Changing lanes

Hey everybody.  This is going to be a short post, because there isn't a whole lot left to say.  I have thoroughly enjoyed writing this blog for the past two years; it's been fun, and even a little bit cathartic, for me to be able to share with you all my opinions and observations on love and life in general.  But sometimes, it's easier to wax glibly about life than it is to live it, and a recent read through my post timeline showed me that I was guilty of doing exactly that.  It also made it crystal clear to me that the only time my particular journey gains any momentum is when it's going downhill and believe it or not, I find it much less confronting (and therefore less scary) to intentionally sabotage myself (i.e by settling for someone who is committed to someone else and therefore expects nothing from me), than I do to look inside myself, and fix what needs fixing.  I think one of the main reasons I do this is to protect people from me.  I can't even contemplate the notion of letting myself fall in love with someone good for me because I know that I will eventually hurt them in some way.  Despite years of urging from friends and loved ones, it has taken until this very moment for it to dawn on me that I am an incredibly destructive person - to myself and to others, therefore I am going to stop blogging about it and actually take steps to turn my life around.  I am going to see my doctor tomorrow, and follow whatever recommendation she gives me as far as further professional help.  I may start the blog again sometime in the future, but for now I can't make promises because I need to take things one day at a time.  I want to thank all of my loyal readers, some of whom are very dear friends of mine, for sticking with me for this long, and to my closest friends, I will keep you updated via chat/Facebook/email, etc on how things are going if you'd like.  Love to you all.   :-)  

Self portrait

Well, I won't start this post by formally acknowledging the fact that I haven't posted in months...over a year...oh hell, a really fucking long time, because that would be stating the obvious. Suffice to say, I'm really sorry that I abandoned my readers and subscribers the way I did and, despite a false start last year, I intend to keep Disasters In Dating running for a long time yet. Now, on with the show...

 They say that mistakes are there to be learned from, and it is a mantra that I try to pass on to my son as often as I can because, at the age of fourteen and a half, he has entered that wondrous time of life where a shitload of mistakes will inevitably be made. Most will be minor errors in judgement that, while earth-shatteringly significant at a time when your entire existence seems to hinge upon popularity (it is a perception I am doing my best to break, I assure you), will loom about as large as a dying sparrow's fart in a hurricane when he's forty. Then there are the big ones, the colossal cock-ups that have long lasting and far reaching ramifications which, fingers crossed, I'm confident G won't be making anytime soon because he is neither a) chronically neglected nor b) an ego-maniacal bully or a blind sheep. He has his little crises of conscience, and has even admitted to me that he might 'experiment' one day, (oh shit). But 'Not with drugs,' (oh, bless), but for the most part, he is turning out to be the wonderful human being I always knew he was. Lucky for me, he has a fully functioning moral compass, (thank you, G's Dad), but still accepts everybody equally and without judgement (that one's down to me, *self high five*). Long story short, while his year twelve year book probably won't contain pictures of him kicking the winning goal in the inter-school footy final, I'm certain his class portrait won't be used twenty years from now as a before shot in a Sixty Minutes story.

 Most people wait until their adult lives to make mistakes that will haunt their daily existence. G won't be one of those people, but that won't be because I've been such an impeccable example. On the contrary; I have made quite a few errors in the last twelve years or so that no amount of mashing on the delete key is going to erase. Some of them he knows about, some he doesn't - and for good reason. The most serious of these was a "relationship" with a guy that I, for some unfathomable reason, never quite seemed to get over. I wrote three posts about it, (What I left on the ocean floor; Re-gifting the ruby slippers; and Two exes, no waiting). My long term readers will remember these posts, and will have undoubtedly noticed by now that they have been deleted. There are two reasons for this. The first is that I recently started seeing him again, and because he was there for me recently when I needed him, I didn't want to take the risk of him reading the posts and being embarrassed by them. No, you are not being at all harsh if you are sitting there calling me insane. Please feel free to screen-print my picture from Google Images and scrawl several more harsh but nonetheless accurate derogatory names on it in red marker. The second reason I deleted these posts was that, despite any personal aspirations I might have to the contrary I am, for the most part, full of shit. I thought that I was displaying some sort of artistic and moral (there's that word again) integrity by removing the posts in which I oh-so-eloquently waxed on about the self-loathing and emptiness that accompanied being involved with a married man in a relationship that never really existed above the waist.

