning housemates for a Big Brother comeback.  Despite the tidal wave of advertising space they take up, there is no such thing as a guarantee that you will find 'lasting love' by filling out a personality questionnaire.  How many people do you think are completely honest in those things?  After all, sloth-like, couch moistening Dungeon Master just doesn't have quite the same ring to it as easy going, quiet living intellectual, does it?        

Sunday 23 October 2011

Femmish to English: a translation guide.

Expanding on yesterdays post, in which I reviewed an article on the apparently manipulative way women communicate with men in order to get what we want, I thought I'd make things easier for the guys out there still operating under the gross misconception that we are all evil puppet masters.  I'm positive there aren't many of you, and I trust that all two per cent of you will find the following informative.

FEMMISH TO ENGLISH: A TRANSLATION GUIDE TO COMMON PHRASES.
No (Femmish).  No (English).  I'm not in the mood now, but if you keep pawing at me I just might become inflamed with desire and ravish you (Mistranslation).

I'm tired (Femmish).  I'm tired (English).  Please be my servant (Mistranslation).

I'm sick (Femmish).  I'm sick (English).  I'm willing to feign an exotic disease in order to prevent you from going out with your friends on the wicked night of drunken whore mongering I'm certain you have planned (Mistranslation)
I love you (Femmish).  I love you (English).  You are the poor bastard I've decided to stick my talons into and render useless to other women from the neck down (Mistranslation).

I've been thinking about you (Femmish).  I've been thinking about you (English).  I've been sitting around in my pyjamas for the past two days, tracking down your house on Google Earth and contemplating the thousands of methods I could employ to hurt you if you didn't call soon (Mistranslation).
 
Please help me with this (Femmish).  Please help me with this (English).  Please drop whatever it was you were doing immediately and come do my bidding (Mistranslation).

We need to talk (Femmish).  We need to talk (English).  I''m pissed off, pregnant or about to propose (Mistranslation)

What a cute baby (Femmish).  What a cute baby (English).  Brace yourself...Daddy (Mistranslation).

I like your mother (Femmish).  I like your mother (English).  Your mother and I are going out to scout for reception venues later (Mistranslation).

I thought you'd like this shirt (Femmish).  I thought you'd like this shirt (English).  I'm slowly but surely trying to change everything about you, starting with your fashion sense (Mistranslation).

Your friend is mean to me (Femmish). Your friend is mean to me (English). Your friend is at the top of my 'People to alienate you from in order to have you all to myself' list (Mistranslation)

You're being a Douche (Femmish).  You're being a Douche (English).  I have resorted to childish name-calling because you were right and I was wrong, and I hope that doing so will illicit a half-hearted apology for daring to showcase your intellectual superiority (Mistranslation).  

I'm reasonably certain this guide will help, but should you still be unsure what a woman means when she uses any of the above phrases, there is one simple, sure-fire solution...

JUST FRIGGIN' ASK!



   

 
                                    

Friday 21 October 2011

From the Oh my friggin' God files...

The jewels I find while playing Google Search Bingo never cease to amaze me.  This morning I discovered a site built by men, for men, for the altruistic purpose of helping them to better understand us women.  The particular article I happened to stumble upon attempted to explain the differences between what women say and what they mean.  Not one to cast a shadow over journalistic integrity, the author duly credited his source - a female spy named Pamela (nothing remotely suspicious about that pseudonym).  'Pamela' put her life on the line to clue the author in on the fact that we subtly manipulate our language in order to hide that we're asking for something.  Apparently, guys are so dumb that they won't realise they're doing us a favour and consequently won't ask us for one in return.  'Pamela' went on to provide some helpful examples.

If a woman says: 'I'm so tired!'  she means: 'Can you pick me up from work?'  If a woman says 'I feel sick,' she means 'Don't go on a lads night out tonight,' and if she says anything with the words 'Mother;' 'Hair;' or 'Work' in it, she means 'Not tonight, baby.'  I know a few of my male readers, and they are all sharp, witty, intuitive guys, so the following message is not intended for them, but rather for any men who find women so confusing that they need to rely on 'self-help' articles to communicate with us, (and I seriously hope such a creature doesn't actually exist).  When we say 'I'm so tired,' we mean 'I'm so tired.'  When we say 'I feel sick,' we mean 'I feel sick, swap bodily fluids with me at your own risk.'  As for using our mothers, our hair or work to get out of sex, I honestly don't think that's likely in the twenty-first century unless your 'girlfriend' lives in the magic, 52 inch black box on your wall. 

