Did the Internet kill romance?

I may not be a starry-eyed, dewy complexioned princess - challenge me to a belching contest at your peril - but does my age and lack of refinement make me less entitled to be treated like a lady?  Despite the (thoroughly deserved) bollocking I like to give Internet dating sites, I still find myself irresistibly drawn to them whenever I feel lonely, much like an alcoholic switching to wine coolers when the free bar runs dry of the good stuff at a wedding.  It was on Sunday night, while reflecting on Friday nights disappointing turn of events (see my previous post), that I found myself in just this sort of mood, and  reluctantly turned on my computer and checked in to the Loser's Lounge.  The regret began to set in as I was chatting to a guy who for all intents and purposes could have been completely normal.  Handsome, witty, highly educated; his profile read like a resume...which is why my heart sank when his initial greeting popped up onscreen.

'Hey, u r hot.'

Oh dear. 

Disconcerting as his opening line was, I pressed on, chalking up the less than sparkling banter to the late hour.  The conversation did ever so slightly improve from there.  We discussed the usual introductory things; career, favourite films, etc.  He made some very funny jokes, which as anyone will tell you is the quickest way to my heart, and I was starting to warm towards him when he took a switch blade and exploded the pretty illusion balloon floating above my head.

'I'll bet you get pretty w*t, don't you?'

If there was any fluid dripping off me at that moment, it was from the bucket of ice water he had just emptied over my head.  I asked him to repeat himself, although I can't for the life of me figure out why, and he voiced his enquiry again.  I let the red x in the top right corner of the screen speak for me from there and I haven't dared go back to the site since.  I'm no choir girl - by ANY stretch of the imagination - but was it asking too much that the conversation not get saucy until it was appropriate, say for example after we had actually met?  What's worse is that this isn't the first time this has happened to me.  Up until now I've seen dating sites as my back-up option; a sort of insurance policy, but if these guys are the best cyberspace has to offer, and a little loneliness is the only price of serendipity, I think I'll rely on fate from now on.         

The gravity of my situation.

Ever get the feeling you might be the punchline in a great cosmic joke?  Well, a less than stellar Friday evening out lead me to conclude that someone, somewhere was pissing themselves laughing at my expense.  Just over a week ago, I was celebrating the one year anniversary of my last real date when my friend Corrina called.  After somehow managing to decipher what I was saying between sobs, she suggested that we go out the following weekend.  It was with a healthy mixture of excitement, nervousness and hormone-induced enthusiasm that I went with her to a well known Irish pub in the city.  Alas, despite the fact that the male to female ratio was for once in our favour, and that roughly seventy per cent of said males looked like they had just returned from an NCIS L.A audition, the two of us were about as popular as a keg full of lemonade at a Hells Angels mixer.  This was largely to do with the fact that our competition was embryonic go-go dancers with enough disposable income to afford all the ten dollar beers they could drink, and designer t-shirts with necklines somewhere south of Hell. 

I was ranting about this the next day, quietly so as not to aggravate the angry hunchback who was playing a hardcore rock opera on church bells inside my head, when Corrina astutely pointed out that the Kardashian clones we encountered at the tavern were not too dissimilar to ourselves at the same age.  We too once knew the joys of being able to walk into a bar and have several dozen pairs of eyes on us.  We too once felt the sting of women in their thirties burning holes into our backs with their death stares as we sat on the laps of men who were more their intellectual equivalent than our own.  We too once laughed at those women, secure in the knowledge that we wouldn't need to hang out in bars by the time we got that old. 

As usual, Corrina had managed to take my scattered ravings and put them into perspective for me, and for that I thank her.  And to the lovely creature who thought it would be hysterical to 'accidentally' knock me out of the way on the dance floor, I bare no grudge, and would like to offer the following piece of advice.  Should one of those men whose laps you warm so well put a ring on your finger, be sure that he is interested in you for more than just your Daisy Duke clad behind.  With no husband to distract her, this single thirty something has a lot more workout time these days, and Gravity, like karma, is a bitch.                      

Romantic Comedies in real life.

I recently read a brilliant blog where the writer lamented the amount of single women over thirty who were settling for guys they knew weren't right for them, in order to avoid dying childless and alone.  She was justifiably angry that they did this on the advice of well meaning friends and family.  Amen!  My regular readers will tell you this is a gigantic bug bear of mine, and I fully intend to revisit her blog and leave her a message of my support.  However, I think there is another culprit in the demise of the romantic standards of the women of our generation.  This one has been working on us a hell of a lot longer, and is far more insidious.  The Romantic Comedy. 

