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.
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Saturday, 4 May 2013
Sunday, 18 November 2012
Forty.
I know it's been a while, and I've a hell of a cheek just breezing back into your lives like the prodigal daughter returning to the fold upon hearing the news that Mum's started talking to the plants but still knows how to cut a cheque. I can assure you that I am back for good; (not my favourite Take That song, but Prey doesn't fit the theme I'm going for here. Once my personal life is in such dire straits that I feel the need to beg a deity to pimp me out, Ill use it). If you'll forgive me a small digression, I have an announcement to make. While the title will remain the same, so as not to alienate my phenomenally loyal readers, I'm changing the theme of the blog ever so slightly. Make no mistake, I'll still be offering my observations on dating past thirty and contemplating the deep mysteries of life, (i.e. bitching about Internet dating sites and asking rhetorical questions like 'Why does this dress make me look like an overstuffed Kranski when it looked so gorgeous on my twin Lily Allen'), but I'll be broadening my subject matter so as not to do what I did last time and run out of stuff to say.
And with that odyssey of a preamble over, cop a brain-full of the following.
I sometimes get the feeling that time isn't so much marching on as it's dancing Gangnam-Style across my face in steel-capped soccer cleats, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I sometimes wish I'd been born a decade later so that I'd be young enough to sit on Zac Effron's knee instead of the other way round, but that doesn't mean that I hate being forty. Although I have amassed a collection of complexion preservation products that would make Cleopatra dig her nails into the wood of her sarcophagus, I'm not interested in turning back the clock. Believe it or not, fellow quadregenarians, there are perks to being born before Mark Wahlberg dropped his pants for any reason other than to go potty. Today I shall list but five. Feel free to post me your own.
1. People not only tolerate embarrassing behaviour - they expect it. Remember how mortified you and your best friend were at your first parent/teacher night, when your mum's voices bounced off the auditorium walls as they giggled enthusiastically about your maths teacher's cute rear end? (Or was that just me?). Guess what? I've discovered that the hormone-enriched fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. Another mum and I were chatting while waiting to receive our kid's third term reports when a teacher passed by who was, to grossly understate it, very aesthetically gifted, and we remarked on it - rather more audibly than we'd intended. Inexplicably, the teacher in question merely smiled and kept walking, as seemingly unaffected by the hungry eyes burning into the back of him as my maths teacher Mr Kenny was in 1985.
Coincidentally, that was also the closest I ever came to passing that subject.
2. No one cares what music you listen to. Trends come and go, and tastes change with every generation, but the youth of today are still bound by the same unwritten rules of maintaining positive public perception as we were at their age. Publicly declaring your love for a 'Naff' t.v. show, or a song that came out more than a week ago is still akin to being seen in Sesame Street pyjamas, (a fashion faux pas declared null and void once one hits their thirties, according to Bra's 'N' Things online catalogue), but when you turn forty, it works the other way. Next time you're using public transportation, take a sneaky peak at a young person's iPod when they're scrolling through their playlists, then compare it to your own. While the dub beats or wrist-slashing emo ballads that make up your fellow passenger's iTunes library seem perfectly in character for them, for us, owning a Nano filled exclusively with My Chemical Romance or Skrillex tunes would probably be cause for brief-wetting laughter, if not downright suspicion. My mini pink space Walkman boasts playlists like Arse-kicking Alternative, Hot Dance, and Rock Chicks (and yes, I do realise that makes me sound like a seventies DJ - shut up).
3. You don't, I repeat DON'T, have to look perfect. This is something my brain has managed to absorb only recently. If you have a job, a marriage/relationship, a family, or any combination thereof, it's a bonus when you get any free time, so why on Earth would you want to spend it standing before a mirror, obsessing about how huge your arse has gotten lately, or wondering how long it will take to burn off that Tim Tam you took from the packet you have stashed away in the back of your wardrobe like contraband at a Turkish prison? As long as you're healthy, you don't find yourself clutching your chest when you walk, and you can leave the house without the aid of a crane or a winch, who gives a rat's if you go on the odd choccy binge? And as for those of us in the Southern hemisphere who have three months of beach weather coming up - the sarong was invented for a reason.