The rest of the site, featuring articles with titles like 'How to impress a woman without spending all your money' and 'What's stopping you from sealing the deal,' are enough to send any female writer worth her salt into multiple blog-gasms.  I was torn between wiping up the coffee I kept spitting and highlighting all the lampoon-worthy passages, (I haven't seen so much blue since Avatar).  I can't say that the site made me angry; it wasn't thought provoking enough.  It didn't make me sad, either; I have too much faith in the wisdom of the majority of the male population for that.  The only way I can think of to summarise the way it made me feel is with a time honoured expression that crosses cultural and gender boundaries alike...

HA, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!                

      

Thursday 20 October 2011

Swearing to keep it casual.

No, this isn't going to be a manifesto on the prevalence of F Bomb dropping in polite society, of which I am a fan by the way; today's post was inspired by a conversation I had with my friend Carla last night.  Several months ago, she went out on a few dates with a guy, began to have feelings for him, then cooled off when she suspected he might have been lying to her about seeing other women, amongst other things.  She told him it was over, then spent the next couple of months being bombarded with text messages.  After bumping into him recently, he explained his situation quite plausibly and she decided to give it another try.  Although he hasn't stated it outright, Carla knows he wants to keep things fairly casual, and she says she is okay with this, but I know her.  Having a 'Special Friend' isn't going to satisfy her for long because she is a very moral woman with a lot of love to give the right person.  Personally, I don't have a problem with it; I've enjoyed no strings attached relationships in the past and can't swear that I won't again (with a surface dwelling guy this time), but my question is this: can a certified, ticket-holding commitment fan train herself to enjoy something more casual?  Obviously, for reasons I don't need to go into here, an ongoing fling can be a blast, but if you're the sort of person who has a blueprint for the future that involves growing old with someone, how long will it be before want turns into need?  My regular readers will know that, when it comes to my own romantic future, I'm a big fan of leaving things in the hands of Madame Serendipity.  If I find someone I can happily see myself legally bound to for eternity, great; if it turns out I'd prefer that he kept his shoes under his own bed, that's cool too.  But I do worry about Carla.  I've told her just to do what feels right, because all to often we're so busy playing monkey in the middle between our head and our heart that our gut is left sidelined, excluded from the game.                   

Wednesday 19 October 2011

Five reasons being single kicks arse.

Whether it's the gorgeous conditions we're experiencing here at the moment, or the migraine medication I've had to choke down because of them, I'm feeling extraordinarily positive today.  Relax, I'm sure it won't last, but as long as it does I thought I'd share with you a revelation that came to me while I was laying outside under the clothes line with a wet towel on my head: Being single kicks arse!  Don't get me wrong, coupledom is great and as relationship statuses go, I'd obviously like to be able to tick the box that says 'Taken,' but there are some things you can do that are much more fun when you're sans partner.  Here is my top five...

1.   EATING LIKE YOU HAVE 24 HOURS TO LIVE.  I love my food.  Whether I'm relishing a plate of Beef Burgundy that's been slow cooked over the course of a day so that it melts in my mouth like cotton candy, or scarfing down a bacon cheeseburger prepared by a sweaty sixteen year old, I consider dining nothing short of a religious experience.  But when I'm dating someone, I pick the healthiest item on the menu because I'm terrified that he'll see the woman I was several years and several kilos ago, itching to bust out of her skinny prison.  Ridiculous as that may sound, I'm reasonably confident I'm not alone.  These days, I'm enjoying every meal as though it's my last day on Earth; even if it does mean running until I can feel my heart beating in my throat.

2.  BEING 'UN-LADYLIKE.'  It is a widespread misconception that all us ladies live a neat, clean, pretty, orderly existence, while our male counterparts are free to burp, fart, swear and scratch to their hearts content.  I am proud to admit that I am not someone who helps perpetuate this myth, much to my mother's chagrin, but to those who find the idea of expelling gas and screaming expletives in front of a man more mortifying than finding half a cockroach in your lasagna, I encourage you to enjoy your freedom while you can!  Burp the alphabet in a posh restaurant.  Throw caution to the wind (so to speak) and eat nothing but curry for a week.  Listen to talk radio on your way to work, just to see how many disgusting adjectives you can come up with to describe the callers.  Go forth and offend, my sisters!

3.  BEING COMFORTABLE.  What good is that hot pink, lace G-string if there's no one there to see it?  Unless you happen to enjoy the sensation of having underwear elastic nuzzling your colon, slip on the adorable Snoopy briefs you bought for five bucks at K-Mart, and bask in the breathable cottony indulgence.            

