She's a rocker.

I've always said that I was a fourteen year old girl trapped in a woman's body, and over the past few weeks, I seem to have been on a mission to prove it to myself once and for all.  At the tender age of thirty-nine and a half, you'd think I'd have put away childish things like harbouring hopeless crushes, wouldn't you?  Unfortunately, dear reader, it appears I haven't and the funny thing is, whether you're a teenager, or the parent of a teenager, it feels exactly the same.  Remember the butterflies in your tummy?  The sweaty palms?  The giddy rush when he acknowledged your presence?  To say nothing of the high voltage thrill that coursed through you when he actually spoke to you!  Now cast your mind back to the day you realised you were just one apple in an overcrowded tree, and that you were probably doomed to hang on for grim death by your stem while he had his pick of glossier fruit.  Well, I have news for you; it's a whole lot worse when you're an over-ripe Granny Smith, and you're fruit picker is a lot closer in age to the firm young Pink Ladies hanging out on the top branches. 

Think my situation couldn't possibly be any more cliched?  Try this on for size: he's a musician, and I met him on Twitter.  A few months ago, in an effort to try to increase my following on the site, and in doing so gain more readers, I followed the accounts of some of my favourite rock artists, the majority of whom were sixties acts.  I thought that putting my personal tastes out there as bait might attract like-minded people, and late one Saturday night, I got my first nibble.  He sent me a tweet that read: If you like Zappa, you'll love my music.  I followed the link to his website and was indeed very impressed with his blend of psychedelic pop rock; so much so that I downloaded his album.  We tweeted back and forth for a couple of months, chatting about music and movies mostly, and although I was instantly drawn to him, the fact that he was born when I was still in high school put paid to any thought I might have had about flirting...until last month, when he invited me to friend him on Facebook and started flirting with me via Facebook Chat. 

Even though he was now steering our conversations, (are on line communications considered conversations?), in a 'friendlier' direction, I was reluctant at first to reciprocate.  The Graduate may be an enduring classic, and one of my favourite films of all time, but the Mrs Robinson thing is generally considered a bit de-classe in real life, even in our supposedly evolved 21st century society.  But when it comes to (metaphorically) charming the pants off women, no one does it like a songwriter, and he gradually wore my defences down using his honey dripping way with words.  We started calling each other on Skype, and it was a blast in the beginning.  His profile picture on Twitter was enough to induce heavy breathing, but seeing him in the flesh made me feel like a mere mortal hiding behind a tree, spying on a Roman god as he bathed in a river. 

It was positively trippy, but as with most chemical reactions, the high didn't last.  We continued chatting on Twitter and Facebook as before, and things were friendly enough, but I soon sensed his interest waining.  What was to be our last Skype conversation only lasted a few minutes, and while I put this down to him being tired, international time differences being what they are, a glance at my Facebook profile the following morning showed that I was minus one friend. 

Guess who? 

Most rational women pushing forty would have smiled and said to themselves, "Well, that was fun while it lasted,' and moved on, but I degenerated into my dorky teenage self and started wondering what it was that I'd done to put him off.  I wasn't, by any stretch of the imagination, harbouring a notion that things would go any further; he lived in another country and was at that age when waking up in a bed other than his own was as serious as things were going to get for a while, but for some reason I can't explain even now, I had to know why he didn't want to be my playmate anymore, so I logged onto Twitter and asked him if I had done or said anything out of turn. 

I can practically hear your collective groans as you read this, and you're right; it was an utterly pathetic thing to do, and all I can offer by way of an explanation is that after ten years of singledom, gaining the attentions of a gorgeous, intelligent, charismatic younger guy was like being on the receiving end of a shot of the most potent energy serum you can imagine, and quitting cold turkey was never going to be easy.  He sent me back a message saying that there was nothing wrong, he was just really busy, which was probably true, but it wasn't long after that he also dropped off my Twitter radar and I finally had to concede that the party was over.  The house lights were on, coffee was being served and it was time to go home and resume my normal life.  I've been pondering things for a couple of weeks now, and I've come to a realisation.  I'm entering into my fourth decade on Earth this year, and while a lot of women my age were busy ushering their kids to soccer, or dragging themselves to a four o'clock staff meeting, I was being told I was hot by a guy almost half my age, a musician no less, and this realisation has lead me to a startling conclusion about myself.