4. We know how to use Social Networking to network...socially. The whole point of sites like Facebook is to connect with old friends and make new ones through conversation. This seems to have escaped the younger generation (oh god, did I SERIOUSLY just use that phrase?). We wouldn't walk down the street screaming 'LIKE ME! LIKE ME!' It's even less likely that we'd respond to a friend's long but hilarious anecdote with a toneless 'LOL,' and if another friend shared some fantastic news with us, we wouldn't dream of ignoring them completely out of sheer laziness, then expect them to go off like a frog in a sock when we reveal our own Earth-shattering revelation. The only explanation I have for this is that if we wanted to talk to a friend when we were their age we had to, you know, TALK TO THEM! If you can't carry on a friendly, co-operative conversation in real life, how the hell are you going to type one?
5. Sex is WAY better. It is a biological fact that women hit their sexual peek around now, and I could go into a big, scientific explanation as to why that is, but I honestly wouldn't be able to understand it myself, all I can say is that the genius who came up with the theory that women lose interest in sex with their partners as they get older completely fudged his findings. It's also worth noting that his research was conducted several decades before the invention of X-Box and the Internet.
And with that odyssey of a preamble over, cop a brain-full of the following.
I sometimes get the feeling that time isn't so much marching on as it's dancing Gangnam-Style across my face in steel-capped soccer cleats, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I sometimes wish I'd been born a decade later so that I'd be young enough to sit on Zac Effron's knee instead of the other way round, but that doesn't mean that I hate being forty. Although I have amassed a collection of complexion preservation products that would make Cleopatra dig her nails into the wood of her sarcophagus, I'm not interested in turning back the clock. Believe it or not, fellow quadregenarians, there are perks to being born before Mark Wahlberg dropped his pants for any reason other than to go potty. Today I shall list but five. Feel free to post me your own.
1. People not only tolerate embarrassing behaviour - they expect it. Remember how mortified you and your best friend were at your first parent/teacher night, when your mum's voices bounced off the auditorium walls as they giggled enthusiastically about your maths teacher's cute rear end? (Or was that just me?). Guess what? I've discovered that the hormone-enriched fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. Another mum and I were chatting while waiting to receive our kid's third term reports when a teacher passed by who was, to grossly understate it, very aesthetically gifted, and we remarked on it - rather more audibly than we'd intended. Inexplicably, the teacher in question merely smiled and kept walking, as seemingly unaffected by the hungry eyes burning into the back of him as my maths teacher Mr Kenny was in 1985.
Coincidentally, that was also the closest I ever came to passing that subject.
2. No one cares what music you listen to. Trends come and go, and tastes change with every generation, but the youth of today are still bound by the same unwritten rules of maintaining positive public perception as we were at their age. Publicly declaring your love for a 'Naff' t.v. show, or a song that came out more than a week ago is still akin to being seen in Sesame Street pyjamas, (a fashion faux pas declared null and void once one hits their thirties, according to Bra's 'N' Things online catalogue), but when you turn forty, it works the other way. Next time you're using public transportation, take a sneaky peak at a young person's iPod when they're scrolling through their playlists, then compare it to your own. While the dub beats or wrist-slashing emo ballads that make up your fellow passenger's iTunes library seem perfectly in character for them, for us, owning a Nano filled exclusively with My Chemical Romance or Skrillex tunes would probably be cause for brief-wetting laughter, if not downright suspicion. My mini pink space Walkman boasts playlists like Arse-kicking Alternative, Hot Dance, and Rock Chicks (and yes, I do realise that makes me sound like a seventies DJ - shut up).
3. You don't, I repeat DON'T, have to look perfect. This is something my brain has managed to absorb only recently. If you have a job, a marriage/relationship, a family, or any combination thereof, it's a bonus when you get any free time, so why on Earth would you want to spend it standing before a mirror, obsessing about how huge your arse has gotten lately, or wondering how long it will take to burn off that Tim Tam you took from the packet you have stashed away in the back of your wardrobe like contraband at a Turkish prison? As long as you're healthy, you don't find yourself clutching your chest when you walk, and you can leave the house without the aid of a crane or a winch, who gives a rat's if you go on the odd choccy binge? And as for those of us in the Southern hemisphere who have three months of beach weather coming up - the sarong was invented for a reason.
