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.          

Back in the swing.

Dear readers; set down those hot beverages and brace yourselves: your humble narrator actually went on a date.  Well, technically a couple of them.  I set up a profile on yet another dating site, purely for the purpose of doing some research for a new post I was working on, (which I've since abandoned).  In the interests of full disclosure, I was completely upfront about what I was doing there, and even included a link to the blog.  Curiously, for all the discretion that forms part of the site's modus operandi, and asks for from its members, I garnered double the responses I usually get.  A lot of them were from guys who had followed the link and become readers (hey guys!), but I got quite a few other offers too, (most of which I can't mention in this forum due to their 'adult' nature).     

Anyone who was quick enough to have caught my last post before I deleted it, and I was so instantly unhappy with it you would need to have been, will know that I actually accepted one offer, (from someone single), and ended up having a lovely evening with a very intelligent and interesting guy who ended up staying the night, (and that is the most detail you are going to get lest this post turn into a cheap(er) Sex In The City rip-off.  I am still very much a single woman, but I will be removing my profile from the site shortly because, to use a horrible Hipster term, it isn't the 'organic' way to meet someone, but I'm not entirely sorry I did it.  I'm an unemployed,  forty year old single mother of a special needs child.  I have a psychologist on speed-dial, and if ever there was a movie made about my life, nobody short of Jessica Lange would be fit to play my mother.  These things put me very much at the bottom of the totem pole in terms of eligibility, but the point of this post is that I won't let that put me off getting back into the swing of things, because it doesn't scare me anymore.

Unlike some of the responses I got from the above-mentioned site.

Aint no way I'm blogging about those!  

Happy birthday to me...

Well, the dreaded day is almost at hand.  My fourth decade on Earth begins on Monday and, despite previous assertions to the contrary, I have to admit that I still find it a tiny bit daunting.  No, daunting isn’t the right word exactly.  If I were to be entirely honest, succinct and to the point, sad is how I would describe it.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying every one of the last forty years has been a waste; I have a gorgeous, complicated nearly fourteen year-old son who reminds me of his father and myself in all the good ways.  I’ve grown into a woman who is above average in terms of creativity, insight, decency, fairness and affection, (if a little lacking in compromise, grace and knowing-when-to-shut-the-hell-up).  I’ve learned, with the benefit of hindsight, how to love others, what they will expect of me, what to expect of them, and what to expect of myself.  The unachieved ambition that is gnawing away at me is one that will undoubtedly piss off some of my regular readers, who are fed up with me going on about how fabulous it is to be single at my age, only to chuck the idea a couple of posts later.  Well dears, I am about to exceed your expectations.  While there is absolutely nothing at all wrong with being single in your late thirties/early forties, (a lot of you absolutely rock it, I must say), I for one am finally ready to admit that I am sick to bloody death of it. This upcoming milestone highlights the reason that I still spend my free Saturday nights watching Doctor Who (the David Tennant years) marathons and eating chocolate hazelnut spread from the jar, (other than there being something inexplicably heavenly about that combination): I’m terrified not to.

I’m nervous that there will be changes to my everyday life, but that doesn’t scare me.  I’m worried that my boy will be resentful of another man in my life, but that doesn’t scare me.  I’m anxious (and certain) that my mother will try to drive him away, but that doesn’t scare me (not anymore, anyway).  What I find so satin-soilingly petrifying is, ridiculous as this may sound, being a girl. 

Told you it might sound ridiculous.

The last guy I went out with never actually took me outside the house, unless it was to a naughty accessories store and prior to that, eons prior to that, I’d been living with the father of my child for four years, and prior to that I was never really the kind of girl who guys took out on real dates; (regular readers who haven’t clicked the big red x by now will know I’m not that girl anymore).  I’m not saying I want to don a little black dress and eat at a five star restaurant; I don’t own a little black dress, and figuring out the order of the cutlery alone would be enough to bring on a panic attack!  What I’m admitting to you now is that I honestly have no idea how to date.  I know how to make contact.  I know how to initiate ‘intimate contact.’  It’s all the stuff in between that paralyses me.  I want to be asked out; to look pretty in something other than my beloved hoodie-and-jeans ensemble; to sit and talk to someone over a couple of drinks; to have fun without worrying what I’m going to have to do to pay for my dinner later on.  (No, I’m not a hooker – it was a metaphor, people). 

Am I the only single woman in the world who feels this way?  Probably not, given the size of the place.  Does it feel that way?  Absolutely.  This isn’t me calling for a pity party, by the way, and to my Sydneysider friend who is planning on coming down here to Melbourne and have coffee and cupcakes with me – we are still on; it’s just me telling the truth.  I like to do that occasionally.

The People's (and Tom's) voice.

Move over, A Current Affair! Throw yourself under a bus, (I'm begging you), Today Tonight! To make up for my failure to post last week, I decided to go all out with this make-up post and conduct a vox populi, of sorts. Well, in this case the 'General Public' was the five single over thirty year-old's I managed to find at my local shopping centre who were willing to voice their opinions on dating with me. Just like a younger, less vitriolic Barbara Walters, I arrived at my chosen venue bright and early, material and sound recording device, (i.e. my rather battered pink iPod), at the ready. I practically had to beg to get anyone to open up but once they did, I hit them with the following five questions. Enjoy!