 Yes, I suffer from depression, but I'm old enough now to know that it is not an excuse for deliberately perpetrating an act this heinous. What am I getting out of it? Attention, affection, the ego boost that comes from the fact that someone can look at my non-mint-condition body and say how beautiful it is. I can assure you, I find all that as incredibly wet and pathetic as you do. I won't make the argument that because I'm not actually cheating on anyone, I'm only half as culpable as he is. That would be like saying that taking someone to a box factory, handing them a lighter and a can of turpentine and letting them decide what to do with them makes one person less of an arsonist. Whatever Aaron gets out of this thing we have, good or bad, isn't for me to contemplate. As I said, he was there for me recently when I had a crisis (my landlord refused to fix my central heating and my radiator broke, so rather than see my child and I spend the winter huddling together in front of the TV under a quilt, Aaron went out and bought us a brand new heater). Considering the risk he was taking, this was an incredibly selfless act.

 He is not a bad person.

 That would be me.

 My definition of a bad person? Someone who continually displays selfish, self-indulgent, feel-good-at-all-costs behaviour without regard for any damage that might be done, because their needs are more important than anyone else's. For Christ's sake, I sent my son to his Dad's last Friday night so Aaron and I could have a dirty weekend while his wife was away. I put shagging my non-boyfriend ABOVE spending time with my own child! Not that I told G that. What I told him was that I went to a birthday party with some friends from high school. A child's self-image is largely dependent upon his image of his parents. My portrait has been censored with a rather large black sticker.

Plan B

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

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

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

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

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

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

Striking a blow for freedom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not today.

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

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

Guilty as charged.

Okay sports fans, the revelation I am about to make will irrevocably damage your perception of me, and quite possibly negate your belief in a benevolent god: I LOVE the Eurovision song contest.  To me, Eurovision is the progeny of New Faces and the Ed Sullivan show; the grandmother of American Idol; and the mother of all carny sideshows.  Whether it’s the singing, the costumes, the sets, or the cyclonic wind machine, I get caught up in the spectacle every year.  It’s one of my guiltiest pleasures.  I’m watching round two of the semi-finals right now, and the fact that I’m doing it alone to avoid having unfair and inaccurate aspersions cast upon my character, (dorky is as dorky does, people), has led me to ponder this: when it comes to guilty pleasures and love interests, what should we share, and what should we spare?  Personally, I think that as long as you’re sure the relationship isn’t already headed for the s-bend, anything short of being the proud owner of an extensive Dora the Explorer erotic fan fiction collection is acceptable; (seriously, anything but that).  Want to know some of my own embarrassing indulgences? 

I love watching STEEL MAGNOLIAS, (I’ve previously claimed that the only reason I own the DVD is to screen it for my mum on Mother’s Day.  I lied.  I happen to think it’s funny, effecting, and well-written; and who doesn’t love poking fun at Sally Field’s southern twang as she’s trying to coax Julia Roberts out of her seizure?  I adore Sally, but when she says ‘This was not bad at awal, this was not bad at awal,’ I honestly think I’d drive myself into a diabetic coma just to get her voice out of my head).  Oh, and I do not cry during the funeral scene, no matter what anyone tells you.  The My Pictures folder on my laptop contains a file of semi-naked pictures of David Tennant, (most of them stills from Secret Smile and Casanova), which I’ve also made into a screensaver.  I like to eat Nutella straight from the jar, and can usually polish one off in under an hour, (oddly enough, I do this while looking at the aforementioned David Tennant pics – read into that what you will).  I like to call the Hot Gossip line and put on a sexy voice, then pretend to get disconnected when the contact requests start rolling in.  Actually, I’d like to strike that one; I don’t feel guilty about it at all.  

Well, that’s a load of my mind, and publishing it here means that, when I do eventually find someone I love enough to want to share this stuff with, I can just email him the link and disappear for a few days. 

Plenty of fish in the sea, plenty of birds in the cage.

Plenty of fish in the sea.  Positive as I try to be, (snicker), I’ve always thought that old adage was complete, you should pardon my language, horse shit.  Nice as it is to imagine, the fact is that the odds are against everyone finding their perfect partner, but the hope nestled in the breast of this old cliché is what keeps dating site C.E.O’s in brie, bling and bubbly.  One such person has gone the extra mile in terms of exploiting, pardon me, ‘helping’ the love-lorn.  The extra Green Mile, that is.  Like your lovers assertive/brutal?  Want to meet a guy who will love your kids, (quite literally)?  Don’t mind taking the wheel when it comes to taking long romantic drives, (seeing as he’s not allowed behind it anymore because of his pesky little vehicular homicide conviction)?  Don’t mind long chats on the phone…or from behind plexi-glass?  Meetaninmate.com has the person for you!  Oh, and if you’re the kind of person who just loves surprises, you’re really in for a treat, because the site has a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy when it comes to the reasons behind the cuddly crim’s incarceration!  Yep, it’s a veritable grab bag; you could end up with a financial fraudster, (very handy come tax time), or an arsonist, (great way to offload that lemon rental property), or you could really hit the jackpot and wind up betrothed to a multi-murdering nightclub bouncer, (no more worries about the kids being bullied at school). 

