Ambience.

Before I begin this post I, your humble narrator, would like to apologise for the tardy nature of its submission.  Due to the unpredictable nature of thirty-six year old underground cabling, my home, along with ninety-seven others in our street, was hit with a major power outage that lasted until four o'clock this afternoon, and my son and I were forced to decamp to my mother's place until everything was put right again.  When it first happened, I planned to wait it out, and to prove my resilience, I took a bubble bath.  My toes had barely pierced the suds when my son bashed on the bathroom door to tell me that Nana had called my neighbour and wanted to speak to me urgently.  I changed and rushed over, all sorts of dire scenarios playing out in my head, only to have my mother make the following enquiry.

'So, are any of the sparkies cute?'  (For my non-Aussie readers, 'Sparky' is a colloquial Australian euphemism for an electrician).

My mother then went on to encourage me to go back outside and strike up a conversation with the, admittedly rather handsome looking, men.  I declined, given my attire; beguiling a combination as blue rosebud pyjamas, five-year-old faded pink robe and brown knee-high ug boots might be, my hair was damp and doused in conditioner, and the juiced-up psychiatric patient look hasn't been in since Jack Nicholson popularised it in 1975.  Undeterred, my mother then proceeded to give me a half-hour lecture on my unattractive habit of spitting in the face of opportunity whenever it comes knocking.  I then explained to her that, should any of these potential suitors not be phased by my appearance, the fact that my son was running around trying to coerce them into playing 'Murder in the dark' might be a bit of a turn-off.

'There's always a bloody excuse whenever I make a suggestion, isn't there?  You should be glad you've got a mother who cares enough to interfere.'

Which brought to mind another possible turn-off; one I didn't verbalise, for obvious reasons.         

Whatever ruffles your pantaloons, I guess.

I'm a veracious reader.  If the sun was to burn out, and the world supply of electricity inevitably ran short, I'd still be happy as long as I had my books and a torch.  Hell, I'd sit outside and read by firelight if it came to that, but something that has often perplexed me about fiction is the types of male characters we get what I call 'Book Girl Crushes' on.  Three of the top five votes in a British pole conducted in 2009 on the most romantic male characters were surprisingly telling in terms of what women are willing to put up with from a man and still allow him to drape his breeches over the foot of their beds every night. 

5.  Rhett Butler from Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the wind.  As long as I live, I will never comprehend why even the most desperate southern belle would get her pantaloons in a twist over this man.  Sure he's charming, but so is a door to door salesman, and for the same reason: to get you all swoony so you'll throw your front door wide open, make of that analogy what you will, and give him all your money.  And call me picky, but I don't get hot and bothered at the thought of being raped every time my (metaphorical) man gets a visit from the green-eyed monster.  The only male character who comes off worse for me is Stanley from 'Streetcar named desire,' and that's only because he's so irredeemably evil.

4.  Heathcliff from Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights.  This is one of my favourite books of all time, and Heathcliff is definitely the character with whom my sympathies lie; for the first half of the story.  To endure years of abuse and torment at the hands of an impossibly cruel adoptive brother, and have your best friend and co-conspirator, the only person you've ever loved and had love you in return, taken away from you and returned years later a polished shell of her former self would be unbearable.  I get it.  But does that justify marrying your sister in law to make her your emotional punching bag, and forcing the girl that should have been your daughter to marry your half-wit nephew in order to keep her as a slave?  Love's a bitch, I get it, but did he have to turn into one?  