*Shudder.*

Far from being light, harmless, heart-warming pieces of entertainment, these cinematic travesties were designed with one evil purpose in mind; to turn our good judgement to slop, thereby ensuring the propagation of an inferior genetic line.  To put it simply, ROM-Com's get losers tail.  Before all you Julia Roberts, Meg Ryan and Katherine Heigel fans start baying for my blood, remove your blinkers and see these stories for what they really are. 

CINDERELLA.  It may be a classic, but it would also make a great Law and Order S.V.U episode.  While poor little Cindy is still grieving for her mother, her idiot father marries an abusive harridan on the rebound.  Then Daddy goes and dies, condemning her to a life of slave labour.  Once he's caressed the feet of a thousand or so other eligible maidens, the aging bachelor Prince Not-So-Charming comes along and marries her for her beauty, in the hopes that the royal family will finally churn out some kids that don't look like they were sired by Corgis.

PRETTY IN PINK.  Andy is a cool, intelligent, arty chick who quite literally comes from the wrong side of the tracks.  Blaine is a bored rich boy who hates his friends but is still utterly dependent on their approval.  Somehow, these polar opposites find themselves mutually attracted, and make plans to attend the biggest night of the school social calendar together.  Then our hero caves in to peer pressure and erases our indie princess from his rolladex.  Plucky to the last, our girl rocks up to the dance solo, met at the door by her best friend Ducky who for some reason hasn't been a blip in her radar until now.  Bland, sorry, Blaine cuts in just as the two of them are about to practice for their bridal waltz, telling her the whole debacle was her fault and following up with an I love you.  Andy runs after him, with Ducky's blessing, and the two of them then engage in one of the most awkward screen kisses of all time.  Flash forward to twenty five years later: Blaine is now CEO of a fortune five hundred company and is sleeping with his secretary, Andy has long since traded a promising career in fashion design for country club fundraisers and anti-depressant addiction, and Ducky is married to the cheer leader he hooked up with at the prom and is a proud father of six.

PRETTY WOMAN.  Girl becomes a hooker to survive after being abandoned by a loser whom she travelled hundreds of miles to be with.  Emotionally stunted billionaire playboy hires her to be at his beck and call for a week for three thousand dollars and a killer wardrobe.  Playboy woos girl (if having back breaking sex on a piano can be considered wooing), falls for her, insults her, then defends her honour, only to strip her one remaining shred of dignity away by attempting to employ her as his beck and call girl on a full time basis.  Girl is having none of it, declaring that she wants 'the fairytale.'  Playboy proves his love for her by ignoring his fear of heights, she allows him to climb her fire escape, a metaphor if ever I've heard one, and is eternally smitten.  The only people who gained anything from this pile of crap were the pimps on Hollywood Boulevard.

SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE.  This is widely considered the most enchanting romance of all time, but consider how it would play out in real life.  After waiting for hours at the top of the Empire State Building, you discover that your blind date has been arranged by a ten year old who is terrified that his insipid daddy will never find true love.  Cute?  Hardly.  If I'd allowed my son to act as matchmaker at that age, the elevator doors would probably have opened to reveal a seven foot tall wrestler or an eighteen year old whose vocabulary didn't extend beyond 'Dude' and 'Wow.'

KNOCKED UP.  A successful woman is impregnated by a stranger during a drunken one night stand.  Over the course of nine months, the guy transforms from immature twit to loving, responsible father to be, becoming the man she didn't even know she wanted until now.  Yeah, that's realistic. 

The next time you're considering going out with a guy you can't see yourself waking up next to with a smile on your face, unless you chug down four or five Xanex, heed these words: life is not a movie.  That drooling neanderthal you see before you is not going to turn into James Marsden once he puts a ring on your finger.  Do yourself a favour and have a movie night with the girls instead; SAW twelve will be far less horrifying.    
      
 
               

          

Five life lessons Internet dating sites have taught me.

Much as I like to spread the hate when it comes to cyber matchmaking, my extensive experience with this 'science' has taught me some valuable life lessons that I'd like to share with you.

1.  LITERACY IS OVERRATED.  Those of us who passed English at high school might feel qualified to guffaw uproariously at the horrendous spelling mistakes and appalling grammar exhibited in some online dating profiles, but think about it.  Misspellings, unnecessary and incorrect abbreviation and total abandonment of punctuation leave a lot more room for guys to showcase their unique interests and talents.  How else could they tell you that they 'luv spots an dansing an hikking an hav a grate sence of hummer?'