The men folk haven’t been neglected here, either.  Judging by some of the online photos I’ve seen of some of the belles behind bars, prison is a veritable smorgasbord of bodacious babes just itching for you to pay them a congical visit.  Oh, but there is a slight hitch; if you want them to look exactly like their pic, you’ll need to smuggle in some mascara, lippy, and a manicure set on your next visit.  Don’t forget the nail file. 

But seriously, is there ANY market these money-hungry matchmakers won’t dip there taloned toes into?  The only advantage I can see with a site like this is that at least you know up front not to expect perfection…unless your last name is Cray, Williams, or Simpson.

*If you don’t know who I’m referencing in the last paragraph, Google it.  Probably shouldn’t have included that bit, but I couldn’t resist.

Belly flopping into the shallow end of the gene pool.

I was recently fortunate enough to run into a reader whilst grocery shopping.  She was a lovely person who had loads of kind words to say about the blog, but she did point out that there was an aspect to being single over thirty that I hadn't covered, at least not in any real depth.  She confessed to me that she had all but given up hope on finding love, and that the only reason she had played the dating game as long she had was that she wanted kids.  She was very witty, not at all unattractive and obviously intelligent, so it astounded me that she was still stocking her shopping cart with microwave chicken parmigiana for one, and I told her so.  She thanked me for the compliment, then confessed that if she couldn't find someone suitable within the next six months, she was going to do what her mother, most of her social circle and, for some stupid reason our government, were vehemently opposed to and find a donor dad.

  I think anyone who takes this step is amazingly courageous.  More power to them, I say.  I myself am in no financial position to do it, nor would I particularly relish the idea of raising another child on my own, but the idea did spark some curiosity, so I went online to do some research.  The majority of websites I found were extremely helpful, offering up the pros and cons of making such a life changing decision, but as I'm so often reminded, the internet can be a bewidering place and I soon stumbled upon a site that had me spitting my hot chocolate across the room.  The object of my distaste was, low and behold, a dating site, and in terms of these things being a petrie dish for the most unsavoury social organisms, this one contaminated the laboratory.  The site is called BeautifulPeople.com and, as the name suggests, its motus opperandi is to find life partners for people whose physical perfection has thus far proven a hinderance.  Should this prove unsucessfull, good news!  Now all you blindingly attractive members of our society who are harbouring maternal or paternal urges don't have to worry about putrifying your genetic line by procreating with us lesser beings; BeautifulPeople.com has come up with a solution.  They now offer a 'virtual sperm and egg bank' for clients who perish the thought of siring less than dazzling proginy. 

  Now, if you don't possess the mandatory exterior qualities to gain membership, which is understandably determined by popular vote, have no fear!  The fertility forum is also open to those poor unfortunates who are aesthetically challenged and have avoided parenthood thus far for fear of passing on their horrific genetic liabilty.  The site creator was initially hesitant about allowing us non-members in to the forum, but soon realised that we might benefit from having a gorgeous limb grafted onto our family tree.    In a recent article on ABCNews.com, he stated that:... 'everyone, including ugly people, would like to bring good looking children into the world, and we can't be selfish in our attractive gene pool.' 

Clearly, his beneovolence knows no bounds.

Am I wrong in assuming that most infertile or older singles would be over the moon just to have a child, regardless of whether or not he or she may be gorgeous?  Am I correct in this assumption, or just romantic and deluded?  You be the judge. 

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.

                                         

Soul food

Thanks to the wonders of modern pharmacology, and finally finding a doctor who seems to give a rats arse, I am managing my depression, and the light at the end of the tunnel is getting brighter by the day.  These days, when I say that I like myself, I can honestly attest that I still mean it twenty-four hours later.  I know what I want from life, from myself and from the people around me, and that is immensely reassuring...except when it isn't.  I know I can't even consider resuming the search for 'The One,' (pardon my Meg Ryan moment there), until I'm at least eighty per cent healed, (I'm nothing if not a realist about it), but that doesn't stop me from wanting it.  This is going to sound uncharacteristically wistful coming from me, but I miss the comfort that sharing space with another human being can bring.  Despite my oft-discussed determination to live for myself first, I must admit that it would be really nice just to cook for someone again.  Relax; I'm not metamorphosizing into a fifties house-Frau, I just miss that gorgeous feeling that used to come over me whenever I did something nice for someone, just because I loved them.  That's not to say I don't feel some satisfaction whenever I do things for my son, but parental love is an altogether different animal and besides, it'd be nice to cook for someone who appreciates the effort that goes into a good hollandaise sauce, and doesn't turn his nose up at anything that isn't flat-packed and delivered.