1.  Edward Rochester of Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.  If there was such a thing as an illustrated phrase book, and you were to look up the definition of  Treat them mean, keep them keen,  this dude's picture would be above it.  Let's consider his rap sheet.  He has a 'ward' (ahem) for whom he provides everything but fatherly love and seems rather bitter towards; he stashes his poor mentally unwell first wife away upstairs like a caged bird that's embarrassingly lost all it's feathers; and generally makes everyone feel inferior compared to him, when it is clearly the other way around.  Into this mess arrives the plain and unpretentious Miss Eyre, who carries a truckload of emotional baggage herself but, unlike Rochester, chooses not to swing it around and whack people in the head with it.  He engages her in conversation, playfully baiting her, but soon realises she is more than a match for him, and is not the dumb country mouse she appears.  He starts to have feelings for her.  So what does he do?  Sits her in a room full of gorgeous society maidens and watches them play keeping's off with her self esteem. 

After much to-ing and fro-ing, PAGES and PAGES of it, he confesses his love for our Jane and proposes.  But wait, I hear you say, didn't he forget something?  That's right, poor old Mrs Bats in the top cupboard.  At first everyone, including Rochester, makes Jane feel like she's losing her mind whenever she tells them of the nocturnal visitations she's been having.  Then they blame it on a servant.  Jane only learns the truth when wifey number one nearly burns the Rochester joint down a second time (she saved his life the first time, just before the painful meeting with the society maidens; Cheers Ed, glad I rescued your arse before you were roasted like the Christmas goose you are).  There is a happy ending, depending on your perspective.  Finding her control freak former fiance is not dead, as she was lead to believe, but has been horribly disfigured, and in an uncharacteristic act of altruism decided he did not want her to be his nursemaid for life, Jane comes running back into his chicken-fried arms and they live happily ever after.  I suppose what women love about this guy is that he tosses his tyrannical ways after succumbing to the love of a good woman, and all she did was raise his, ahem, 'ward', put up with his crap and save his life on two separate occasions.      

This is 2012, not 1952; surely this ridiculously masochistic attraction we have for rich bad boys and charismatic alpha-males has to wane at some point.  I've dated a Mr Rochester.  He didn't have a first wife as far as I know, and wasn't horribly disfigured in a fire, but he burned his bridges with me, and incinerated my taste for manly misogynists, the day I discovered that I was, to quote a song by Alicia's Attic, 'Worth more than he put on my boots.'       

Hot and Funny.

 Someone once said that a sneeze was like an orgasm.  This was a misquote of a remark made by a famous television sex therapist and has since been scientifically refuted, but it got me thinking about another involuntary response that's just as therapeutic: laughter.  I'm not saying you should carry a change of clothes everywhere you go, just in case you happen to overhear a well-timed zinger while waiting for your morning train, but to me, a good giggle fit (induced by the right person) is akin to foreplay.  I would much rather spend a lazy Sunday afternoon in with a funny guy than with a man who thinks mega earnestness is an access all areas pass.  Yes, I want to know your thoughts on globalization and marriage equality, (and if you DON'T support the latter, the deal is off), but who wants to get romantic with the six o'clock news playing on an endless loop in the background?  Another great thing about humour is that it can't be faked.  Sure, there are as many variances on what people find funny as there are actual people in the world, but unfunny is the universal equivalent of a cold shower.  A good rule of thumb when trying to spot a faker on a dating site, (if you haven't yet discovered that dating sites are full of them and should be avoided like shaking hands with a dysenteric hobo), is not to believe the guys who say 'All my friends say I'm funny.'  Generally speaking, they're not, and their friends are either sadists or idiots.

There is a direct correlation between humour and intelligence.  Any idiot can jump up on stage on improv night and make fun of celebrities, it's too easy.  It takes genuine wit and observation to wail on yourself and the world around you without having to consult TMZ for material.  To all you doubters who argue that women always say they look for a sense of humour above anything else, but throw that consideration out the window when it comes to making their choice, I submit my list of current comic crushes, in no particular order. Make of it what you will.

Ray William Johnson
Jason Bateman (okay, he's an actor, but he's still damn funny)
Zach Braff (see Jason Bateman)
Brad Sherwood
Wayne Brady
Ryan Reynolds (see Jason Bateman)
David Tennant (see Jason Bateman)

Still doubt me?