4.  INDULGING YOUR WANDERING EYE.  Let's face it, we've all been guilty of doing a double take when a hot guy with an aesthetically pleasing posterior walks by, but the stealthy way you need to operate in order to do this while you're in a relationship can be exhausting.  As a single woman however, you have the freedom, nay, the obligation to perve with abandon!  You owe it to your coupled sisters to do what they would do if they had your chance! 

5.  GETTING DRUNK AND SINGING BAD KARAOKE.  Not that singles are the only ones who do this, but getting fired up on Tequila and belting out 'All by myself' and 'You oughtta know' takes on a whole new significance when you know there's not going to be anyone to hold back your hair when you're worshipping at the porcelain altar later on. 

I don't know about you, but I plan on doing all of the above things this weekend - I might even do a couple of them simultaneously!  If you can think of five things that are more fun to do single, let me know!   

  

Saturday 15 October 2011

High school never ends

Rereading my last post, wherein I lamented the return of my chronic shyness, has lead me to reflect on a time when it was at its peak: my teen years.  Why would I want to do that in a blog about the horrors of dating past thirty?  Allow me to explain.  Adolescence is like a glorious sort of limbo; you're not a kid anymore, but you're not a grown up.  You can do all the fun things like date, party, eat crappy food and drink without having to worry about kids, work, rent/mortgage, bills, etc.  Then when you hit adulthood and take on all the responsibilities that come with it, you can always look back fondly on that time and know that you didn't miss out on anything.  But not everybody has that luxury.  Some people, and this is purely a hypothesis, you understand, spent their teens hiding from the tough kids in the library, writing poetry about one of the hundreds of boys their hormone addled heart was fixated on and cursing the fact that they won their dad's nose and jaw in the genetic lottery.  Anyone who inhaled sharply at this (purely hypothetical) account of adolescence will probably be familiar with the following scenario. 

Say you're a single woman in her mid to late thirties.  Your love life has hit a slump, as has your social life, and you find yourself transported back to a time you thought dead and buried, wondering whether things would be better now had you done something differently then.  Maybe that guy in seventh grade whose timetable you memorised just so you'd be able to bump into him would have liked you if you'd been 'normal.'  Maybe if you'd tried to make yourself look prettier, he would have asked you out.  Then you would have had your first kiss a lot earlier, and probably dated a few more boys before graduation, which would have made you a bit more streetwise when it came to choosing guys post high school.  Maybe then you wouldn't have fallen for the wrong guy, had your heart broken, and ended up alone at a time when it's statistically less likely for you to find love.  The solution to this problem is to remember that high school was twenty plus years ago, and that time and Karma make excellent bedfellows.  The hot bad boy you drooled over when you were fourteen?  Years of smoking and sunbathing have probably left him looking like an imitation leather purse from South East Asia, which is where the hot girl he married has to visit him while he does time for drug trafficking.  The Thor lookalike with the biceps that could crack walnuts?  Decades of throwing parties you were never invited to have undoubtedly given him a beer belly that could double as an end table.  The cool guy with girls dripping off him like diamonds, who held you in the same esteem as dog leavings?  It's hard to woo women when child support takes three quarters of your income.  The past is a great place for a vacation.  Visit the old haunts, marvel at how different they look now that you're an inch or two taller and a great deal wiser; but if you stay too long, you'll never leave, and fun as The Breakfast Club is to watch, who wants to be stuck in eternal detention with those arseholes?                                    

Thursday 13 October 2011

My glittering anti-social life.

I was scrolling through the friends list on my Facebook page when I came to the realisation that I had more Facebook friends than regular friends.  I know I'm not alone there; most profiles have a one to two hundred strong friends list, and nobody can say they've actually met that many people, but what if I was to tell you that my tally came to a grand total of eight?  Yes, you read right, eight.  I then did some investigating into why my social circle was so small, and once again, my trusty laptop provided the answer.  The grid list that pops up on screen whenever I open up a new tab revealed something startling: I was addicted to social media.  Saturday nights for my flesh and blood friends (all three of them) consist of drinking, partying, eating food that doesn't come flat-packed in cardboard and meeting real live men.  A kid-free Saturday evening at Mel's is usually spent adding to the list of people I follow on Twitter who will never follow me back, eating pizza that could double as a steering wheel for Mario Kart, laughing at dating site profiles, and posting hourly status updates on Facebook (8.00 p.m: ate dinner...9.00 pm: watched Buffy...10.00 p.m: hid the painkillers...you get the idea). 

