The Chat-Up

Just over a month ago, I announced that I was going to go out and have the mother of all celebrations for my fortieth birthday.  For a number of reasons, some of which were beyond my control, the shindig didn't eventuate, and my best mate has been at me to reschedule ever since.  Well, thanks to her incessant pleading/nagging/threats of bodily harm, I finally gave in.  Next Saturday, we are hitting the Irish pubs of Melbourne for a night of Bailey's, Boys and Bad Karaoke - but my chronic shyness has had a major resurgence of late, and is threatening to put the kibosh on all but two of these activities.  Fortunately, my best mate is the most stubborn, bull-headed woman in the universe, and will have none of my refusals or excuses this time around.  She told me that my inability to initiate conversation with men, (while sober), could be solved by the implementation of a time-honoured practice that has been used the world over since social interaction began all those years ago - you know, before women waxed their legs.

The icebreaker.

'All you need is a really great line, delivered in just the right way.  Men do it all the time.  It can't be that hard.'

So sayeth the tall, gorgeous, blue-eyed Rachel McAdams lookalike who has never had to approach a man in her life.  Still, a conversation starter might not be a bad idea, and I think I've come up with a good one: I'm going to tell them about the blog!

It might sound crazy to try to capture the attention of potential suitors by telling them that if we do decide to take things further, thousands of other people will be reading all about it.  Well, not ALL of it - I'm not      angling for an HBO series.  I do have to wonder about the types of men this approach would attract.  I mean, do I really want to share physical space with a guy who would read my blog the following week, eagerly searching for a mention of himself like he was trying out for a football team?  (And yes, I do know what that analogy suggests - shut up).  Some guys would understandably be put off by it, particularly if they had never actually read the blog.  For all they know, it could be a performance review, (something I would NEVER partake in, unless I was assessing my own talents, or lack thereof).  Everyone I've told about this, which no doubt now includes you, thinks it's insane and, you know what I say to that?

Thank you.

Why?  Because it's a compliment.  It takes bravery to put ones self out there and do the crazy thing, and if you guys think that much of me, then I must be a lot gutsier than I thought I was.

Or just crazy.

Time will tell.  

*Note:  I just realised that the phrase 'Take things further' may be misconstrued as code for 'Engage in non-committal carnal festivities.'  This was not my intention.  At least at the time of writing.          

Plan B

Before I get to the gist of this post, let me just make one thing perfectly clear: I adore my son.  He is the most wonderful, loving. funny, challenging, maddening, surprising human being on Earth.  I couldn't replace him any more than I could grow a third ear, but I can't deny that the thought of having a second child appeals to me quite a bit...a lot...okay, I want to be a Mum again - there, I said it.  I would prefer to conceive the natural way - the fun way - and at forty I think, (I hope), I've enough good child-baring years left in me to allow sufficient time to find a guy whose genes I'd like to pass on.  Truth be told, I'm not all that fussy when it comes to qualities I look for - apart from brains, rapier wit, cheek, strength, sensitivity, creativity, nice eyes, great listening skills, a working knowledge of vowels and consonants and a pathological hatred of reality TV.  I'm about eighty-five per cent positive that I'll find this guy in the next couple of years, but a friend of mine, (who shall remain nameless lest she should have to kill me slowly), has already decided upon a plan b just in case fate decides to womb block her.

She has taken out private health insurance that covers her for assisted pregnancy, and has started researching sperm donation.  It's all she's been talking about for months and it was during one of these conversations that she told me I should look into it as well.  I think it's a bit pessimistic for her to be allowing for eternal spinsterhood at the age of thirty-two but I Googled it anyway, merely for analytical purposes you understand, and was pleasantly surprised by what I found...mostly.