I fucking ROCK!                                     

Dating for dumb-arses.

I swore I'd never do it again, but boredom and lack of inspiration in terms of subject matter conspired to have me consult a dating advice site for men, in the hopes that I would either be pleasantly surprised and be able to post a positive review of one of these damn things for a change, or that it would provide sufficient comic material to relieve the dry spell that's left this blog looking rather bleak of late. 

It excelled in the latter respect.

Upon entering the site, I typed the following key phrase into the search box: Single women over thirty survey.  The article that came up in response wasn't actually anything to do with a survey, but the 'information,' (and I use the word in the same context as a reporter from the National Enquirer would use it), contained therein proved to be just as side-splittingly stereotypical.  What I found most captivating was the section entitled: Types of women you'll meet. 

How wonderful, I thought, tongue firmly planted in cheek; this wise and altruistic gentleman is going to use his experience and vast knowledge of the female psyche to pigeon-hole women into types, making them easily identifiable by virtue of their behavioural traits so that his fellow man may pick out the perfect breed, I'm sorry, 'type' for their emotional and physical needs. 

The canine adoption analogy may seem harsh, but it's also hysterically apt once you read these personality descriptions.

THE DIVORCEE.  ...you'll probably be told how happy she is to be rid of the louse.  You may be in for a lot of man-bashing.  On the other hand, if you're looking for some good, vengeful sex, you're in the right place. 
Maybe it's just me, but I don't imagine that most men would find the idea of spending the night with a woman crowing about how much she hates her ex, and screaming: 'Men should eat shit and die' between "Oh god' and 'Oh yes' while ripping out tufts of their chest hair to be a very powerful aphrodisiac.  Speaking for myself, I still love men, and should I be fortunate enough to have sex again this millennium, I wouldn't waste time picturing any of my exes whilst in the throws of passion.  To describe how I'd feel if an image of an ex popped into my head just as I was about to drift into the blissful abyss more succinctly, I'll use a term that's popular with the youngsters these days; Eeeew!

THE ETERNALLY SINGLE WOMAN.  There's a reason she's eternally single - she's not really sure what she wants.  You'll realise she fits into this category when you get to talking and she tells you all the things she's looking for in a man, and each sentence contradicts the one before.  She'll want you to be the most spontaneous guy around, but you'd better plan out that spontaneity to the last detail for her.  With loads of patience, maybe you can sift through her delirium...maybe. 
Huh.  And here I thought crazy chicks were a turn-on. 

THE CAREER WOMAN.  She'll get straight to the point.  She's a busy woman with little time to waste on games.  There's a life plan in motion and a man is but one aspect in the greater scheme.  The good news is she's ambitious and will get what she wants out of life.  The bad news is you may be just another prize. 
The seed this one planted in my mind germinated into an awesome mental picture.  I could just see her, the uber-successful executive; six feet tall with a Pamela Anderson head and Madonna body, blasting one of her under-performing minions on the phone while barking out instructions to the potential new mate feverishly applying for a position under her desk, which he would only get if he was willing to be on call twenty four hours a day to service her and fit the particular employee demographic she had her eyes on that month.  All the writer forgot to add was her ability to snap unworthy men's necks between her knees.


THE SUGAR DADDY WOMAN.  When the first words out of her mouth are 'How much do you make?'get ready for expenditures.  This honey wants to be pampered, and you can own her, but for a price.  If this is your ideal and you have enough bling-bling, you're all set to go.  She'll do her part in bed and on your arm at functions and charity events, just don't expect too much and keep the cash flowing.
If there are still men who only desire a trophy woman, and I pray to God, Alla, Buddha and the benevolent creators of chocolate that there aren't, I know of a venue that has an abundance of them; it's called an escort service.



              

All men aren't bastards!

My mum is a tough lady.  She has survived some incredibly hard times that would have seen a weaker minded person declared certifiable, and she got through it all by virtue of her sheer, steely determination.  Once she sets her mind to it, there is nothing she can or will not do.  Unfortunately, it's a character trait that wasn't passed down to me; I inherited my dad's Cross-that-bridge-when-you-come-to-it/Don't-stress -until-you're-down-to-your-last-five-cents attitude to life, which is something I've always been ashamed of.  But there is a point when determination becomes blind stubbornness, and when it comes to men, my mother reached that point years ago, crashed through the road block and kept on driving. 

