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.    

Happy birthday to me...

Well, the dreaded day is almost at hand.  My fourth decade on Earth begins on Monday and, despite previous assertions to the contrary, I have to admit that I still find it a tiny bit daunting.  No, daunting isn’t the right word exactly.  If I were to be entirely honest, succinct and to the point, sad is how I would describe it.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying every one of the last forty years has been a waste; I have a gorgeous, complicated nearly fourteen year-old son who reminds me of his father and myself in all the good ways.  I’ve grown into a woman who is above average in terms of creativity, insight, decency, fairness and affection, (if a little lacking in compromise, grace and knowing-when-to-shut-the-hell-up).  I’ve learned, with the benefit of hindsight, how to love others, what they will expect of me, what to expect of them, and what to expect of myself.  The unachieved ambition that is gnawing away at me is one that will undoubtedly piss off some of my regular readers, who are fed up with me going on about how fabulous it is to be single at my age, only to chuck the idea a couple of posts later.  Well dears, I am about to exceed your expectations.  While there is absolutely nothing at all wrong with being single in your late thirties/early forties, (a lot of you absolutely rock it, I must say), I for one am finally ready to admit that I am sick to bloody death of it. This upcoming milestone highlights the reason that I still spend my free Saturday nights watching Doctor Who (the David Tennant years) marathons and eating chocolate hazelnut spread from the jar, (other than there being something inexplicably heavenly about that combination): I’m terrified not to.

I’m nervous that there will be changes to my everyday life, but that doesn’t scare me.  I’m worried that my boy will be resentful of another man in my life, but that doesn’t scare me.  I’m anxious (and certain) that my mother will try to drive him away, but that doesn’t scare me (not anymore, anyway).  What I find so satin-soilingly petrifying is, ridiculous as this may sound, being a girl. 

Told you it might sound ridiculous.

The last guy I went out with never actually took me outside the house, unless it was to a naughty accessories store and prior to that, eons prior to that, I’d been living with the father of my child for four years, and prior to that I was never really the kind of girl who guys took out on real dates; (regular readers who haven’t clicked the big red x by now will know I’m not that girl anymore).  I’m not saying I want to don a little black dress and eat at a five star restaurant; I don’t own a little black dress, and figuring out the order of the cutlery alone would be enough to bring on a panic attack!  What I’m admitting to you now is that I honestly have no idea how to date.  I know how to make contact.  I know how to initiate ‘intimate contact.’  It’s all the stuff in between that paralyses me.  I want to be asked out; to look pretty in something other than my beloved hoodie-and-jeans ensemble; to sit and talk to someone over a couple of drinks; to have fun without worrying what I’m going to have to do to pay for my dinner later on.  (No, I’m not a hooker – it was a metaphor, people). 

Am I the only single woman in the world who feels this way?  Probably not, given the size of the place.  Does it feel that way?  Absolutely.  This isn’t me calling for a pity party, by the way, and to my Sydneysider friend who is planning on coming down here to Melbourne and have coffee and cupcakes with me – we are still on; it’s just me telling the truth.  I like to do that occasionally.

Belly flopping into the shallow end of the gene pool.

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

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

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

Clearly, his beneovolence knows no bounds.

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

Ball's-out Barbie.

If you're a loser like me who follows these things, you will no doubt be aware that there are more single women over thirty in the world than there are men.  According to one statistic, unattached Aussie women outnumber the guys nine to one.  Unfortunately, there isn't much we can do about that, without the aid of Chris Hemsworth, a time machine, state-of-the-art cloning technology and chloroform, but I think I do have a suggestion to help combat the depression that often occurs as a result of this discrepancy. 

Ladies, cast your minds back to your childhood, a time when nothing seemed impossible, thanks to one elegant, sophisticated, flaxen-haired woman. 

BARBIE. 