My shyness has been with me for as long as I can remember, and the reason I find it difficult to let go of, believe it or not, is that it has been as much a friend as it has an enemy.  Had I not been too shy to go out and play with the kids in my neighbourhood as a little girl, I probably wouldn't have fallen in love with writing as early as I did.  But who's to say I wouldn't have fallen in love with it anyway, at some point?  I have spent the past few days dreaming up dozens of plausible sounding excuses to get me out of going out this Saturday night on what my regular readers will know is the first date I've had in over a year.  Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?  Well, the madness doesn't stop there.  My best friend Corrina turns forty in two weeks time, and has invited me to her party.  Given the fact that she is the closest thing I've ever had to a sister, and that we've known each other since we were eleven and twelve, you would think I'd be dress shopping and writing a speech.  Instead, I'm sweating bullets at the thought of her twenty plus guests seeing me out of my jeans and judging my style.  I'm letting something I can control take control of me and jip me out of what will probably be an absolute blast.  What's worse is that I did actually manage to kick the shyness habit for a long time.  Once high school was behind me, I went wild.  A large chunk of the first half of my twenties is a blissful blur; I made all the mistakes and faux pas I should have made in my teens, and then some...it was awesome!  Somewhere around the time of my thirty seventh birthday, however, a toxic relationship (I call it a relationship because I can't think of a PG euphemism for it), and dozens of other little things ganged up to wage an all out assault on my ego, which resulted in me bowing to the irresistible temptation to throw in the towel and weld my rapidly expanding bum to the couch.  I've since dropped all the weight, but can't quite seem to shift the ten kilos of self doubt that's crushing down on my brain like a bag of cement. 

To put it simply; I know I'm a cool, interesting, funny person with a lot to say; the thing that's intermittently holding me back is that I'm terrified no one else will listen.  I feel utterly ridiculous just reading that back; I've spent the past four weeks or so telling you all to get off your arses and get what you want before someone else grabs it, yet I'm stuck posing for the before shot in a self esteem wonder drug ad!  Okay, enough of this.  This post was really just to let you know that we all have our down days/weeks/months/years, and that they do pass; whether these dark times stroll off at an infuriatingly leisurely pace, or streak by and jump out the window to a grizzly death is up to one person, and one person alone.  I am now about to tear that person a new one, thereby forcing her to take those dark times and send them to the Bermuda Triangle in a single engine plane.       

                         

Monday 10 October 2011

Flirting, for dummies?

Every now and then, I like to conduct dating related searches on Google.  Not because I'm stuck for material, but because I find that cyberspace is an inexhaustible wealth of semi-useless, half baked, laughable information.  The articles that interest me most are the ones riddled with words like 'Guarantee,' 'Secret,' and 'Power.'  I found just such a gem this morning.  The authors begin the article by appealing to guys who have trouble getting beyond the friend barrier, and guarantee that once they have this beguiling arsenal at their disposal, women will be clambering over one another to get to them.  And it isn't just weak willed or easily charmed women who'll fall at their feet, either; they claim that any woman will want the lucky guy who happens to spend his hard earned cash on this thirteen C.D seduction course.  Allow me to do a quick summary of the first five techniques on the Lothario's list, and give you an average/sober woman's point of view on them.

1.  SMILING; THE BIGGER, THE BETTER.  Seems an elementary gesture, I know, but apparently a lot of guys are doing it wrong.  The solution?  Practice smiling in the mirror!  To really get that hottie to notice them, fellas should get used to smiling as widely as they can manage.  Here's a scenario for you, ladies: you're sitting in a cafe, minding your own business, when the complete stranger at the table across from you flashes you a grin so wide it looks like the corners of his mouth will split.  Would you think a) Gosh, that guy is sexually attracted to me, or b) Gosh, I think that guy might be the escaped homicidal maniac they were talking about on the eleven o'clock news last night?

2.  LET HER CATCH YOU LOOKING.  Now that the ice has been broken, the next step for our socially awkward loverboys is to wait until the object of their desire looks their way again, flash her another smile, lock eyes with her a moment, then look away.  I'm tipping that the chances of success with this technique would vary, depending on the reason for the lady in question's appraising glance.  Either she's sizing up his boyfriend potential, or she's trying to memorize his features for the identikit picture she plans on making at the police station later.