As with most women who've suffered a lot of heartbreak, Mum has major trust issues with the opposite sex, and I can understand why she's reluctant to ever enter into a relationship again, but the zeal with which she's adopted that old eighties 'All men are bastards' philosophy alarms me sometimes.  She doesn't hate men in general; she just thinks that they metamorphosize into thieving, skirt chasing Mr Hydes once they get their own set of house keys, and has erected an Olympic swimming pool-sized moat around herself to keep them from getting too close.  Mum told me not long ago that the reason she was so glad she had a daughter was because she'd envisioned us being more like sisters, and I know she's always been a little disappointed that she didn't get the kindred spirit she'd hoped for, but the fact is that despite my own similar experiences, I love men, don't believe they're all bastards and wouldn't mind having one share my life again some day. 

As I've said before, my skill for character judgement is rather sketchy, but like any other skill, it needs to be honed, and I think everyday life is doing a decent job at that.  It's taken until my fortieth year to finally begin to learn to trust my gut, and my gut says that not all men are bastards, any more than all women are bitches.  Stereotypes are like cliches - they might roll off the tongue easily, but they're over-used, ugly and, ultimately, meaningless. 

Carelessly Selfless.

The contents of today's post have been brewing for a couple of months, when the issue I'm going to tell you about first reared its ugly head.  The reason I haven't said anything until today is that the person at the centre of it all is a friend, a very new friend who I've grown close to in a short amount of time and I did not want to jeopardise that by publicly airing my opinion on someone else's choices...until I remembered what a pseudonym was. 

Michelle and I first bonded over our similar experiences, with particular emphasis on bad relationships, so it was only natural that most of our conversations steered in that direction.  We are two very different people; I'm a thinker, she's a doer.  While I'm busy pondering the pros and con's of a decision, see: procrastinating, she has decided, acted and moved on.  It's a very admirable quality, and one she utilises to her friends advantage more than her own.  A word was all it took for her to deliver a weeks worth of groceries to an elderly neighbour who had run short, or babysit at a moments notice for a friend who didn't want her kids finding out about her new boyfriend just yet.  She also took my son out a few times to give me a sorely needed break when even his own father didn't offer.  In short, she is a wonderful, selfless person.  But being so altruistic as to ignore your own needs can be dangerous.

A couple of months ago, Michelle broke up with her boyfriend.  This guy was a moody, manipulative piece of work who isolated her from her friends and damn near put her into bankruptcy.  Making the break with him was just about the only thing she ever did for herself, and I was happy to see her finally living the carefree life to which she was more than entitled.  Then the phone calls started.  Hour after hour of messages ranging from eerily cheery to hostile were beginning to take their toll, although she was careful to put on a brave face.  She began to indulge him by talking to him for over two hours a day, reasoning that she didn't want to alienate him until he paid back all of the money he owed her, but that was an all too convenient fib that I don't think even she truly believed.  She was letting him down gently, attending to his precious mental health while her own psyche was becoming more and more fragile by the day.  He even intimated moving back into the house, and no amount of pleading from her friends could convince her to do what any other red-blooded wronged woman would have: change her phone number, change the locks and drop him like a piece of hot fat.  In the end, the catalyst for change sprang from a most unusual source: her phone company.

A three thousand dollar phone bill would be an effective enough laxative for a person whose finances were in good shape, but for someone whose debt could register on the Richter scale, it was the last straw.  Michelle was on the phone that very afternoon, making arrangements for an international student to come and stay with her, and is working out a debt repayment arrangement as we speak.  Whether or not she gets any money back from her ex syphon/boyfriend now is immaterial; she has her life back, and is taking care of the person who needed her most.