2.  EVERYTHING SOUNDS BETTER IN CAPITALS.  What woman wouldn't be eager to get to know a guy who is so confident, he feels the need to shout it from the rooftops?  One profile that caught my eye recently went something like this: 'I'M A CARING, SENSITIVE, DOWN TO EARTH GUY WHO LOVES ROMANCE AND IS A VERY GOOD LISTENER.'  There's no better way to tell a girl you care than by screaming in her face and covering her in spittle.

3.  A HALF NAKED MAN IS A QUALITY MAN.  Never mind those annoyingly sweet, sensitive, intelligent, shirt-wearing guys that are vying for your affection; sometimes it's nice to hook up with someone who is refreshingly simple and uncomplicated.  Imagine the bliss you could achieve by switching off that pesky, logical old frontal lobe and letting your occipital, the party lobe, take over.  Who needs intellectual stimulation when sweet, sweet eye candy is there for the taking?

4.  ANGER IS A TURN-ON.  Just about every woman in the world desires honesty in a partner, so how could you possibly go wrong with a guy who lays all of his issues out on the table before you've even met?  I personally find it intoxicating when a man warns me at the get go that he won't be putting up with any game playing, possessive, loud women who have designs on running his life for him, particularly if his profile picture makes him look like an armed robber fresh from the perp walk. 

5.  SHEEP GET ALL THE ACTION.  The next time you come across yet another profile extolling the benefits of the writer's honest, caring and down to earth nature, don't be so quick to brush it aside.  The reason that there are so many of these sorts of profiles out there is simple: they work.  Who are you to say he's not good enough for you, just because he's unoriginal?  The numbers say it all.  How could the several million other women who have fallen for these platitudes be so terribly wrong?

I sincerely hope these juicy little factoids will be of help to you in your search for that special someone, and I encourage all you ladies to arm yourself with this knowledge and use it well.  I will aid your cause even further by snapping up the men who do not possess any of the above qualities.  After all, I consider it my duty as a mentor to weed out the undesirables, and take a bullet for the sisterhood.  God speed.



          

Flirting with disaster

In light of the unseasonably spectacular weather we were having today, I decided to premiere my new white tank top and red hippy skirt combo a few months early.  Anyone close to me will tell you that I adore red, so changing out of my uniform of jeans and hoodie, and slipping on the ankle-length ruby number filled me with instantaneous confidence.  I felt like I could do anything or be anyone.  It was with this extra lust for life that I decided to go out and pick up some treats for my son and I.  I strolled down the street, I Pod at my hip, feeling like I was in a Lily Allen video.  I was lookin' and feelin' fine and, judging by the reaction I was getting from passers by, everyone was in agreement with me. 

Or so I thought.

Half a block from the shops, I passed a rather handsome looking fellow who, immune to my charms, barely glanced up from the bike he was working on.  I shrugged it off and pursued my course.  On the way back, however, his demeanour had changed.  On seeing me coming, he straightened up, grinned, and nodded in my direction.

'Hey...'

'Hey,' I replied in the sultriest voice I could manage. 

'That's a nice skirt.'

'Thanks.  Just got it a couple of days ago.'

He walked up to me and leaned in close to my ear, his hot breath unleashing Armageddon upon my insides.

'Your skirt's tucked into your undies.'                                                                                                                                                                                                              

                   







                        

I'm too young to be a friggin Cougar!!!

WARNING:  The following post contains course language, sexual references and 'adult' situations.  Reader discretion is advised for anyone under the age of eighteen, and anyone who is offended by the poor decision making sometimes exhibited by lonely women over thirty with access to alcohol. 

I was having drinks with a friend of mine while enjoying a rare midweek night off from parental responsibilities, when I happened to mention my forthcoming post on dating younger men.  Anyone who has read my blog so far will know that I have a hate-hate relationship with Internet dating sites, so the 700ml bottle of Baileys Irish Cream sitting between us, which was down to roughly a thimble full at this point, might go some way toward explaining why I let Tina talk me into making one of the dumbest, and most blog-worthy decisions of my life. 

'Why don't you just look up one of those dating sites for Cougars?'  She spluttered.

'Because I'm not a Cougar.'