3.  WAVING.  The authors tell us that this technique is best performed in conjunction with techniques one and two, as a cheeky but non-intrusive way to say hi.  I can't speak for any other woman reading this, but I'm not bothered at all when the one moment of my day when I can unwind, sip an iced coffee and forget about school, bills, appointments, food shopping, work, hastily prepared dinners and upcoming visits to the Principal's office is gatecrashed by a dude who has to resort to waving like a lunatic at unsuspecting women in order to get layed.

4.  WINKING.  Good news; this is something a guy can do anywhere and at any time, whether it's from across the room, or during a conversation.  Winking at her from across the room says, I'm very interested in you...so much so that I've been following you for the last three weeks. If a woman says something funny, all a guy has to do is wink at her to let her know he understands this is her way of creating a moment for the two of them to share.  Just when I thought that the only guys who still did this were the kind who were immortalised in films like A night at the Roxbury.

5.  ASKING: 'WHAT'S THE STORY THERE?'  The authors assure any guy who hasn't clicked the big red x in the corner of their screen by now that this question is an ideal conversation starter, and can be applied to anything his 'quarry' (yes, they actually use that word) is wearing or carrying on their person.  If she's wearing a pretty bracelet, asking 'What's the story there?' will net the enquirer a run down on the lady's shopping habits, thus discouraging her from communicating as she otherwise would, with the back of her hand.  I wonder how much further the conversation would progress if the answer was 'I stole it back from the guy who mugged me earlier, just before I bludgeoned him to death with the rock I've got in my handbag?'

My main objection with these sorts of tutorials is the motivation behind them.  Given that the self-proclaimed 'Dating Coaches' flanked their article with ads for the aforementioned, thirteen C.D set seduction course and other social refresher classes, I'd say that they were less concerned with self-help than they were to helping themselves to their unwitting customer's money.  I know it sounds as though I'm just being mean to get a laugh, but don't misunderstand me; I love to be flirted with.  It's flattering and like any other woman, I will respond well if I'm interested, but the thought that there are actually guys out there who are so down on themselves that they will pay a so called expert to teach them how to con women into liking them genuinely saddens me.  Guys: adopting a formulaic approach with a woman is more likely to piss her off than it is to woo her.  Even if it does work, she will eventually see the real you, and if the sweet talking pick up artist is the guy she, inexplicably, wants to wake up next to everyday for the rest of her life, you my friends are in for heartbreak.

     

Sunday 9 October 2011

The young and the hopeless

Quick question, readers: is a thirty-nine year old woman being nervous about going on a date completely insane?  Scott and I have been chatting for a while since we met on a dating site, (no, he isn't the dud I discussed in 'Did the Internet kill romance?'), and I know a little apprehension is understandable, given the fact that my last date was just over a year ago, but can someone please explain to me why my brain is already swimming with worst case scenarios?  He is sweet, gorgeous and six years younger than me.  All that should be cause for celebration, right?  Once again my frontal lobe, that pesky little part of the brain responsible for, amongst other things, reasoning, has let me down by going into overdrive.  Sweetness, it tells me, is an act he's putting on, either to get into my pants or to lull me into a false sense of security long enough to get me into his car and drive me out into the middle of nowhere, where I'll become the seventeenth victim in his cross-country homicide spree.  The fact that he could pass for Taylor Lautner's older brother, it scoffs, is only going to make it even more humiliating when he sees me in daylight and marvels at what good lighting and a strategic camera angle can do for a profile shot.  All that has my palms sweaty enough to render holding precious objects dangerous, but it's on the subject of age that the internal bashing really starts.

A six year age gap might not seem huge, but I'll be forty next year.  There are couples whose age gap is wider, Deborah Lee Furness got Hugh Jackman and Demi Moore wakes up next to Ashton Kutcher every morning, but there are two key differences between these women and myself.  Deborah didn't have to worry about a teenager ruining the romantic mood by playing goth metal when she and Hugh first met, and all the expensive skin creams in the world aint gonna change the fact that the only thing Demi and I share is a sir name.  I was discussing this with my mother yesterday, and by discussing I mean obsessing, and she told me I was being ridiculous; I was beautiful and that I had nothing to worry about, but what else was she going to say?  "You got your looks from your Dad's side of the family, but don't worry; I'm sure he won't be concentrating on your face if you wear a tight dress."  Am I alone here?  Have you been K.O.'d by self doubt?  Let me know...it will give me something to ponder between slathering on youth serum and hiding all my 80's C.D's!