4. We know how to use Social Networking to network...socially. The whole point of sites like Facebook is to connect with old friends and make new ones through conversation. This seems to have escaped the younger generation (oh god, did I SERIOUSLY just use that phrase?). We wouldn't walk down the street screaming 'LIKE ME! LIKE ME!' It's even less likely that we'd respond to a friend's long but hilarious anecdote with a toneless 'LOL,' and if another friend shared some fantastic news with us, we wouldn't dream of ignoring them completely out of sheer laziness, then expect them to go off like a frog in a sock when we reveal our own Earth-shattering revelation. The only explanation I have for this is that if we wanted to talk to a friend when we were their age we had to, you know, TALK TO THEM! If you can't carry on a friendly, co-operative conversation in real life, how the hell are you going to type one?
5. Sex is WAY better. It is a biological fact that women hit their sexual peek around now, and I could go into a big, scientific explanation as to why that is, but I honestly wouldn't be able to understand it myself, all I can say is that the genius who came up with the theory that women lose interest in sex with their partners as they get older completely fudged his findings. It's also worth noting that his research was conducted several decades before the invention of X-Box and the Internet.
Saturday, 7 July 2012
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.
Thursday, 5 April 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 6 February 2012
Polar opposites attract.
My high school teachers, my schoolmates, my best friend, and even my own mother will tell you that I am a confounding mess of contradictions and, interesting though it might make me, this dychotomy can also be extremely frustrating to deal with, particularly when it acts as a roadblock, standing between where I need to go and where I actually want to be. Correction; roadblock isn't quite right. A more fitting analogy would be to imagine a giant fork in the middle of a road, with a dirty, sweltering metropolis on one side, and a hippy commune on the other.
Most liberal-minded single women of my age and disposition would flick the indicator to the left, and cruise down that humble looking little dirt road in search of a fellow free thinking peace monger, only of the male variety, with whom to sing acoustic guitar ballads on the porch and make love in a daisy field. I more often than not tend make a hard right, with no warning whatsoever, and scream through the city streets with a thousand watt spotlight mounted on the hood of my car, scouring underground taverns for the most arrogant, smart-arsed, right-radical mouthpiece I can find, just because my brain wants me to do the opposite.
Maybe it's the rebel in me, but despite my left wing, fair's fair leanings, it's the guys who I know I'm going to spend most of my time screaming with righteous indignation at that really push my buttons, (the fun buttons). If you were to line up my boyfriends thus far and make them sit a personality test, their compatability scores with me would be on par with Sarah Palin's presidential suitability rating. Now, every time I enter into something with one of these guys, I know it isn't going to end well - the most I can ever usually hope to get out of these trists is mind-blowing post-tyrade sex which, spectacular as it is, doesn't last; so why do I keep making the same mistake?
Shouldn't I know better at my age?
The answer is yes, I should, and I will learn my lesson one day.
But for now I'm cutting class to Skype with a hot guy in his twenties who plays guitar like the devil and thinks socialists are Commies.
It's fun because I know it's wrong.
Hey, I'm not dead yet.
Most liberal-minded single women of my age and disposition would flick the indicator to the left, and cruise down that humble looking little dirt road in search of a fellow free thinking peace monger, only of the male variety, with whom to sing acoustic guitar ballads on the porch and make love in a daisy field. I more often than not tend make a hard right, with no warning whatsoever, and scream through the city streets with a thousand watt spotlight mounted on the hood of my car, scouring underground taverns for the most arrogant, smart-arsed, right-radical mouthpiece I can find, just because my brain wants me to do the opposite.
Maybe it's the rebel in me, but despite my left wing, fair's fair leanings, it's the guys who I know I'm going to spend most of my time screaming with righteous indignation at that really push my buttons, (the fun buttons). If you were to line up my boyfriends thus far and make them sit a personality test, their compatability scores with me would be on par with Sarah Palin's presidential suitability rating. Now, every time I enter into something with one of these guys, I know it isn't going to end well - the most I can ever usually hope to get out of these trists is mind-blowing post-tyrade sex which, spectacular as it is, doesn't last; so why do I keep making the same mistake?
Shouldn't I know better at my age?
The answer is yes, I should, and I will learn my lesson one day.
But for now I'm cutting class to Skype with a hot guy in his twenties who plays guitar like the devil and thinks socialists are Commies.
It's fun because I know it's wrong.
Hey, I'm not dead yet.
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
Played by your playlist.