Tina then pointed out that any woman over thirty was considered a Cougar, which came as rather a shock to me; all the Cougars I'd seen on TV were rich women who divided their time between screwing twenty year-olds and lamenting the decline of their best friend, Ms Oestrogen. 

'Hey, I'm not old enough to be a Cougar.  I've got Marilyn Manson on my I Pod, for Christ's sake!'

I drained the last of the Bailey's, which by now was like slamming down sweetened formaldehyde, and churned out a profile on the most popular site I could find.  Confident that my limited 'life experience' would garner a luke warm response at best, I started scrolling through the list of potentials, just for shits and giggles.  I can say without a word of a lie that I haven't seen so much bare chest and baby oil since my son was pre-verbal. 

'Maxine found her boyfriend on this site.'

'Emphasis on the word boy.'  I muttered.

Seriously, if I was to try to sum up the majority of male clientele on this site in two words, those words would be BARELY LEGAL, a porn reference that was unintentional but nonetheless apt, given the nature of the responses that soon started pouring in.  Pseudonyms such as:  Luvs2bang and Iliketoeatp@#sy, which believe it or not I have modified, should give you some clue as to these guys idea of showing a lady a good time.  This wasn't so much a dating site as it was a sex addicts supermarket, as evidenced by the introduction that Mr Iliketo...etc, put in my inbox (if you'll pardon the pun).

I'd love to play with you.

Play what?  Guess Who?  Cluedo? 

I do have an undeniable attraction to younger men, but if the gem I have just described is indicative of the ones I'm likely to meet in cyberspace, I don't think I'll be looking for them there.  Answer me this, faithful readers: is a cute, funny, intelligent guy in his mid-twenties too much to ask for?  Do they exist anymore, or is a muscle bound meat head fluent in lol-speak the best I'm likely to get?  Leave me a comment and let me know...I'm dying here.      

Trolling - a guide for the socially awkward.

Sharing my less than stellar dating history with the world via my blog has yielded an unexpected fringe benefit; the renewal of my desire to go out and rectify matters.  With this aim in mind, I called my friend Corrina to see if she wanted to join me.  Having just moved house, and unable to get a sitter for an angry teenager forcibly bereft of his Internet access for two weeks, she found the idea of sitting down to watch a movie and falling asleep in a puddle of her own drool far more appealing.  Just as I was about to start stockpiling Tim Tams and curl up in a lonely, pathetic ball, it occurred to me that I could always fly solo.  A mental picture of myself drinking alone at a bar like the horsey cousin at a super model's wedding soon put paid to that notion, so I asked myself, are pubs and clubs the only places to meet men?

A quick Internet search soon provided the answer, praise Google.  There were several blogs on the subject, but one in particular grabbed my attention.  It was written by a man, for men, but the basic social principle behind it wasn't gender specific.  The author advised his readers to steer clear of pubs, clubs and (ugh) speed dating events, reasoning that they were the sorts of social settings already full to bursting with bigger and better competition.  Good point.  The intriguing part was his choice of alternative venues.  Seems that meeting new people is as easy as going up to them at the car wash, at the video store, or in your own street and asking for directions.  Ineptitude as icebreaker?  The article went on to say that, should you manage to strike up a conversation, ask the person out.  If not, move on.  Simple.  Then scenarios started playing out like Cohen brothers movies in my mind.

My local car wash sits on the corner of an extremely busy intersection.  Most of the cars I see being washed there are either kitted out gravel grinders or family friendly four wheel drives.  My choice of potential suitors, therefore, would be limited to Dad's on their way to pick up the kids from school (in which case I'd look like a reject from Ashley Madison, and risk incurring the wrath of the twenty or so soccer mums in their car pool), or guys who were still being weened onto solid food when I graduated from high school. 

Take two.

I'm a big movie lover, so finding a guy to talk to at the video store would be a no-brainer, were it not for the fact that I'm banned from my local video store for life due to an unpaid late fee that I'm still disputing/avoiding.  Not to worry, I can always go to a store where they sell movies...and spend a thrilling evening flipping through the titles by myself because all the smart people download these days.   

Take three.

I live on a very long street, populated largely by nuclear families and students share housing.  Were I to walk up and down, in my best dressy-but-casual gear, armed with a confident attitude and a smile, and actually manage to find someone to talk to, their opening line would either be: 'I'm quite happy with my electricity provider, thank you,' or, 'How much for a bag?'     