Comparatively Incomparable

As some of you may have noticed, I have added a You Tube vlog to my list of projects with which to distract myself from the fact that the only male who has kissed me in the last two and a half years that isn't a blood relative has four legs and a tail; (I kid...at least about the need for distraction).  I started 'The Confidence Project' in an effort to throw myself back into the outside world, and thus the dating world, one webisode at a time by putting myself through a series of challenges designed to loosen me up and make me feel like my existence was a valid one.  It's starting to work already, thanks to the comments I've received from the people who've viewed it so far (you know who you all are; I love you dearly).  It's also left me pondering the reasons people like myself suffer from this crippling lack of self esteem, and the one I'm going to focus on here is all too common: comparison.  I'm all too guilty of weighing up other people's assets and liabilities against my own, but does it serve any real purpose?  I'm thirty nine years old, and yet I still find myself looking at pictures of much younger celebrities like Lily Allen and Zooey Deschanel with awe, and casting an intensely critical eye upon my reflection.  I have dark hair.  I'm of roughly the same diminutive stature.  I'm reasonably attractive (my ability to admit this is only a recent development), so why don't I look like I could grace the cover of In Style or Harper's Bazaar?  Why does donning a baby doll dress similar to Lilly's make me feel more like Baby Huey than Indie Princess?  And why do I end up looking like a crack addict going cold turkey when I attempt the smokey eyed look that Zooey pulls off so well?  Because I'm not Lily Allen or Zooey Deschanel.  I'm Melissa Jane Moore, a thirty nine year old writer and mother of one who enjoys Junior Mints and Coca Cola, doesn't run unless something's on fire, and consequently has curves in a couple of places she shouldn't.

Lately, I've taken to beholding that thirty nine year old writer and mother of one in the mirror a little longer, and reminding her that she has fantastic skin, lovely eyes, and a figure that allows her to fill out her favourite red polka dot wiggle dress in a manner most pleasing to the eye, (and some lucky person's hands one day, I shouldn't wonder).  I then sit in front of my laptop and take pictures of her to post on Facebook, despite her misgivings, to let the rest of the world look upon her, and bring her that much closer to being a part of it again.    




 

A conversation

My son came to me the other day and made a startling confession. 

'I don't want you to ever have a boyfriend, Mum.'

G is not one for pouring his heart out all that often, so I knew that it had taken a lot for him to admit this to me.  I also knew that if I wanted to delve any deeper into the issue, I would need to approach it very gingerly, because if he were to realise that I was questioning him, he would see it as an interrogation.  I would then loose his trust, and he would clam up altogether.  I even left him standing, because an invitation to sit down would mean one thing to him and one thing only: a Mum Talk.  Barely looking up from my laptop, I began my investigation.

'How come, Hun?' 

He shrugged and looked at his feet.  This one was going to be a revelation.

'Because you're my mum.  If I saw you doing all that lovey-dovey stuff, it'd make me uncomfortable.'

Big shocker there; no kid wants to see his mum kissing any bloke other than his dad.  I looked at him a bit longer before I resumed pretending to work. 

'I'd never do anything that made you uncomfortable, babe.  If and when I do get a boyfriend, I promise there will be no canoodling in front of you.'

He was silent for a few minutes.  Percolating things. 

'Mum?'

'Yeah, Hun?'

'It isn't just that that bothers me,' he said as he came over and sat next to me on the couch. 

I closed the lid to the laptop and steadied myself.  He had been the only man in my life for the better part of thirteen years, so the thought of his mum loving anyone other than him must have been too terrifying for words until now.  He was always there for me with an inappropriate joke when I was having one of my down days.  He was always the first person to kiss me good morning and the last person to kiss me goodnight.  He was the person on whom I could always count for unconditional love.  I, in turn, was the person who knew him better than he knew himself.  The person who would drop everything at a moment's notice to help him with his homework.  The person who put his needs and wants above anybody Else's.  His brow was furrowed with concentration; I could practically hear him mulling it all over. 

If I fell in love, everything would change; our television viewing habits, our living arrangements, and, most earth shatteringly, he would loose his position as number one guy in the family.  He had been storing this stuff for years, filling the shelves of his mind with angst and insecurity.  He was about to let it all out, clean house as it were, and I was the vessel into which he was going to pour everything.  Oh yes, I had been preparing for this day for some time.  I was ready for the angry tears, the wails of indignation.  As a mother, this was my time to shine.

'Baby, you know I could never love anyone as much as I love you, and that is never going to change.  The love between a mother and a child is different to the love between a man and a woman.  You know that, right?  I will always be there for you, boyfriend or no boyfriend, and if he doesn't understand that, then I won't make him a part of our lives.'