There are two options for women who wish to 'receive' (*immature snicker*) donor sperm in this country; shop direct or go on Se-Bay (Ha!  See what I did there?).  Both options cost about the same (on average $400.00-$600.00), but two things stood out to me about the latter.  The first was that the sites I looked at felt eerily similar to dating sites - a long time bug bear of mine, as everyone knows.  Each guy gave a detailed description of his physical attributes, his occupation, and his relationship status, but if you wanted to see what your potential Baby Daddies looked like, you'd have to pay to gain access to his pictures.  The going rate is anywhere from $100.00-$200.00, and bear in mind that's before you proceed to the checkout.  When you do decide upon a candidate, it isn't just a matter of typing in your MasterCard digits and pressing ship - there are more decisions to be made!  If you want a 'Clean' sample, you will need to shell out around $600.00, whereas if you're content with an 'unclean' sample, you'll receive a $200.00 discount.  What bothers me about this is that the sites don't elaborate on what they mean by Clean or Unclean.  Given that we live in the real world, I'm going to go ahead and assume that they don't mean untested, leading me to conclude that the vessel containing the precious essence is delivered to your door as is - from stable to table, as it were. 

Will someone out there with expertise in this arena please tell me I'm wrong about this?

All in all, apart from the aforementioned concerns, I have no objection whatsoever to self insemination - on the contrary; I think it's a fantastic idea, and am glad I live in a world where people don't have to take their love with them when they die.  I still think my friend is prematurely conceding (pun intended), but as for myself, it's starting to sound like an attractive idea if I'm still alone in a year or so.  Does anyone else have any thoughts about it?  

Until my next post, I'll just be sitting here on the couch in scuba gear, bracing myself for the tidal wave of opinions.               

Striking a blow for freedom.

Readers, I am about to do the unthinkable and blog angry.  Today, I went on that most dreaded of weekly excursions – the grocery shopping trip with my mother.  The reason I dread it is that, despite the sheer athleticism with which I dart about from shop to shop, ensuring she has everything she needs, I will invariably say or do something to incur her wrath.  Today was no exception.  A couple of friends of mine offered to give us a lift there and I accepted, rather than hire a cab to and from as we usually do, making three stops up and back.  My mother was fine with this.  Enraptured, in fact.  Then, at seven thirty this morning, I got a phone call from her, asking what time we were coming for her.  When I told her ten, she became rather terse (as she tends to do when things don’t go EXACTLY her way), stating that friends she meets for coffee might not be there by then.  I explained that this was highly unlikely, seeing as they don’t usually arrive until ten thirty, and she only lives five minutes from the shopping centre.  Unsatisfied and unplacated, she abruptly terminated the call.  Soon after our arrival there, went to work on my son, dredging up a transgression he inadvertently committed three weeks ago. To the uninitiated, this probably doesn’t sound like cause for stress, much less fodder for a blog about the joys and horrors of dating over thirty, but if you’ll bear with me I will endeavour to explain.

Being the only child of a divorcee, and a none-too-well one at that, I have been the centre of my mother’s universe my entire life.  Sounds like a great gig, huh?  Lavished with attention, up to my armpits in presents every birthday and Christmas.  Well, all that is true, but I’ve found that life is a series of transactions – what you receive today has to be paid for tomorrow.  Those presents I got as a kid were wonderful, but memories of the countless hours I spent making god-awful concoctions with my Barbie Perfume Factory tend to lose their lustre when my mother laments the fact that she spent $29.95 on it every time I happen to disagree with her on something.  These occasions are also used as currency when she says or does something spiteful and hurtful, like, for example, the time she called me an idiot in front of her friends, (‘Well, you got me the wrong deodorant.  I gave you a great life when you were a kid, didn’t I?), and the time she called me a whore when I happened to mention a past relationship I have blogged about numerous times, (You’re just a whore, like your father.  You can’t help it.  I shouldn’t have bought you everything, maybe then you wouldn’t be so selfish). 

These are actual examples of her logic, I kid you not. 

As for all that attention, you try enjoying eight hours a day of it.  Yes, you read right.  Eight hours is the figure I’ve arrived upon by adding up the number and duration of phone calls I get from her every day, (I was in remedial maths for four of my five years of high school, so that is an estimation, but it’s a pretty damned close one).  I received one such call on Tuesday afternoon, during which she accused me of putting my son (yes, my son) before her by not visiting her as much during the school holidays, (I’m there three mornings a week usually).  She then mused that she could lay dead in her unit for days and no one would know, just because I had to give ‘that kid’ a good time, (the same kid she called the c-word this afternoon).