Maybe I am being negative.  Tell you what, if anyone has any suggestions for better locations, put them in the comment section, or send me an email, and I'll give them a try...just so long as they're not likely to end in grievous bodily harm or arrest.   

                  

Finicky bitch seeks unbridalled perfection.

I had an interesting conversation with my best friend the other day.  We were discussing our equally abysmal track records with men, specifically our tendency to see qualities in them that aren't really there, while being blind to things we shouldn't overlook.  Suddenly, the feminist-anarchist-agitator in me decided that enough was enough. 

'Fuck it,' I said, 'I know exactly what I want, and I'm not settling for less anymore!'

'What is it you want?'  asked Corrina.

Judging by her lackadaisical tone of voice, she already knew the answer.  Which stands to reason, seeing as how I'd been making, and breaking, the same promise to myself since we were both young enough to believe we could actually find exactly what we wanted in a world where the pickings were so slim. 

'I want a guy who's funny, smart, smart-arsed, cute, creative, strong-willed an unprejudiced who loves kids and dogs and can deal with the drama that comes from dating someone with a kid.  Oh, and it would be nice if he was a non-smoker as well.'

'You know if you expect perfection, you're going to die alone.'

Most of you are probably nodding your heads in agreement with Corrina and her sage words, but the way I see it, an unhappy relationship and no relationship at all are one and the same thing, either way you're alone, so what is there to lose by being selective about the person whose adult diapers you're probably going to have to change in fifty years time?  I'm not saying I don't believe in fate; I honestly think I'd curl up and die if I ever started doubting that kismet existed.  Neither am I suggesting that you treat dating like a trip to the supermarket, checking off each item on your list of desirable qualities.  I'm just saying that when it comes to love, you might not want to buy the first thing you see, just because you think you can't afford anything better.  I made that mistake a while ago, and there are no refunds.      

My mother, my pimp.

Anyone who has ever been set up on a blind date will agree with me that nothing short of a bowel embolism even comes close to comparing to how you feel as you wait for the inevitable to occur.  He'll arrive, you'll go out, one or both of you will be disappointed and one awkward goodbye later, you're back on your couch watching Sleepless in Seattle just for the pleasure of throwing popcorn at Meg Ryan and her infuriatingly indomitable face.  To be fair, I did have one blind date that ended well.  I was twenty three then.  We stayed together for five years.  We were even in the process of getting married until he met a cute blond on a day out with his football team and launched me back into spinsterhood with a toddler and ten extra kilos hanging off my waist.  But, I digress.

The worst thing about a bad blind date, apart from the date itself, is having to tell the architect of the romantic plan that, not only do you not want to be set up again, but that if she was to use her character judgement in the political arena, Britney Spears would be the unquestioned leader of the not-so-free world.  If she's a true friend, she might be a little hurt, but you'll both be able to laugh it off later.  The situation becomes a tad more complicated when you and the would be matchmaker share a genetic bond.  That's right, people, I'm talking about my mother.  Undeterred by the fact that the last man she set me up with married the woman of his dreams a year after our own relationship imploded, she is still determined to ensure that her daughter finds someone to love, and is convinced that if the task falls to me, her grandson and his betrothed will be picking out strollers at Baby Co while I'm cruising for sugar daddies on Senior Dating.com.  My mother is of the view that you can be friends with someone first and learn to love them later.  I'm more old fashioned; if I don't have sweaty palms, starry eyes and a mental image of myself wearing nothing but his shirt within the first ten minutes of meeting him, chances are it ain't gonna work. 

Yes my gut has steered me wrong in the past, leading me to fall head over heels for men who gave me nothing more than some very interesting evenings and traces of Hugo Boss on my sheets, but I would still prefer that to the agony of sitting through dinner with a cab driver who my mum described as 'Very eager' when he saw my picture, only to discover that he needed a wife to be granted residency.  I visit my mother three times a week and although I'm an atheist, I always find myself closing my eyes on the journey to her house, silently praying that when I get there, there won't be any available men in the vicinity.  Surely she's exaggerating, you say.  Well, imagine my surprise when one day last month I arrived at her place, only to be spirited off to the bathroom where I was fussed and fretted over like I was Kate Moss doing a runway show after a McDonald's binge. 

'You could have worn something nicer, love,' she sighed. 

'Why,' I asked, 'Are we going to a funeral?' 

She ushered me over to the window, just about breaking the glass with my face in her effort to give me the best view possible of a hot young guy who was painting her neighbour's house.  I grinned.  Then the thunder claps sounded.