Take a look at my Blogger profile picture. I look pretty normal, right? Your average thirty-something mum. You'd probably assume, judging by the deep pink top I'm wearing, that I'm 'girly.' My regular readers will know this isn't the case, but what if this was your first time reading my blog? You wouldn't have the slightest idea that I have hairy toe knuckles, can belch on queue and can't start the day without the hard core stylings of Disturbed jolting my brain into action. We all make assumptions, and assumptions make asses of us all, which brings me to something I found on my latest round of Google search bingo. A study commissioned by Cambridge University in 2009, (I know that was two years ago, but if I only just discovered it, it's new), found that people judged one another by the contents of their iPod playlists. The architect of the study warned that sharing your playlist could damage your social standing by 'reinforcing stereotypes and social prejudices.' Why not take it to the next level and do a study on the effects of sharing your musical tastes with someone who you'd like to be pressing more than just your click wheel? I'll pretend for a moment that I actually take these sorts of studies seriously, and share with you the top ten most played tracks on my girly pink Pod. Judge me if you dare!
10. APPLE STORE LOVE SONG - FATTY SPINS/RAY WILLIAM JOHNSON. Who doesn't adore the idea of going shopping for a laptop and finding someone whose lap you'd like to be on? To me, loving this song says that I have a fully functioning sense of humour, and that I believe in love at first sight, but I can see where a guy might find it troubling. For one, almost anything baring the Apple logo is expensive as hell, so men with modest incomes and a tendency for taking things literally might find hanging out at the Apple store in anticipation of my arrival a tad intimidating. They might also make the assumption that I have a thing for short men with brown eyes and a ribald sense of humour. One of those assumptions would be wrong...I don't shop at the Apple store.
9. BOSSY - KELLIS. I'm no man magnet, the last time I wore 'grills' was when the orthodontist fitted them, and my toughness can best be summed up by the admission that I've seen Dumbo seventy times and it still makes me cry hysterically. The reason this song is in my top ten is quite simply because it's an awesome track, but a read through the lyrics might lead potential suitors to picture me sitting on a velvet nightclub couch, dripping in bling, holding court over a crowd of rich, powerful men. The last guy I dated was an accountant who was into The Little River Band.
8. SPEAKING IN TONGUES - EAGLES OF DEATH METAL. The rocking guitar on this song is what makes it essential listening when I'm having a bad day, but the title could imply something entirely different to the, ahem, nocturnally minded. Contrary to what the title suggests, and I think I'm speaking for a lot of women here, any thoughts of an amorous nature quickly dissipate when I'm forced to use a napkin to mop saliva from my face.
7. DOING YOUR MOM - FATTY SPINS/RAY WILLIAM JOHNSON. This is one of the funniest songs I have ever heard, which says a lot coming from an armchair feminist, but lecherous younger men are warned here and now that any attempt to take the lyrics literally will result in me 'doing you' physical harm...unless you happen to be the artist.
6. SIR PSYCHO SEXY - RED HOT CHILLI PEPPERS. Yes, this song is the lyrical equivalent of an STD, but once again, it's just a song. Whatever conclusions less astute men may draw about me from it, I do not want to know.
5. DREAM A LITTLE DREAM - THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS. There have been many versions of this song, but Cass Elliot's rendition is my favourite. I used to sing it to my son when he was a baby, and I like to listen to it on lazy Sunday afternoons when making a cup of tea and changing out of my pyjamas is the most activity I can muster. Would finding it on my Pod alongside Hendrix, The Beatles and The Doors out me as Hippie? Possibly. Do I care?
4. SMILE - LILY ALLEN. Lily's songs sound like sweet indie pop, but her lyrics soon put paid to the idea of categorising her in any way, which is exactly what's so cool about her. Before I play this to any man, I plan to explain to him that the only revenge I ever got on a guy was through my blog. Yeah, that'll put his fears to rest.
3. THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT - THE SMITHS. A lot of Morrissey's tunes have a touch of that emo 'let's slash our wrists and bleed out together' sensibility about them, and I couldn't really blame a guy for being put off by lyrics like 'If a double-decker bus kills the both of us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.' I don't suppose chasing him down the driveway yelling 'Please come back! I'm not emo, I swear!' would help matters, either.
2. SEETHER - VERUCA SALT. What does a song about a chick tending her own garden say about me? Who the hell cares when the guitar's this good?