For a moment, he just stared at me.  Foolishly, I took his look of incredulity as confirmation that I'd made a connection.  My little boy had reached out to me in a time of personal crisis, and I pulled him up from the depths of despair.  Angelina Jolie might have half a football team for a family, but she had nothing on me. I was Super Mum!

'You're too old to have a boyfriend!  If my friends at school saw you, I'd die!'

All lesser beings bow before me.

Validation

My early twenties, years twenty-two to twenty-four, are for the most part a Sambuca and Bourbon-induced blur.  I had a blast, and sometimes I really miss that time of my life, but then I remember some of the mornings after, when I'd shuffle into the bathroom to survey the damage in the mirror, only to meet the gaze of a woman who looked as though she slapped on clown makeup shortly before face planting into a quarry.  I remember going in to work the Friday after Thursday night drinks at the pub, arriving half an hour early so as to have a coffee and get my story straight before I had to face my workmates and their knowing looks.  I remember waking up in a park at 2 .a.m. with a Tequila bottle and a minor league baseball player laying next to me.  I remember going home with guys just because they told me I was cute, and having to beg them for cab fare home afterwards.  Your twenties are supposed to be a roller coaster ride.  They're the time when you're given a free pass to go wild and make as many stupid mistakes as you possibly can, and learn from them.  I was the girl who ditched the safety bar altogether and stood up at the top of the dip; the girl who was that dangerous mix of eagerness and naivete, who craved more attention than anyone could ever give her, and went looking for it in dark corners and lonely alleyways.  I've always looked back on those days with a strong sense of regret, until now.

Had I not made so many horrendous judgement errors and social faux pa's, I would never have learnt the difference between attention and validation.  Attention was what I got when I drank men under the table on a dare and snogged the loser.  Validation was what I got from my friend Dennis, who saw me struggling to stand up and put me to bed on his couch for the night, rather than risk me going home alone on one of Melbourne's worst train routes.  I still find myself craving attention every now and then, and contemplating doing silly things to get it, but that's when I remind myself that sixteen years is a long time between drinks, (metaphorically speaking; I do still enjoy an alcoholic beverage or three), and that I'd sooner stick my hand in a blender than try to relive my 'glory days' by getting hammered and trying to pick up at pubs.  I wanted love back then, but I didn't have the slightest idea what it was, how to get it, or where to find it.  I know now that when I do find it, it will stand out like a beacon in a fog.  I won't have to earn it.  I won't have to beg for it.  It will be given freely by someone who validates me with something as simple as an attentive ear and an open mind.  Someone who knows my faults, but doesn't exploit them or measure me by them.  Someone who validates my checkered past whenever I look at them by reminding me that the damaged road it lead me down was also the road that lead me to them.

Whatever ruffles your pantaloons, I guess.

I'm a veracious reader.  If the sun was to burn out, and the world supply of electricity inevitably ran short, I'd still be happy as long as I had my books and a torch.  Hell, I'd sit outside and read by firelight if it came to that, but something that has often perplexed me about fiction is the types of male characters we get what I call 'Book Girl Crushes' on.  Three of the top five votes in a British pole conducted in 2009 on the most romantic male characters were surprisingly telling in terms of what women are willing to put up with from a man and still allow him to drape his breeches over the foot of their beds every night. 

5.  Rhett Butler from Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the wind.  As long as I live, I will never comprehend why even the most desperate southern belle would get her pantaloons in a twist over this man.  Sure he's charming, but so is a door to door salesman, and for the same reason: to get you all swoony so you'll throw your front door wide open, make of that analogy what you will, and give him all your money.  And call me picky, but I don't get hot and bothered at the thought of being raped every time my (metaphorical) man gets a visit from the green-eyed monster.  The only male character who comes off worse for me is Stanley from 'Streetcar named desire,' and that's only because he's so irredeemably evil.

4.  Heathcliff from Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights.  This is one of my favourite books of all time, and Heathcliff is definitely the character with whom my sympathies lie; for the first half of the story.  To endure years of abuse and torment at the hands of an impossibly cruel adoptive brother, and have your best friend and co-conspirator, the only person you've ever loved and had love you in return, taken away from you and returned years later a polished shell of her former self would be unbearable.  I get it.  But does that justify marrying your sister in law to make her your emotional punching bag, and forcing the girl that should have been your daughter to marry your half-wit nephew in order to keep her as a slave?  Love's a bitch, I get it, but did he have to turn into one?  