'Oh, and I've set it all up with his dad.'

'Excuse me?'  I shrieked.

My mother, pimp extraordinaire, was laying the ground work while I was still peeling my face off the pillow that morning.  It turned out that the house painters were a father son team, and that the father was just as concerned about the lack of traffic leading to his son's bedroom as my mother was about not becoming a grandmother for the second time.  It was at this point that I reminded my mother that I wasn't sixteen, and that there was little or no dowry to be traded in exchange for my hand.

To anyone reading this who doesn't find the idea of a blind date more terrifying than a pelvic exam, I applaud your courage.  You have decided not to limit your options and who knows, your matchmaker might know your type better than you do yourself.  I, however, am going to continue to rely on my questionable judgement, and have a blast while I'm at it.                 

The Dating Glossary

The following is a list of terms I have put together to help you navigate your way through the treacherous world of dating in your thirties.  How come I'm sitting here alone, giving you the benefit of my wisdom on a Friday night if it's worked so well for me?  Because I'm a very giving person, that's why!  I could get a date if I wanted to.  Just read the damn list!


ASHTON  A younger man who is gorgeous, intelligent, sensitive, witty and rich and would gladly step over women his own age who throw their panties at him in order to get to you.  Your chances of meeting this man on an Internet dating site are approximately seventeen trillion to one.


BASTARD  A man for whom cheating, lying and habitual fornication are a vocation.  Your chances of meeting this man on an Internet dating site are approximately two to one.


CRADLE DIVING  The compulsion for some women in their thirties to consistently seek out younger partners in order to relive their own youth.  A great deal of thirty-something men are also inflicted with this compulsion, but the side effects suffered by their female counterparts, including guilt and peer jealousy are far less likely to occur.


DEMI-GOD  A man so beautiful as to make the angels weep.  Beautiful women see him as a status symbol, (see MEGA-NARCIS), pretty women see him fathering their children, and the rest of us see him in our minds while making love to the man we've settled for. 


DREDGING  The act of hooking up with your ex and engaging in consolatory sex when your love life hits a slump, thereby forgiving him for past transgressions.  That twenty year old he slept with?  He was just boosting her confidence after a bad break up.  The money he stole from your account?  His three thousand dollar car needed that two thousand dollar upgrade package more than your dog needed that heart operation.


EMBEZZLEMENT  The act of hooking up with your married ex for the reasons listed above.


FUN TIMES  A jolly term frequently used by men on internet dating site profiles as a polite way of saying that what they really want is sex.


GROUND BEEF  What you'll feel like if you hook up with your married ex for Fun Times.


HEDONIST  A man over thirty whose sole purpose in life is to seek out pleasure wherever he can find it, usually to compensate for an inadequacy of some kind.  Easily recognisable by his mode of transportation, a generic sports car that may or may not be sporting a personalised licence plate that says 'Man Whore.'


IMPENETRABLE  What you need to appear should you run into a hedonist.


JUMPING THE SHARK  The act of adopting a radically different persona in order to boost your chances of successfully acquiring a companion in a nightclub.


KOOKY  The polite alternative to the way people will describe you should you arrive at a nightclub looking like you just left the set of Freaky Friday in an attempt to do the above.


LOSING  What it feels like you're doing the first time you set foot in an over twenty-eight's nightclub.


MEGA-NARCI  A woman who wields her incredible beauty like a weapon.  She does this in order to bag a Demi-God, to rob lesser women blind of their self-esteem just because she can, to compensate for the fact that she has little or no other redeeming qualities or to kill time between Next Top Model/Only way is Essex episodes. 


MOVIE LENGTH PREVIEW  The act of divulging every detail of your personal life on a first date, including your ex's sexual dysfunctions, and your determination to achieve your lifelong dream of being the mother of eight.  If you ever plan on using your mouth for anything other than eating alone in restaurants, I advise strongly against this approach.


NASTY  How a jealous friend might describe you should you arrive on a double date looking better than her.


OMNI-PRESENCE  A way of ensuring that your potential suitor notices you.  Ignoring a migraine to sit through his band practice, taking your best friend's obnoxious kid to football practice when his kid's team is playing and rear-ending his car at the lights are just some of the methods you could adopt.


PASSABLE  A man with whom you would not normally associate, but who becomes sexually attractive in any of the following emergency situations.
a) When you are so intoxicated as to have abandoned all standards of appearance, intelligence, chromosome count and hygiene. 
b) When your self-esteem is on par with a discount shoe store worker.
c) When you haven't had sexual relations in at least six months.