1. HE'S MY THING - BABES IN TOYLAND. It's no secret that I love my 'grunge' rock, and Babes in Toyland are about as 'grunge' as you can get. Lyrics like 'He's my thing, I keep on a hook,' might give men the impression that I have psycho sexual, homicidal tendencies, but hey, whatever keeps a relationship interesting.
*Note: the above remark was a joke. My house has no basement, nor do I own butchery implements with which to restrain unsuspecting men. I still have to watch horror movies in the daylight, for Pete's sake!
The most any half way intelligent man is going to glean about me from this will probably be that my musical tastes are somewhat bi-polar, and there's nothing wrong with that. I'll have no qualms about handing over my iPod to my next boyfriend and letting him scroll through three hundred of my favourite songs, because I don't happen to be attracted to judgemental people. Besides, if anything is going to scare him off, it'll be my mother!
10. APPLE STORE LOVE SONG - FATTY SPINS/RAY WILLIAM JOHNSON. Who doesn't adore the idea of going shopping for a laptop and finding someone whose lap you'd like to be on? To me, loving this song says that I have a fully functioning sense of humour, and that I believe in love at first sight, but I can see where a guy might find it troubling. For one, almost anything baring the Apple logo is expensive as hell, so men with modest incomes and a tendency for taking things literally might find hanging out at the Apple store in anticipation of my arrival a tad intimidating. They might also make the assumption that I have a thing for short men with brown eyes and a ribald sense of humour. One of those assumptions would be wrong...I don't shop at the Apple store.
9. BOSSY - KELLIS. I'm no man magnet, the last time I wore 'grills' was when the orthodontist fitted them, and my toughness can best be summed up by the admission that I've seen Dumbo seventy times and it still makes me cry hysterically. The reason this song is in my top ten is quite simply because it's an awesome track, but a read through the lyrics might lead potential suitors to picture me sitting on a velvet nightclub couch, dripping in bling, holding court over a crowd of rich, powerful men. The last guy I dated was an accountant who was into The Little River Band.
8. SPEAKING IN TONGUES - EAGLES OF DEATH METAL. The rocking guitar on this song is what makes it essential listening when I'm having a bad day, but the title could imply something entirely different to the, ahem, nocturnally minded. Contrary to what the title suggests, and I think I'm speaking for a lot of women here, any thoughts of an amorous nature quickly dissipate when I'm forced to use a napkin to mop saliva from my face.
7. DOING YOUR MOM - FATTY SPINS/RAY WILLIAM JOHNSON. This is one of the funniest songs I have ever heard, which says a lot coming from an armchair feminist, but lecherous younger men are warned here and now that any attempt to take the lyrics literally will result in me 'doing you' physical harm...unless you happen to be the artist.
6. SIR PSYCHO SEXY - RED HOT CHILLI PEPPERS. Yes, this song is the lyrical equivalent of an STD, but once again, it's just a song. Whatever conclusions less astute men may draw about me from it, I do not want to know.
5. DREAM A LITTLE DREAM - THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS. There have been many versions of this song, but Cass Elliot's rendition is my favourite. I used to sing it to my son when he was a baby, and I like to listen to it on lazy Sunday afternoons when making a cup of tea and changing out of my pyjamas is the most activity I can muster. Would finding it on my Pod alongside Hendrix, The Beatles and The Doors out me as Hippie? Possibly. Do I care?
4. SMILE - LILY ALLEN. Lily's songs sound like sweet indie pop, but her lyrics soon put paid to the idea of categorising her in any way, which is exactly what's so cool about her. Before I play this to any man, I plan to explain to him that the only revenge I ever got on a guy was through my blog. Yeah, that'll put his fears to rest.
3. THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT - THE SMITHS. A lot of Morrissey's tunes have a touch of that emo 'let's slash our wrists and bleed out together' sensibility about them, and I couldn't really blame a guy for being put off by lyrics like 'If a double-decker bus kills the both of us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.' I don't suppose chasing him down the driveway yelling 'Please come back! I'm not emo, I swear!' would help matters, either.
2. SEETHER - VERUCA SALT. What does a song about a chick tending her own garden say about me? Who the hell cares when the guitar's this good?
1. HE'S MY THING - BABES IN TOYLAND. It's no secret that I love my 'grunge' rock, and Babes in Toyland are about as 'grunge' as you can get. Lyrics like 'He's my thing, I keep on a hook,' might give men the impression that I have psycho sexual, homicidal tendencies, but hey, whatever keeps a relationship interesting.