She has been a fashion designer, a doctor, a teacher, a veterinarian, a plastic surgeon (I kid you not, it was in 1973 - look it up), an army officer, an air force pilot, a marine, a policewoman, a fire fighter, a rock star, a scuba diver, the ambassador for world peace and even President of the United States, just to name a few.  What's more, she still managed to get married, and ride horses in her spare time, and those perfect, rock-hard bazooms always pointed dead ahead.  Barbie wasn't just a toy; she was an aspirational figure.  She was a beacon for shy, oppressed little girls everywhere who looked at their two pack a day, serapax-gobbling Mum's and thought: That won't be me.  I'm going to be just like Barbie.  Sweet, I grant you, but realistic?

Hell no!

Pure and untainted by the lure of monetary gain as I'm sure Barbie's employment counsellors at Mattel were, they clearly dropped the ball when it came to preparing her little disciples for the harsh realities they would later face.  Sadly, I was one of those disciples, and if I had the multi-tasking-maven herself here now, I would take her to task. 

Where is my dream house?  Where is my non-threatening, ever-present, perpetually-happy husband?  Just how many tiny Ford Pills do you have to chug every day to maintain that girlish figure?  If you truly want to enlighten and inspire your young fans, I suggest you give yourself a make-under.  Force down a plastic roast chicken or three, tell us the true nature of your relationship with Ken, seeing as there obviously can't be much going on after dark, given his little anatomical problem and love of fashion.  Show future generations of women the realities of post-war society and release a new line of likenesses.  Prozac Barbie; Over Twenty-Eights-Night Barbie; Blind Date Barbie (complete with pink bucket and mace); and Settle-For-Less Barbie are some that spring to mind.  Dreaming's fine, but little girls need to learn how to cope should they get past thirty and find themselves riding the bus alone as their friends rocket past in their hot pink convertibles with male model or muscular army lieutenant husbands arms draped over their shoulders. 

Barbie, Mattell, I urge you to address this appallingly neglected niche before it's too late, and another generation of women live out the rest of their lives in small rooms surrounded on all sides by baby pink satin padding.                          

A cure for a social disease

Are you the only single adult in your family?  Do people look at you like someone branded the word 'Desperate' on your forehead whenever you show up to a party alone?  Are people commenting on the stench of failure that seems to permeate your skin?  What you have is a fairly common condition, of which I am a fellow sufferer: Sympathetic Hyper Interested Tool Syndrome.  This condition is suffered largely by singles thirty years of age and over, and the source of infection is most likely to be a friend, relative, co-worker or acquaintance who is either married or in a steady relationship.  The following symptoms are the most common.

-  Acute anxiety when faced with the prospect of attending a formal event, such as a wedding, alone.  May be accompanied by nausea, excessive perspiration and diarrhea if the bride has an unattached relative, friend or embittered ex-boyfriend she wants to introduce to/throw at you.

-  Sudden, sharp decrease in self-worth.  This is usually brought on by one sided conversations with a close family member, more than likely a parent, on the direct correlation between your lack of marital status and your socio-economic predicament.

-  Sudden, sharp increase in body temperature, brought on by either rage or embarrassment at unwanted, unwarranted and often insincere sympathetic gestures from attached friends and acquaintances.  False sad expressions, pats on the shoulder and the 'Aww,' noise appear to illicit the strongest effect.

If you think you might have this potentially crippling affliction, don't despair.  There is a relatively painless cure.  Simply perform the following three step procedure, and you will reap the benefits for life.  Note: Repetition of the procedure may be necessary in severe cases.

1.  Go to the place where you are at your most relaxed and find a comfortable spot to sit.

2.  Shut out the negative thoughts that are stabbing away at your brain, and reflect instead on your best features, such as your intelligence, creativity, and sense of humour.

3.  Confront the person responsible for passing on the disease, and say: I like the way I am.  I don't need your pity/assistance/cast-offs, and I will not let you give me the S.H.I.T.S again! 

*This post is for my best friend, Corrina.  You go girl!