As my regular readers will know, I have been putting off finding love for several reasons. 

The woman I described in the last three paragraphs is one of those reasons.

Up until today, I have placated, cajoled, and cow-towed to her.  I have put all other persons (including myself) after her because, as circumstance would have it, I am the only person she has in this world to count on.  In other words, I have allowed guilt and manipulation to run me like a mass media corporation, and let my own happiness suffer as a result.  Well, dear readers, Mad Mel TV will from this day forward be operating more like ABC1 than Fox.  Today, I let my mother know in no uncertain terms that things needed to change if she wanted me in her life.  She declined, (I’ll spare you the rant by which she communicated this), bemoaning the fact that I don’t care about her and would prefer she die.  This would usually be the part where I would crumble, gather my handbag and my kid and rush over to her house to apologise. 

Not today.

Today, I simply said ‘That’s not true, Mum.  I love you, and I’ll be here if you need me, but not until you change,’ and hung up.

I know it sounds mean, and I’m sure some of you think I’m a terrible person, but this confrontation has been a long time coming.  I would NEVER be able to love myself, and consequently allow someone else to love me, if I hadn’t had it now.  Sure, I feel like the worlds biggest shit-heal at the moment, and will undoubtedly have trouble sleeping tonight, but I think that at the age of forty, I’m entitled to put my foot down, don’t you?  

Train of thought.

While en route home with my son from Comic Con last Sunday, I overheard a conversation in which I was eager to participate.  However, as the train in which we were travelling operated on a notorious South East Melbourne line, and the people conversing were typical of the passengers who travel on said line, judging by their language and demeanour, I decided that there was a time and a place for honesty.  What follows is an abridged transcript of this conversation, and what would have been my response had I not grown so accustomed to sporting my own teeth.

SKINNY BLONDE IN EMINEM SHIRT:  Brie was goin’ mental the other night; Sam (whom I’m assuming is her partner) really had to belt her arse in the end.  That quietened her down.

EQUALLY SKINNY BRUNETTE/BLONDE IN FAUX ADIDAS SHIRT:  I’ll bet it did. That’s all they’re good for; beltin’ ‘em and makin’ ‘em.

S.B.I.E.S:   I could make ‘em myself, but I can’t handle ‘em on my own.  I reckon if kids came out perfect, we wouldn’t need guys.

E.S.B/B.I.F.A.S:  Yeah, but what about the fun bit?

S.B.I.E.S:  That’s what vibrators are for.

Indeed.  

Irrespective of the irrefutably fabulous advancements made in reproduction and sex toy manufacturing over the last thirty years or so, I could not disagree more with either of these ‘ladies’ sad assessment of the male species, not that I feel sorry for any ‘man’ who corporally disciplines a little girl.  The reason that the tone of their conversation disturbed me so much is that it sounded eerily like conversations I overheard in my youth – conversations in which the gender roles were reversed.  How would any self-respecting woman react to two twenty-something guys waxing lyrical on the singular nature of women’s existence, (in laymen’s terms, asserting the fact that women are only good for ‘one thing’)?  With anger, I suspect, and rightly so.  Why then is it now okay for women to view men in a similarly utilitarian way?  I wish I could say that this was the first such conversation I had been privy to, but sadly it wasn’t.  I can only assume that these women were either taught to think this way, or that their opinions were forged by bitter experience.  Either way, it’s pretty damned sad.

My mother holds a similar opinion of men, for reasons I’ve gone into in another post, but I never subscribed to it.  I couldn’t let myself.  I can only imagine what life would be like if women were indoctrinated from childhood to seek out a partner according to his procreative and disciplinary capabilities alone.  Sure, there might be a lot less single forty year-olds in the world, (moi, for example), but I can guarantee you we would not be any happier.  Although I don’t necessarily need one, as such, I think the world would be a rather cold place without men, and my belief in human nature assures me that the majority of guys feel the same way about us. 

They do in my world, anyway.