*Note: the above remark was a joke. My house has no basement, nor do I own butchery implements with which to restrain unsuspecting men. I still have to watch horror movies in the daylight, for Pete's sake!
The most any half way intelligent man is going to glean about me from this will probably be that my musical tastes are somewhat bi-polar, and there's nothing wrong with that. I'll have no qualms about handing over my iPod to my next boyfriend and letting him scroll through three hundred of my favourite songs, because I don't happen to be attracted to judgemental people. Besides, if anything is going to scare him off, it'll be my mother!
Sunday, 6 November 2011
My community service
The following post is a community service announcement.
I love you all, my dear readers. Three times a week for the last eight weeks or so, you have loyally checked in and read each of my posts, and have in turn validated my choice to pour everything I have into them. Your loyalty means the world to me, which is why I am willing to risk the wrath of the powers that be behind dating sites such as Oasis, RSVP and Zoosk in order to warn you not to make the same mistake I and, judging by Google search, plenty of others, have made. Regardless of the mission statements made in their ads, dating sites were not designed to find you love. They were created to line the pockets of the self-serving bastards behind the scenes. A few posts ago, I told you I had killed off my online alter-ego, and now I am advising you to do the same. I am not the least bit afraid of the consequences I may have to face by mentioning actual company names here; in fact, I'd actually get a rather perverse kick out of watching their C.E.Os try to sue an unemployed single mother. Form an orderly cue with the other debtors, guys.
I have read countless horror stories online about women and men who have had all manner of dreadful experiences with online dating, ranging from the bizarre to the fatal. What you must first realise is that anyone can create a dating site. One particular site was created by a man whose credentials consist of a diploma in computer systems technology; hardly the background one would expect from a man whose vocation is to help decide people's romantic fates. His site, as with the ones I mentioned above, generates the majority of its revenue through advertising, and is estimated to have earned him over ten million dollars thus far. But wait, I hear you protest, what's wrong with making money? Absolutely nothing! I have no moral objection whatsoever to people who can live comfortably while following their passions. You Tubers, for example, can make a very tidy living, netting thousands of dollars a year from sponsorship deals and banner advertisements. Why do I not have a problem with this? One word: motivation. I don't think any of the film makers on YouTube suddenly went down to their local electronics store one day and bought a camera with dreams of early retirement dancing in their heads. What shows in the final product is that they do what they do because they love it, and I along with thousands of other fans happily come along for the ride. Call me cynical, but I struggle to imagine that the aforementioned computer genius embarked upon his little business venture with altruistic dreams of mending broken hearts the world over.
It isn't only the site creators/administrators whose motives I am calling into question. How many of you have spent hours chatting to people you've met on dating sites, nodding approvingly as they say everything you want to hear and more, only to meet them and realise that they were feeding you lines from your own profile; using it as an auto-cue to put in an award winning performance, with you as the trophy. Sometimes, these bottom feeders don't even care enough to carry the play through to the final act; the ultimate catalyst for writing this post was a recent phone call I received from a guy I had chatted to over a month ago and made tentative plans to have dinner with. My creep radar started blipping during one of the previous weeks conversations, when he casually mentioned (several times) that he regularly stayed in a hotel. Anxious to get him off the phone, I made my excuses and hung up. The following week, he called again, asking when we were going out on our 'hot date' (Blip; Blip; Blip). I informed him, falsely admittedly, that I was emotionally unwell and could not possibly think about dating anyone at the present time. I breathed a sigh of relief when the call came to its inevitable end, confident that that would be the last I would hear of him. Undeterred, our horny little hero called again yesterday afternoon, suggesting that he may be able to alleviate some of my suffering with massage - I kid you not. I told him my therapist advised me to stay away from dating for a while. He countered with 'Oh, you shouldn't listen to therapists.' Finally gathering up the courage to tell it like it was, I told him that I was under no circumstances interested in dating him. 'Oh,' he said, 'Well how about just sex then?' Any shred of diplomacy I was still hanging on to went the way of disco and I hung up on him. Sadly, this is not the first encounter I've had with men who think women on dating sites are volunteer sex workers. I can look back on it and laugh, but I wonder how many lonely, more vulnerable people have actually been conned by this sort of sexual profiling. Hear me and hear me well: no amount of loneliness should be enough to convince you to settle for less, especially from yourself. Internet millionaires and their Lothario clients do not have your best interests in mind. Matchmaking services rob you of your money, your dignity and your time. The only person who truly knows what you want and need in your heart of hearts is you, so how about you erase that profile, turn off your laptop, and start listening to yourself. You might just learn something.
