If that don't take the cake!

I had a rather interesting conversation today - one sided though it was.  I meet my mum every Thursday for lunch, and I always like to have something with me to read while I wait for her.  Today, I happened to be reading a cooking magazine.  A woman of 'advanced years' was walking by when she must've noticed the cover, and made a rather asinine comment:

'I didn't know women still read cooking magazines!  Don't you have a life?'

Naturally, I took umbrage to this and responded, I think, quite politely under the circumstances:

'Yes - and mine's just beginning.'

The retort had the desired effect, i.e. she went on her way, but I was still perplexed about what she had said for a while afterwards.  To begin with, I didn't realise it was only women who were interested in cooking - someone had better inform Gordon Ramsay if that is indeed the case - I'm certain he'd be reluctant to put his testicles on the butcher's block for cleaving, attached to them as he is.  Additionally, although I don't enjoy surfing, horse riding, para-gliding, or rock climbing, politics put me to sleep, and I have more friends on Facebook than I do in the flesh, I object to the insinuation that I don't have a life.  Believe it or not, I do consider myself a feminist, but my definition of the word apparently differs to the amateur social commentator I met today.  To me, feminism is primarily about freedom of choice.  I think women should be free to play football, to hang-glide, to participate in politics, and any number of other pursuits that were considered male domain not so long ago.  I also think that a woman should be just as entitled to sew, cook, knit, etc, if she wants to without judgemental life-Nanny's making them feel ashamed.  To boil it down to basics, do whatever the hell interests you, because life's too short to be bogged down by others expectations.

*Must remember to bake that woman a special cake.  Where does one pick up Ipecac these days?          

  

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.          

Train of thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indeed.  

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

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

They do in my world, anyway.    

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.

Pretty Pictures

My best friend sent me an email yesterday that provided a much needed ray of sunshine on an otherwise (metaphorically) rainy day.  It was a list compiled by some magazine or another entitled: 'Hollywood's hottest 100 men,' and each name on the list was accompanied by an extremely savoury photograph.  Like any red-blooded woman, I scrolled (slowly) down the list and poured over every inch of each entrant's visage, finding myself more and more 'exhilarated' as the cursor on my laptop drew toward the bottom of the page, and it led me to wonder: does that make me a perv?

Consider this: were I a thirty-nine year-old man, ogling a list of Hollywood's hottest 100 women, and someone were to walk in on me just as drool was beginning to course its way down my chin, I'd wager that terms such as 'Pig' and 'Dirty old man' would be bandied about, depending on the sex and moral bent of the witness.  Yes, I agree that it sounds like I'm betraying the sisterhood by saying that we sometimes have double standards when it comes to issues of morality and taste.  I agree also that not all women are like this, and I certainly don't mean to paint every member of my awesome gender with the same brush, but I think most women will, if they're honest, admit to accusing a guy of being disgusting or creepy at one time or another, for doing nothing more than appreciating physical beauty. 

I know I have.

Yet, to my knowledge, no such derogatory terms exist for women indulging in the same harmless pass time. 

There are, however, unfortunate and equally degrading terms that people use to denigrate women who, for one reason or another, enjoy carnal festivities with successive partners.  Although the words 'Whore', 'Slut,' and 'Mole,' have never escaped my lips, they were used to describe me at one point in my life and, you know what?  It hurt, and needlessly so, because my accusers were wrong.  Just as I believe anyone who calls a man a pig for looking at pictures of gorgeous, half-naked actresses is wrong.  Men and women are very different, it's true, but what separates human beings from most other animals is that both genders in our species were born with desires, and although those wacky theologians might argue that those desires were put there for the purpose of procreation, the fact is that more often than not, we act on them because we want to, not because we have to. 

To put it more succinctly; lookin' at pictures of them there pretty people in their skivvies is fun.

I think that the desire to look upon beautiful - dare I say heavenly? - creatures is perfectly normal, no matter what your gender.  Doubling your standards halves your humanity. 

   

  

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. 


  

Party plan.

I will be celebrating my fortieth birthday this June.  My regular readers will be familiar with my chronic shyness, and would naturally therefore assume that it would prevent me from doing anything to commemorate the occasion, other than watch 80's teen movies, screaming 'You can do better, you stupid cow!' at my TV with Bailey's Irish Cream fuelled fervour.  I would have assumed the same thing not so long ago, but a friend of mine said something to me last week that brought about an epiphany.

We were discussing the way some women treat social outings as man-hunting exhibitions.  They put on their most dazzling camouflage paint, slip into their shimmering, semi-backless safari garb and head out on a mission to capture their quarry, (I know, I mercilessly kicked the crap out of a guy for using the very same word in a dating 'advice' site a while back; I'm using it in a different context, and I can't think of another word that fits the hunting motif I'm running with - shut up).  I was never comfortable with it, but for some reason I just assumed (there's that horrible word again) that this was what I was supposed to do, given my age and lack of marital status.  The fact that I'm not at all interested in marriage did nothing to deter me from following the same carcass-laden track whenever I ventured out into the neon jungle, and I always returned empty handed.  Despite the music, the bright lights and the abundance of alcoholic beverages at my disposal, it never occurred to me that I was supposed to have fun so, invariably, I didn't, and consequently just stopped going out altogether.

Thus, getting plastered and watching DVDs was looking like an extremely attractive way to kick off my fourth decade on the planet, until my friend Patrick gave me an unintentional come-to-your-senses slap across the face with the following words:

Why does it have to be about men; can't you just have a good time?

It was a bit radical, but I decided to go with it, in my own inimitable fashion.  To psych myself up, I started cruising eBay for going-out clothes, it won't shock you to know that I don't have many, and before long I had bought three dresses, two necklaces and a pair of the most gorgeous vintage shoes I'd seen since I visited a pop art exhibition eight years ago.  Then I went onto Google Images and saved a picture to show my hairdresser of Lily Allen sporting a beautiful layered bob that would set off the nod to the sixties look I envisaged.  All this planning worked a treat, and now I'm as excited about my fortieth birthday as I was about my thirteenth.  It might seem anal to you, but believe me...

...this is me relaxed!      



   

            

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.



              

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. 

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.