Shot Roast.

I recently had the pleasure of watching a celebrity roast.  In the old days, these events 'honoured' the creme de la creme of the entertainment world, putting show business royalty in the oven for an hour or so to baste in their own sweat and giggle nervously as friends and colleagues rattled off a litany of their mistakes and indiscretions with impeccable comic timing.  Given the state the world economy is in, it's no wonder that the choice of meat for these feasts has gone from prime rib to hamburger.  The celebrity on the menu the night I watched was none other than the tabloid crowd's drive-thru dish of choice, David Hassellhoff and you know what?  It was the best roast I've ever seen!  His life and 'career' being what it has been, the celebrity chefs turned the heat up to three hundred degrees without raising a sweat, and The Hoff didn't even burn, (although he couldn't get any browner, let's face it), spitting Crisco back at them with retorts that must have had aspiring stand-ups taking notes.  My romantic 'career' being what it has been, I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if I was the one in the baking dish, and my friends and exes were the ones serving me up?  This is how I thought it would go...

Introduction - my best friend, Corrina.  I've known Mel since we were eleven and twelve years old, and I'm pleased to say her taste in men has improved since those early days; she doesn't fall in love with thirteen year-olds anymore...well, not thirteen in the chronological sense.  The list of her roasters this evening reads like the contents page on Don't Date Him.com.  Her first boyfriend, Perry, is here.  They dated for a whole two weeks until she got out in the world and realised that Eu de Marlborough wasn't a brand of men's cologne.  Then of course there's her first real boyfriend, Aaron, who managed to squeeze us into his busy schedule between riding past Mel's house and pretending to be in love with his wife.  I'm pleased to see Ryan here.  He's the one who managed to stick with Mel the longest.  Five whole years!  I'd throw in the old standard 'you do less time for murder,' but in that scenario, it'd be kind of hard to pick the perp.  Anyway, I volunteered to be the M.C. tonight because, of all the people in this room, I can safely say I know Mel best of all.  I've seen her in just about any state you can imagine - happy, sad, angry, loving, bitter, regretful, exhilarated; and that was just on her thirtieth birthday.  Mel has a little condition I like to call I.M.P.D - Inebriated Multiple Personality Disorder.  When she's sober, she's a shy, virginal Sunday school teacher.  When she's tipsy, she's a hyperactive leprechaun on uppers.  When she's drunk, she's anybody's.  Oh, while we're on the subject, could we get someone to come over here and keep Mel away from the open bar?  Great.  Mel, everyone in this room loves you, well, most of them...okay, just the ones who haven't actually had to live with you for longer than twenty four hours, and we hope you will appreciate this roast in the spirit with which it was intended; good humour...especially seeing as we're recording it for screening at your intervention. 

First speaker - Perry Feldon.  I first met Mel at a venue she was to frequent on and off throughout the course of her early twenties; the unemployment office.  We bonded over mutual interests; we were both unemployed and desperate.  When she first got a job I was overjoyed; finally, we could eat dinner in a place where they actually gave you cutlery, and not the plastic kind.  But it wasn't long before she started to meet new people and when she asked to talk to me over lunch one day, I knew it was over before she said a word.  But it wasn't as though she severed ties with me completely; we would bump into each other every now and then at the train station when she was on her way to work and she was always friendly...she never failed to give me a smile before dashing into the ladies to hide.  I still held out hope though; she was a nice person, she'd soon realise that those guys in suits were phonies and come back to me...sure, she wasn't making eye contact with me these days, but that was just because of the sun glare in her eyes...in mid winter.  Smitten as I was, I did bow out in the end.  It took me a while, but I finally got the message that she'd moved on.  That, and her mother threatened to castrate me if I came within a metre of her.

Second speaker - Aaron Smith.  I once read that the definition of insanity was to keep doing the same thing and expect a different result.  There, in a nutshell, you have my relationship with Mel.  We first met at a club one Thursday night and I'll never forget what a vision she was; capering around on the dance floor, holding her fourth drink of the night and singing along to Peter Andre.  I drove her home that night and we quickly became inseparable.  Quite literally.  She clung to me like we were bonded together with invisible handcuffs.  Being a red-blooded twenty-five year old guy, I was taken aback by this so I ended things but, as Mel herself has documented in her blog, that was not the end of our association.  We got together quite a bit over the next few years until she had her little epiphany and broke up with me.  As the old saying goes, with progression comes change.  I thought that with the progression of her age and her waistline her standards might change but alas, things didn't pan out that way.  When you think about it, a moral compass is just like a Swiss army knife; it's easily adaptable and can be tucked away when you have no use for it.

Final speaker - Ryan Bunton.  Mel and I were actually set up on a blind date.  Of course, I mean a blind date in the traditional sense, not the colloquial, which from what I've been able to piece together from members of the audience describes her dating pattern prior to meeting me.  We lived together for a few years and I must admit, I had doubts about where our relationship was headed, but we managed to work things out and stick together for a while...sudden parenthood is a great adhesive.  Mel will tell you that I was difficult to live with and it's true, I was somewhat distant, but I wasn't like that all the time...Mel was a dab hand with the old bunji cord.  But you need individual interests to stay happy as a couple and we certainly had those.  I had dungeons and dragons, sport, and surfing for porn to psych myself up.  Mel had the baby, reading, and playing with the voodoo doll she made that time I said hi to a girl I went to school with.  The good thing about Mel is that she doesn't fit the stereotypical description of a woman in a long-term, co-habitual relationship.  She never lost interest in sex.  Never.  Not once.  Not even when I pretended to be asleep.  It's a good thing really; now I'm prepared should I ever be doused in honey and cornered by a bear.  All good things must come to an end and I did meet someone else one fateful weekend away with my football team, but Mel took it gracefully.  There wasn't any begging or crying or clinging to my leg as I walked out the front door.  She even took my announcement of our nuptials with amazing grace, despite my initial misgivings about telling her, and not once has she sought revenge...anyone can develop a spontaneous hernia on their wedding night.

Corrina's closing.  Mel, despite any ill feelings that may be circulating around this room tonight, I think I speak for everyone here when I say that you are a uniquely talented and courageous woman.  It takes balls to go out in public with your head held high, knowing where it's been.  And I'm positive that the social anxiety you're currently experiencing will pass and you'll be back to your effervescent old self.  Alcohol manufacturers have built an industry around 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.