QUITTER  What your mother calls you when you consistently refuse to abandon your standards when faced with any or all of the above situations.  The term is most prevalent in single child families, due to the decreased likelihood of grandchildren being produced.


RECIPROCITY  What you should demand of your best friend upon receiving the news that she is marrying the man to whom you saw yourself attached until an ambulance carted you both away from your retirement home in the mountains.  If she refuses to set you up with any of his friends, you might also try reminding her that what happens in Ibiza at a bachelorette weekend doesn't necessarily have to stay there.    


SOCIAL LIMBO The state you might find yourself in if the man you were sure was perfect for you doesn't call.  Symptoms include carrying the phone around in a home made pouch, venturing no further than the mailbox for days at a time and convincing yourself that the only thing that could possibly be keeping him away is the internal trauma he suffered after the six car pile up he became involved in while speeding home from work to call you.


TIME  Your arch nemesis.


US  A word you should avoid mentioning at all costs should you desire a second date.

VOID  What your love life will become should you continue to spend your Saturday nights at home alone in your Elmo pyjama's reading dating blogs.


WANDERLUST  A condition suffered by most of the gorgeous single men you see surrounded by women who still have to present identification at nightclubs.  It is generally advised that these men are to be avoided and pitied.  Yeah...pitied.


YES!  What you should be screaming if you manage to go home for the evening accompanied by one of the men mentioned in the previous definition.


ZIP  The amount of consideration you should give people who tell you you are not getting any younger and should take what you can get.  The people who spout this sort of wisdom are usually unhappily married friends who followed the same advice from their mothers.








 
 

My date with a demi-god, or: how my inner critic played coitus interruptus.

I was enjoying what had become a typical Saturday evening at home - watching Buffy DVDs, wishing I could relive my twenties sober and self medicating with Tim Tams - when I felt 'The Tug.'  There are countless euphamisms for it, but basically The Tug is that realisation most single women get somewhere between thirty-five and forty that, although they don't nessecarily need a man to live their best life, there is only so much satisfaction to be gained from being the master of one's own domain, and there is a limit to the euphoric powers of chocolate.  Up until this point, I had steadfastly avoided internet dating sites, but as my finances precluded any sort of night out beyond trolling the local bus stops for passables (the definition of which will be explained in my next blog - The dating glossary), my self esteem conceded defeat and I whipped up a profile.


Two weeks later I was scrolling through the profiles of men the site matched me with, harbouring the sneaking suspicion that the only criteria used to calculate their compatablility with me was the fact that they were as desperate as I was at the time, when I struck hormonal gold.  I can say without the slightest hint of exaggeration that 'Patrick' was just about the most beautiful creature I ever saw.  How Beautiful?  Well, if someone found proof that the greek gods actually existed, went back in time, took a sample of Eros' dna (he was the greek god of love and beauty-look it up, people), went back to the future and cloned him, the product would be Patrick.  Reading through his profile, I discovered that Patrick was witty, intelligent, articulate and adored his kids.  In short, he was perfect...which is why I exited his profile post haste and resumed the mental drudgery of perusing the list of suitors hack science chose for me.  Come on, I thought to myself, the only way you're in with a chance there is if he has kidney disease and you happen to be a donor match. 


Now imagine my reaction when, while struggling to read the profile of a guy who I'm certain only got out of sixth grade because he couldn't fit in the chairs anymore, a message appeared in the top right corner of the screen.  Patrick wanted to chat!  We exchanged phone numbers after ten minutes messaging, there's only so much one can express with emotocons, and he promised to call me sometime.  Yeah, I thought, Sometime next century.  I was certain I'd insulted his mother, called him a nutbar in gaelic or made some other gaff that would be unimaginable for anyone whose mouth wasn't running sixty seconds faster than her brain.  Then the phone rang.  Fully expecting it to be my mother calling for approximately the eighty-fifth time that day, my greeting was less than enthusiastic.  Lucky for me, Patrick was well aquainted with the concept of yo-yo parenting, and laughed it off.  We arranged to meet at my place the following week, not something I would normally do - see above, re: hormones.  