Creating an appetising meal for someone, nourishing them body and soul, is as much an act of love as sharing your bed, your breath, or your blood.  Perhaps that's what I really miss; the notion that there is someone in the world whose existence I value to such a degree that the idea of sharing something of myself with them doesn't seem at all like a sacrifice.

And yes, it'd also be nice to have sex again while I still remember what goes where.     

        

It's a set-up!

What I'm going to bring to your attention today is a global phenomenon that is perhaps the greatest personal threat we face as human beings.  It is a ritual that has been carried out on the willing and the captive since time immemorial and is insidious, pervasive and downright evil.  It is known colloquially as The Set-Up.

It is easy to spot the victims of this form of societal bullying; just follow the corpses of romantic ideals and friendships.  To illustrate my argument against matchmaking, and to drown out the cries of protest from those who fall in to the lucky five per cent of the population for whom it has been successful, let me provide you with some examples.

Last year, a friend of mine had just sent her boyfriend packing, quite literally; she even paid for his passage back to America, for a myriad of reasons.  After five years, his cheating, domineering ways had finally spurred her into action.  Not to mention the fact that he drained her of most of her savings.  She had begun to rebuild her life and her self-esteem was improving daily, and it was good to see her happy again.  Then one day, she said something so unconscionable it almost pains me to write it here. 

'He's a really funny guy, and very loyal.  He's thinking about coming back here in a few months, I reckon we should set something up; he'd be good for you.'

I doubt this needs explanation, but for the few readers who are still in the dark as to what my 'friend' was trying to facilitate, it is what I like to call the 'Match of convenience,' IE: if Love Rat and I were successfully matched, it would be wonderfully convenient for her.  I declined the invitation, very politely under the circumstances. 

A woman I once worked with was set up by her best friend in an arrangement I like to call the 'Broaden your horizons because I say so' set-up.  Armed with the knowledge that her friend favoured a particular physical type; tall, dark, and handsome; she then went about setting her up with a workmate of her husbands who was the complete physical opposite, citing that it would be good for her not to be so picky when it came to physical attractiveness.  Not only was the date unsuccessful, it also put a strain on the friendship that never really went away.  Still, it didn't end badly for all concerned; it turned out that the architect of the set-up had been harbouring a crush on her husband's friend for several years, and when he was sent by her husband to pick her up at the train station, he took her to his place.  A month later, it became their place.  

The final example I'd like to lay on you comes courtesy of a former neighbour of mine.  She was referred to by most of her family as 'Poor Thing,' in light of her limited romantic and vocational prospects (from their point of view).  To help her, and undoubtedly absolve herself of responsibility for her part in her daughter's misfortune, her mother set her up with a friend's son.  Stacey couldn't believe her luck; Richard was gorgeous, funny, and polite to an other-worldly degree.  He fit her criteria perfectly!  The two of them were married two years later and even had a daughter, so I guess you might say it was a successful set-up. 

Reserve judgement until the end of the story.

Within months of the wedding, cracks started appearing in their relationship.  Stacey ignored them, attributing Richard's moods to homesickness, seeing as, at thirty-one, this was his first time living away from home, and he was still acclimatising himself to living with someone with different habits and rituals than those of his father and stepmother.  Things did improve when Stacey discovered she was pregnant, but once the baby was born, life in her household returned to its familiar unsteady rhythm.  When she finally decided to question Richard about it, on the morning of their daughter's second birthday, he irritably confessed that he didn't love her, and that the only reason he was with her was because his father needed him out of the house so that he could leave his second wife with a clear conscience. 

Given the end result, I suppose you could call this a set-up of in-convenience. 

I'm not saying that all set-ups are doomed from their inception, I'm just saying that the next time a friend/loved one/well-meaning-sticky nose says they know someone who would be perfect for you, consider their motivations first, and never doubt your own instincts. 

No, just...no.

It is a well-known fact that I loathe reality television - unless it involves cooking because, as I've mentioned previously, I am somewhat of a gastropod.  My aversion to the idea of marriage is just as well-documented, so you can imagine my joy when I saw an ad for a reality show called 'Please Marry My Boy.'  I managed to watch a couple of episodes before the urge to throw a brick at my TV overwhelmed me and I had to change the channel.  The concept of the show bothers me for three reasons, all of which are possibly a reflection of my increasingly cynical view of the world at large, but are compelling nonetheless.