I love you all, my dear readers. Three times a week for the last eight weeks or so, you have loyally checked in and read each of my posts, and have in turn validated my choice to pour everything I have into them. Your loyalty means the world to me, which is why I am willing to risk the wrath of the powers that be behind dating sites such as Oasis, RSVP and Zoosk in order to warn you not to make the same mistake I and, judging by Google search, plenty of others, have made. Regardless of the mission statements made in their ads, dating sites were not designed to find you love. They were created to line the pockets of the self-serving bastards behind the scenes. A few posts ago, I told you I had killed off my online alter-ego, and now I am advising you to do the same. I am not the least bit afraid of the consequences I may have to face by mentioning actual company names here; in fact, I'd actually get a rather perverse kick out of watching their C.E.Os try to sue an unemployed single mother. Form an orderly cue with the other debtors, guys.
I have read countless horror stories online about women and men who have had all manner of dreadful experiences with online dating, ranging from the bizarre to the fatal. What you must first realise is that anyone can create a dating site. One particular site was created by a man whose credentials consist of a diploma in computer systems technology; hardly the background one would expect from a man whose vocation is to help decide people's romantic fates. His site, as with the ones I mentioned above, generates the majority of its revenue through advertising, and is estimated to have earned him over ten million dollars thus far. But wait, I hear you protest, what's wrong with making money? Absolutely nothing! I have no moral objection whatsoever to people who can live comfortably while following their passions. You Tubers, for example, can make a very tidy living, netting thousands of dollars a year from sponsorship deals and banner advertisements. Why do I not have a problem with this? One word: motivation. I don't think any of the film makers on YouTube suddenly went down to their local electronics store one day and bought a camera with dreams of early retirement dancing in their heads. What shows in the final product is that they do what they do because they love it, and I along with thousands of other fans happily come along for the ride. Call me cynical, but I struggle to imagine that the aforementioned computer genius embarked upon his little business venture with altruistic dreams of mending broken hearts the world over.
It isn't only the site creators/administrators whose motives I am calling into question. How many of you have spent hours chatting to people you've met on dating sites, nodding approvingly as they say everything you want to hear and more, only to meet them and realise that they were feeding you lines from your own profile; using it as an auto-cue to put in an award winning performance, with you as the trophy. Sometimes, these bottom feeders don't even care enough to carry the play through to the final act; the ultimate catalyst for writing this post was a recent phone call I received from a guy I had chatted to over a month ago and made tentative plans to have dinner with. My creep radar started blipping during one of the previous weeks conversations, when he casually mentioned (several times) that he regularly stayed in a hotel. Anxious to get him off the phone, I made my excuses and hung up. The following week, he called again, asking when we were going out on our 'hot date' (Blip; Blip; Blip). I informed him, falsely admittedly, that I was emotionally unwell and could not possibly think about dating anyone at the present time. I breathed a sigh of relief when the call came to its inevitable end, confident that that would be the last I would hear of him. Undeterred, our horny little hero called again yesterday afternoon, suggesting that he may be able to alleviate some of my suffering with massage - I kid you not. I told him my therapist advised me to stay away from dating for a while. He countered with 'Oh, you shouldn't listen to therapists.' Finally gathering up the courage to tell it like it was, I told him that I was under no circumstances interested in dating him. 'Oh,' he said, 'Well how about just sex then?' Any shred of diplomacy I was still hanging on to went the way of disco and I hung up on him. Sadly, this is not the first encounter I've had with men who think women on dating sites are volunteer sex workers. I can look back on it and laugh, but I wonder how many lonely, more vulnerable people have actually been conned by this sort of sexual profiling. Hear me and hear me well: no amount of loneliness should be enough to convince you to settle for less, especially from yourself. Internet millionaires and their Lothario clients do not have your best interests in mind. Matchmaking services rob you of your money, your dignity and your time. The only person who truly knows what you want and need in your heart of hearts is you, so how about you erase that profile, turn off your laptop, and start listening to yourself. You might just learn something.
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