1.  Edward Rochester of Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.  If there was such a thing as an illustrated phrase book, and you were to look up the definition of  Treat them mean, keep them keen,  this dude's picture would be above it.  Let's consider his rap sheet.  He has a 'ward' (ahem) for whom he provides everything but fatherly love and seems rather bitter towards; he stashes his poor mentally unwell first wife away upstairs like a caged bird that's embarrassingly lost all it's feathers; and generally makes everyone feel inferior compared to him, when it is clearly the other way around.  Into this mess arrives the plain and unpretentious Miss Eyre, who carries a truckload of emotional baggage herself but, unlike Rochester, chooses not to swing it around and whack people in the head with it.  He engages her in conversation, playfully baiting her, but soon realises she is more than a match for him, and is not the dumb country mouse she appears.  He starts to have feelings for her.  So what does he do?  Sits her in a room full of gorgeous society maidens and watches them play keeping's off with her self esteem. 

After much to-ing and fro-ing, PAGES and PAGES of it, he confesses his love for our Jane and proposes.  But wait, I hear you say, didn't he forget something?  That's right, poor old Mrs Bats in the top cupboard.  At first everyone, including Rochester, makes Jane feel like she's losing her mind whenever she tells them of the nocturnal visitations she's been having.  Then they blame it on a servant.  Jane only learns the truth when wifey number one nearly burns the Rochester joint down a second time (she saved his life the first time, just before the painful meeting with the society maidens; Cheers Ed, glad I rescued your arse before you were roasted like the Christmas goose you are).  There is a happy ending, depending on your perspective.  Finding her control freak former fiance is not dead, as she was lead to believe, but has been horribly disfigured, and in an uncharacteristic act of altruism decided he did not want her to be his nursemaid for life, Jane comes running back into his chicken-fried arms and they live happily ever after.  I suppose what women love about this guy is that he tosses his tyrannical ways after succumbing to the love of a good woman, and all she did was raise his, ahem, 'ward', put up with his crap and save his life on two separate occasions.      

This is 2012, not 1952; surely this ridiculously masochistic attraction we have for rich bad boys and charismatic alpha-males has to wane at some point.  I've dated a Mr Rochester.  He didn't have a first wife as far as I know, and wasn't horribly disfigured in a fire, but he burned his bridges with me, and incinerated my taste for manly misogynists, the day I discovered that I was, to quote a song by Alicia's Attic, 'Worth more than he put on my boots.'       

Rut.

Part of the reason I started this blog was to boost my confidence, and it's worked a treat - creatively.  I'm writing better, and more prolifically, than I have in years.  Personally, however, not much has changed.  I do have brief bouts of boldness, but they tend to fade away as soon as I open the front door and the realisation hits that I'm actually about to step outside the house for some reason other than taking my kid to school or going on a grocery run.  The fact that I haven't dated in (gasp) almost three years isn't exactly inspiring me, either.  In fact, it's the opposite; because I haven't been hurt, angered, or asked to compromise during my time here at the Solo Resort, I've grown rather accustomed to the place.  The general consensus is that I should just dress up, put on a smile and go out with some friends, but I honestly don't think I'm ready yet; pathetic as that may sound.  I knew a woman once who used to have two or three drinks before she went out, to get herself into the party mood.  If I did that, the only way you'd get me out the front door would be on a stretcher, and I'd just ruin the night by drooling on everyone anyway.  The state I've found myself in could be called 'Comfortable Unease;' I know I'm lonely, incredibly so, and sometimes I fear I'll be this way forever, but I'm much too snug in my nice little rut to do anything about it.  To put it simply, if you were to put together a soundtrack to match the vibe around here, you couldn't go wrong with early Radiohead. 

I know things can't stay this way, and I don't want them to, but releasing myself from self-imposed exile seems impossible without the proper motivation.  Earlier today, I was giving some writing advice to a friend of mine, who was stuck in a creative rut.  I told him not to over think it; just sit and write and see what happens.  Don't think about it; just do it.  It's a piece of advice I know I should heed myself, and I plan to...eventually. ;)