1.  Why does it have to be about marriage?  While I understand that there are still some people who believe in it, is it really advantageous for a guy to start the search for love with the words 'I NEED A WIFE - NOW!' written all over his face in permanent marker?  It's positively Dickensian!

2.  The Cattle Call.  Choosing someone to spend the rest of your life with should not be something you take lightly, and weighing up the pros and cons of this potentially life-altering decision is essential, I get that; but is it really necessary for these guys to make women feel like they're at an audition?  I'll bet questions like 'How many times have you had sex?'  Never came up on Idol.  At least, not while the cameras were rolling.

3.  Who in their right mind lets their mother choose a woman for them?!  You'll pardon my creative use of punctuation there, but I find it both questionable and alarming that any man would relinquish control of his love life to his mother.  Any girl with a 'questionable' past (i.e: any girl who has had sex, hasn't been to church in the last five years or has her own mind) would surely be cut straight away, regardless of any and all great qualities they might possess.  And something the contestants, (which is exactly what these poor women are, let's face it), should consider before deciding to continue pursuing things is how far into these guy's lives does mummy's influence extend?  Picking the reception venue?  Naming the kids?  She's run his life for this long, who's to say that will stop once the vows have been exchanged?  I already have a female authority figure in my life to remind me of the myriad of mistakes I make on a daily basis; the prospect of adding another to the mix would make the idea of growing old with only cats for company irresistibly appealing. 


  

I don't.

My mother and I are two very different people and, as I have discussed here before, I suspect she's always been a little disappointed that she didn't get the best friend she wanted in me, but there is one issue on which we agree whole-heartedly: marriage or, more specifically, the determination to avoid it.  We came to this decision for different, but equally compelling reasons.

For mum, it was experience.  She married my father in 1968, having had to practically scream her acceptance of his proposal to be heard above the operatic din of friends and relatives trying to prevent her from making the biggest mistake of her life. 

She loved him. 

She knew him better than any of them. 

She could change him. 

Her honeymoon was spent in a sparsely furnished one bedroom flat which was extremely ecologically friendly for the time - thanks to the power being cut off the month before.  She hung in through seven years of utility restrictions, eviction notices, soup dinners and Dad's virtuosic ability to quite literally charm the pants off any female within a ten mile radius (including her bridesmaid and best friend across the street), until he finally exhausted her patience by selling their house while she was in hospital to cover personal debts.  The only man she has even considered marrying since then was engaged to her for thirteen years before the realisation finally hit that he wasn't planning on buying a partner for her lovely diamond solitaire ring any time soon.  Understandably, all of this has left her somewhat sceptical of the concept of wedded bliss.

I have never been married.  The closest I ever came was living with the father of my son in a de-facto relationship for five years, the demise of which, I can admit now, was as much my fault as it was his.  My aversion to matrimony, therefore, can not be attributed to experience.  My motivation for staying single, despite exasperated argument against it by my best friend who, bless her, still believes in happily ever after, is a selfish one.  I am what I am, and I ain't gonna change.  I have been living on my own for twelve years, and have consequently developed a lifestyle.  It isn't always a happy one, but it is a comfortable one.  I keep house appallingly, I shop with gay abandon, I eat like a condemned man, and I raise my son according to the unfortunately named 'Free Range' philosophy.  These are just some of the things on which I am unwilling to compromise.  From what I've observed of other people's marriages, the words 'I will tweak my life until it comfortably blends with his/hers' should be included in every honest couple's wedding vows.  

I suppose chucking the idea of marriage over mid-week chocolate feasts, relaxed bed times and a mild eBay addiction seems trivial, but these little things and many others make me who I am.  Were I to get myself into a situation where I allowed someone to chip away at my little habits and routines, I'd be losing myself, piece by piece, until it wasn't even my life I was sharing anymore, and the man laying next to me would eventually wake up wondering where the woman he married had gotten to.  I want love, but I'm not sacrificing myself to keep it.  I am a slovenly, gluttonous, stuff-addicted hippy.

I am me. 

If you can't see yourself standing with me before a full length mirror without wanting to flip it over, don't bother taking the tux off the hanger.   

          

Typo.

Despite strenuous arguments, denials, and emphatic statements to the contrary, I have had to admit recently that I do in fact have a type.  Not a physical one exactly, although most of the men I fancy do remind me uncannily of either Jason Bateman or a young Davy Jones, (shut up! it's the dark hair, dark eyes combination, okay?).  I do find a guy with brains, sensitivity, a cracking sense of humour and a healthy dose of arrogant charm more than a little intoxicating, but it isn't exactly about personality traits, either.  What seems to attract me like a death row inmate to a loose-moralled appeals judge is not the handsome guy, the cheeky guy, the smart guy or the funny guy...it is the unattainable guy.