I spent the better part of the next seven days cleaning my house, an upshot of which was hitting upon roughly the mixture and concentration of chemicals I'll need should I ever decide to kill myself.  By the time Saturday came, I had become anticipation's bitch, obsessing over everything from my make up to getting the peak of my eyebrows centimetre perfect (oh, how I wish I were kidding).  Patrick arrived bang on time, pot plant in hand (remembering that I prefer potted plants to bouquets because they last longer), looking like the spokesperson from an aftershave add.  We sat down on the couch to talk, and that was when my inner critic decided I deserved a kick in the cocxix.  It would have been a  stimulating conversation, had I contributed anything to it beyond 'Yeah,' 'I know,' and 'Exactly.'  Here was a guy clearly interested in me, and all I could do was tell myself that he deserved better!  He soldiered on, going through my movie and music collections and joking about how different our tastes were, and I laughed.  An appropriate response, one would think.  Not when you spit accross the room.  Hey, it's hard to control what comes out of your mouth when you're busy thinking of ways to put someone off so that they may be spared the humiliation of being seen in public with a woman whose greatest achievement to date is winning a New kids on the block album in a radio contest in 1990.  


The date ended, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and I waited until he was out of sight before headbutting the front door and running into the kitchen to gorge myself on consolation chocolate, which pacified the shrill, nasty little voice in my head that put the kibosh on what I was sure would one day have turned into a sexual experience bordering on Nirvana.  Despite the confidence and strength we like to project, and we have every right to, our number one enemy when it comes to getting what we want is still us.  So the next time you're getting ready for a date, and your inner critic starts flipping through the catalogue of screw ups that is your life, do me a favour: flip it the bird for me!                                  

Diver or Dipper? Why we keep dating, even though it sucks.

So, you're single again and ready to enter the eel infested waters of the dating pool.  There are three ways to go about it.  The traditional method is what I like to call the 'Dive on in and pray' approach.  This is when you don the brand new outfit you spent this weeks rent money on and allow yourself to be dragged to the ultra-cool nightspot your best friend assures you is loaded with eligible men.  If you're like thousands of other single women over thirty, chances are your night will consist of ingesting lethal amounts of mojo juice, dancing with the confidence of a young Esther Williams in a water ballet, despite the fact that your ninety dollar shoes are filling up with blood, and patrolling the perimeter of the dance floor to search for passables (not possibles; there is a difference), before throwing your hands in the air and boarding a lifeboat with the first guy who gives you more than an appraising glance.  The most you're likely to get out of this experience is an evening of mediocre sex you won't even feel, thanks to the anaesthetising effects of tequila, and a hangover that renders you socially toxic to everyone but your equally ill best friend, to whom you are now not speaking.  


A perennial favourite is the blind date, or the 'Trying to find treasure in the Ganjes' approach, whereby you dive bomb to the bottom of a murky body of water and grope blindly for gold.  If you're anything like me, and you're reading this so you must be, what you'll find upon surfacing is a well-worn boot carrying a stench of failure that even industrial strength odour eaters won't banish, and a wicked case of the bends.  With trepidation, you have now arrived at the world of online dating, the water park of social interaction, standing at the gate in a bathing suit that would look better on your daughter and staring with wide eyed wonder at the attractions that await you.  You browse the electronic map, confident in the expertise of the management, who have thoughtfully divided the park into two sections for you to choose from, based on your mental age and stamina.  If you are one of those brave few willing to scale the towering ladders of the biggest slides in the park, operating under the adorably deluded belief that you can snag a lifeguard while wearing a pink polka dotted floaty tube and matching swim cap, you'll want to head on over to Lifestyle Lagoon, where the big kids play.  If kiddie pools are more your speed, slip on your flippers and toddle off to Tadpole Pond, a safe place to play for those of you who aren't comfortable in deeper waters.  Note: management requires swimmers in this part of the park to be accompanied by a responsible guardian, lest they should wander off and become lost - maps and signs are useless to someone who can't read and can only communicate in two syllable blocks.


It's been eleven years since I first waded back into dating and all I have to show for it so far is a set of swimmers muscles an Olympian would be proud of, and a case of hydrophobia that comes and goes.  This has lead me to wonder what it is that makes us keep plunging in, despite the fact that we'll probably sink like a stone.  For some it's the belief that there's someone out there just for them, reclining in a sun lounge by the pool, a mohito with two straws on a table beside him.  For others, it's the hope that someone will swim out and rescue them before they drown in depression and debt.  I don't think I fall into either category, but if a sweet, handsome, stable guy with a steady job and capacity for romance beyond cheap petrol station roses should be standing by, tandem jet ski at the ready, I'd rather be a diver than a toe dipper.