WHY DO YOU THINK YOU'RE STILL SINGLE?
Tom, 37 - Because women are too bloody fussy! (You know Tom, maybe we are. Who says intelligence, character and a post secondary school level vocabulary are important in a life partner?)
Maria, 42 - Because there aren't any good men left and the ones that are are gay!
Melissa, 41 - I'm too fussy. And most of the good guys are gay.
Sheridan, 39 - Because my mother interrogates every guy I go out with and scares them off!
Helen, 41 - No good guys left. (I absolutely refuse to believe that.)

*Note to self: must track Sheridan down to discuss starting a support group.

WOULD YOU DATE SOMEONE WITH KIDS?
Tom - Yeah. As long as she didn't expect me to be a father to them. Unless they were brats. (Oh Tom; I don't think any woman in her right mind would expect you to help raise her offspring.)
Maria - My family probably wouldn't like it, but I might. Depends how many!
Melissa - Not if they were teenagers; I can't handle teenagers. (Didn't have the heart to tell Melissa that baby's and toddlers do, god willing, eventually become teenagers).
Sheridan - I've got two of my own, so it wouldn't bother me.
Helen - Yeah. I love kids.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT INTERNET DATING?
Tom - It's a bit of fun. I've been out with a few girls on one site. Nothing yet. Like I said, they're too fussy.
Maria - I'm always on dating sites. I've been out with a lot of guys through those. Most of them only want one thing, but sometimes you meet someone nice.
Melissa - Don't go on them! I went out on one date with a guy, and he kept calling me for months afterwards. I ignored his calls and didn't ring back but he wouldn't give up! (Might I suggest communicating your disinterest? It's a viable option unless you prefer sleeping with a baseball bat under your pillow).
Sheridan - They're okay as a last resort, but most of the people on those sites are just looking for sex. It smacks of desperation to me. (I second that emotion!)
Helen - I've used them a few times. You see some weirdos on there, but I've gotten a few free dinners out of them! (McDonald's or KFC?)

WHAT'S THE WORST THING ABOUT BEING SINGLE AT OUR AGE?
Tom - Gets a bit lonely sometimes. And I can't cook to save myself! (There we are, ladies; the way to Tom's heart is his stomach. Run down to your local TAFE college and sign up for cooking lessons, post haste!)
Maria - Your family thinks there's something wrong with you!
Melissa - It's hard to find guys who are available.
Sheridan - I don't think it is the worst thing in the world. I've had my kids, so I'm in no rush to get married and start a family. That's the reason most people our age are in such a rush to meet someone.
Helen - People think you're either a bitch or you're gay. (Is anyone else seeing a pattern here?)

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN SET UP?
Tom - No. I wish someone would, though. What are you doing on the weekend? (At this point, your humble reporter thanked Tom for his help, avoiding eye contact, and scanned the immediate area for security guards).
Maria - Once. Never again! My boss set me up with his cousin and he told me he was tall and good looking and when he showed up, he was shorter than me and had a beard! (There's a reason they call them 'Blind' dates.)
Melissa - Never. No thanks.
Sheridan - Quite a few times by my friends. They're hopeless at picking my type! (Sheridan then elaborated and said that, like me, she prefers her men to have souls and at least a double digit i.q.).

Polar opposites attract.

My high school teachers, my schoolmates, my best friend, and even my own mother will tell you that I am a confounding mess of contradictions and, interesting though it might make me, this dychotomy can also be extremely frustrating to deal with, particularly when it acts as a roadblock, standing between where I need to go and where I actually want to be.  Correction; roadblock isn't quite right.  A more fitting analogy would be to imagine a giant fork in the middle of a road, with a dirty, sweltering metropolis on one side, and a hippy commune on the other. 

Most liberal-minded single women of my age and disposition would flick the indicator to the left, and cruise down that humble looking little dirt road in search of a fellow free thinking peace monger, only of the male variety, with whom to sing acoustic guitar ballads on the porch and make love in a daisy field.  I more often than not tend make a hard right, with no warning whatsoever, and scream through the city streets with a thousand watt spotlight mounted on the hood of my car, scouring underground taverns for the most arrogant, smart-arsed, right-radical mouthpiece I can find, just because my brain wants me to do the opposite. 

Maybe it's the rebel in me, but despite my left wing, fair's fair leanings, it's the guys who I know I'm going to spend most of my time screaming with righteous indignation at that really push my buttons, (the fun buttons).  If you were to line up my boyfriends thus far and make them sit a personality test, their compatability scores with me would be on par with Sarah Palin's presidential suitability rating.  Now, every time I enter into something with one of these guys, I know it isn't going to end well - the most I can ever usually hope to get out of these trists is mind-blowing post-tyrade sex which, spectacular as it is, doesn't last; so why do I keep making the same mistake? 

Shouldn't I know better at my age? 

The answer is yes, I should, and I will learn my lesson one day. 

But for now I'm cutting class to Skype with a hot guy in his twenties who plays guitar like the devil and thinks socialists are Commies. 

It's fun because I know it's wrong.

Hey, I'm not dead yet.     




    

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.



              

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.

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.             

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.          

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!

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.


      

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!

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.



          

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.