You know the guy I mean; he's the one who, despite your best efforts, seems determined not to test the friendship.  The one who affectionately refers to you as his 'Best Friend,' or 'The sister I never had.'  The one who sends you a smiley face, then liberally hands out wink emoticons to all two hundred and fifty eight of his other female Twitter followers and Facebook friends.  You could carry on an entire Skype conversation with him, wearing nothing but a smile, and he would still regale you with details of his naughty night out with the deceptively sedate looking school teacher he met on E-harmony.  My mother sagely advised me as a teenager that, when it came to women, men loved a challenge.  Not for them, the loyal, dependable, readily available girl who hung on their every word.  The chick who promised them the least would invariably end up being the one they wanted most.  I don't believe this is true of all men, any more than I believe that all men love football and hate quiche.  Furthermore, I don't believe that it is an exclusively male behaviour quirk.  How could I, when it informs my very own choices? 

You could stick identical twins before me, each boasting the same dark eyes, the same cheeky smile, the same irresistible Buddy Love type humour and bravado, the same leg-opening sensitivity, and I would still go for the one cruising Facebook chicks on his Iphone.  And now I know why. 

The challenge of it!  Fabulous as it is to be wanted by anyone, there's still no better ego stroker than snaring the creature who you had to chase through miles of rough terrain to get a clear shot at.  The one who put up the biggest fight is the one whose skin feels the most exquisite wrapped around your own on the living room floor in front of a roaring log fire.  I realise now that I've been choosing men like this my entire life and although I know that it's a pretty self-defeating practice, I can't seem to stop, and I have to wonder; is my need for gratification going to end up costing me long term satisfaction?

Am I the only woman who does this?  Let me know in the comments...I'm begging you.  Lol.      

One Fat Mother.

I love chips.  I love TV.  I'm a size fourteen when I should be a size ten.  I also have a tummy I sometimes have to cinch into my jeans by pulling on my belt a little harder than I'd like to, thanks to the eight and a half pound male tenant who moved out of there almost fourteen years ago.  According to designer Karl Lagerfeld's definition of the term, that would make me a Curvy Woman, were it not for one tiny thing:  I have never called anyone, be they large, medium or small, ugly in my life.  Yes, I have been known to shake my head when I see pretty young girls walking stony-faced down a runway, ribs poking out through dresses that hang on them like living room curtains, but I don't disparage them.  Far from it; I worry for them.  I worry that they are making themselves ill in order to fit someone Else's definition of the word 'Beautiful.'  I worry that they feel they have to live up to the standards of elderly fashion designers whose opinions should actually resonate with them at their age about as much as a fly fart in a hurricane.  I also worry that they hate themselves for going balls out and eating a cheeseburger.  Mainly, I worry about what will become of their self esteem when they are batted around like tennis balls by the sharply contrasting appraisals of people who have no idea what they're going through; it's just as hateful and ignorant for a person in the street or in a club to dismissively tell them to 'eat something, for fucks sake,' as it is for their bosses to guilt them into staying thin.

'What would you know about it?'  I hear some of you ask, and rightly so.  Being thirty nine years of age and having a kid in high school, one would think I had more important things to worry about than how my butt looked in a pair of jeans, but the fact is, I do still struggle with insecurity over my appearance.  I sometimes worry that the sight of me naked might send potential suitors screaming for the exit, which is categorically insane, because I'm only two sizes above what is considered 'normal.'  When you add this to the myriad of issues I already have with my self worth, it's a wonder I'm not posting this from within a rubber room.  Despite this, I'm happy to say intermittent, lack of self esteem, Lagerfeld's assertion that people did not want to see Curvy Women didn't make me hate myself. 

I did, indeed, scream obscenities at my TV the night Lagerfeld's wretched opinion aired on the news, but it wasn't at skinny models.  It wasn't even at Lagerfeld.  It was at myself.  The words of an octogenarian fashion designer caused me to drop what I was doing, go to my room, strip down to my undies, look at myself in the mirror and say:

'Shit; I'm hot!'

All men aren't bastards!

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

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

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

Validation

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

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

Taming the hazel-eyed monster.

Everyone has certain personality traits they aren't proud of.  Mine is jealousy.  Whether it became part of my nature organically, or grew there from the seed of the ever so slight sense of entitlement my mother unwittingly nurtured by making my room look like Toyworld to make up for the fact that I was an only child, the hazel-eyed monster has been with me for as long as I can remember.  It lays dormant most of the time, now that I am a (ahem) 'responsible adult' (snort), but there are still occasions when it threatens to come out of hibernation.  Engagement parties and weddings, births, and couples over the age of eighteen showing public displays of affection are occasions when the climate is particularly well suited to the re-emergence of the creature of covetousness.

While I might look happy outwardly, holding my champagne glass aloft and toasting the happy couple alongside a hundred or so other close friends and family, inside I'm wondering when the damn speeches are going to be over so I can get to piling my plate full of comfort food from the buffet table.  While friends of the bride speculate in hushed tones as to what the groom had to hock to buy her a rock that big on his salary, I'm standing there thinking It could have come from a Kinder Surprise for all I care, point is, she has a man who worships the ground she walks on and all I'll be going home with is a purse full of canopes.  My mother's habit of bailing up mums in shopping centres and enquiring as to their baby's name, weight and sleep patterns is usually endearing, if a little embarrassing.  At the wrong time of the month however, a time I like to call 'Oestrogen Equinox,' my mind wanders back to when my son was a velvet-complexioned cherub whose face lit up whenever I entered the room.  The sight of people holding hands and looking at each other starry-eyed brings home the realisation that the last man to look at me like that was in his early sixties, and he wasn't looking me in the eye (see 'The dirty and the indifferent').  At times like these, I find that the best course of action is to focus on the positives.  Having no fiancee means I won't have to do eighty sit-ups a day in order to fit into a dress I'll only wear once.  Having no husband means I won't have to play referee between family members who will only sit in the same room for weddings and funerals.  And having no more kids means that it won't be long until my weekends are mine again.

I really do want to fall in love again, but coveting what other people have is like holding a Weight Watchers meeting at Pizza Hut; all you come out with at the end is guilt, depression and three kilos that you need about as much as an extra uvula.  Jealousy is the Big Brother of emotions; it serves no useful purpose other than to debase and humiliate people, making them ponder doing unspeakable things in order to win a prize they only value when they see other so-called winners.  To sum up, my advice the next time you feel a twinge of envy working its way out is to get the hell over it and change the channel.                                              

Why chocolate can sometimes be better than love (she said in jest).

Ever wondered why you feel like you're on cloud nine when you eat chocolate?  No, Cadbury's, Hershey's and co do not slip a certain plant-derived secret ingredient into the mix, but cocoa does contain a compound called cannabinoids.  Yes, you read that right; cannabinoids are a compound similar to cannabis that induce a similar euphoric sensation, albeit a milder one.  That's one explanation for my nocturnal eating habits, but I think there's more to it. 

CHOCOLATE IS ALWAYS THERE FOR YOU.  You've had a day that would test the patience of the Dali Llama, and all you're getting from your so-called loved one is shrugs and well-worn platitudes.  You go home, slam the front door, and throw open the pantry to see if you can rustle up some comfort food.  Finding nothing but tomato sauce, baked beans and two minute noodles, desperation is turning to despair.  Then you remember your emergency provisions.  Slowly, and with the reverence of a child pilfering the coveted last chocolate chip cookie, you reach up to the top shelf and take down the Tupperware treasure chest that holds your rich, delicate bounty, (and Kit Kat, and Hershey, and M&M's, etc).  With your very first bite, placation starts to waft over you.  Troubles?  They don't exist.  All there is is chocolate and happiness. 

CHOCOLATE IS ALWAYS PRESENTABLE.  It's a fact that human beings let themselves go as soon as they begin feeling comfortable in a relationship.  The well-dressed, clean-shaven guy you once knew, who put deodorant on before and after jogging, dropped the handsome gent facade like a cockroach on fire a month after you gave him his own set of house keys.  Not so with chocolate.  It's never loses its silky smooth finish, and always intoxicates you with its rich, sweet aroma whenever you peel off its crisp, shiny robe.

CHOCOLATE GIVES WITHOUT THOUGHT OF RECEIVING.  Give and take, who needs it?  With chocolate in your life, you need never feel guilty about receiving the pleasure to which you are entitled again, much less feel obligated to return it.  Health regulations, public and private decency, and the law in some countries, prevent you from completely replacing a mate with chocolate, but when was the last time you were able to say that the dessert you got at the end of the meal was a fitting reward for the truly heroic couple of hours you put into the main course?

CHOCOLATE TASTES GOOD.  Speaks for itself, really.

CHOCOLATE DOESN'T HAVE RIDICULOUS STANDARDS.  So you don't wake up looking like a supermodel.  So you're no Nigella Lawson (nor do you HAVE to be).  So you were fired from your job for calling your bosses know-it-all cousin a steel wool-headed bitch.  Whether you're Miranda Kerr or Phyllis Diller; buxom food maven or cranky gruel server; polite team player or unemployed union rep with an axe to grind, chocolate is always ready and waiting with a sweet, velvety Hershey's Kiss that melts your heart, sets your thighs ablaze, and lights up your soul like a fireworks display on Chinese New Year.   

You'd better not cry.

I adore Christmas.  Let me just put that out there right now.  You will not find another person in this world with a more chronic case of the holly-jollies than me.  From December the first to the twenty fourth, I live the life of a manic elf with a Benzadrine addiction.  I hop around the house, draping every surface and inanimate object in tinsel; I make enough shortbreads and truffles to put even the healthiest person into a diabetic coma; and I spend hours perusing store shelves to ensure that every gift I give represents the receiver's personality and taste to a tee.  In short, I'm a poor man's Martha Stewart.  But like late season hay fever, this condition doesn't last.  The place you are most likely to find me on Christmas night, once my son has gone to bed, is curled up on the couch eating my fourth helping of plumb pudding and wondering where it all went wrong.  I'm not unique; Christmas is statistically the time of year when depression and suicide rates are at their peak.  Don't worry, I plan to stick around and confound people with my self depricating ways for the next fifty years or so, but I do share the dubious honour of feeling about as wanted as cheap fruitcake once the last carol has been sung. 

What is it that triggers this horrible affliction?  In a word, anticipation.  Love is something we are told is the be all and end all of existence from when we're too young to know how to spell it.  The princesses in the fairy tales we were read back then always got their man.  Or rather, he got them; all the princess had to do was make a wish and wait to be rescued, (don't even get me started on why that incenses me so much).  Christmas is equally as well-hyped.  Kids are told that if they're good all year, they'll find exactly what their little hearts desire under the tree.  We realise of course that this is a complete crock once we reach adulthood, but it doesn't stop us from believing it until we rip off the expensive wrapping and find a ten dollar Chanel no 5 knock-off that smells like toilet deodoriser.  The truth is, if you build up an experience too much in your head, you will only be twice as gutted if it doesn't happen.  That isn't to say that it won't, and I'm not suggesting that you surrender all hope of finding someone who will cuddle up with you on the couch and feed you truffles, (am I alone in that fantasy?).  I am simply saying that just telling Santa what you want will not guarantee waking up to find your perfect guy under the tree, wearing nothing but a strategically placed festive ribbon.  Us grown-ups have to work for what we want.  Go out, socialise, make new friends.  If nothing else, you'll have other people to swap Surprise Santa/Kris Kringle gifts with, and that sure as hell beats post-holiday indigestion.             

Giving business the business.

I received an email three days ago from a Dan T****ns, (I decided not to blank out the surname entirely so as to inspire just the right amount of terror in the sender), that went as follows:

 

Hello,

Long time no see. I was wondering what you are up to this weekend?

Dan

Because my email service providers spam filter has been working like a government minister on a fact finding mission in Tahiti lately, I was naturally a bit suspicious, and sent the following reply:

How do you know me?

Two days later, I received an email, in my spam filter this time, about an 'Exciting new service for singles,' signed off on by its creator, one Dan T****ns.  This aggravated me for two reasons.  The first, obviously, is the fact that this person/money-making concern was able to bypass my spam filter by posing as an individual.  Insidious to say the least.  The second, and most important reason, is that it came on the very same day that I sent out several aggrieved responses on Twitter to the seventeen or so companies who followed me under the guise of individuals.  Some of these companies were also dating services; one offered to bypass dating altogether for a fee, if you know what I mean.  My blocking these users and exposing their tactics to my seventy or so followers resulted in yet more faux individuals following me, which I could only assume was either a pathetic attempt at revenge, or a barely literate programmer's misapprehension of exactly what I was driving at.  My regular readers will know that I like to give dating sites, and matchmaking services in general, a thorough going over with a rusty chainsaw, and for good reason; they take advantage of lonely people in order to fund their creator's lifestyles.  So, Mr Dan T****ns, and any other individuals/concerns with designs on bilking me out of my hard-earned child support, I offer the following response:

I am not now, and will never be, interested in utilising your services.  Whilst companionship would certainly be desirable at this point in my life, I would prefer to rely upon my own, admittedly sketchy, judgement and good taste when it comes to procuring it.  I thank you for your kind offer, and wish you luck with your business endeavours in the future.  On that subject, I've noticed that there are several underground pharmaceutical companies advertising their services in much the same way; perhaps you should consider a joint venture?  I should imagine the earnings you could derive by finding companionship for lonely eighty year-olds who have regained the use of their penises after twenty odd years of flaccidity would be more than substantial. 

Too much?