Would you buy advice from this woman?

I recently received an email from the CEO of a site called Wizpert.com.  The gentleman said that he had read my blog, and thought that it would be a great fit for his site, which basically takes on bloggers to give readers advice in their particular area of expertise, most of which is actually great advice.  Apparently, from what I've been able to glean from others and by visiting the site itself, the 'experts' make themselves available via Skype, and readers/callers are charged a certain amount to have their questions answered.  I was initially thrilled at the thought that someone was impressed enough by my work to want to hire me, and PAY me, but then reservations started gnawing away at my fragile little mind, the first of which came in the form of a series of questions.  Since when am I an expert on dating?  Has this man actually READ the blog?  Doesn't he realise that the reason people keep coming back to it is to marvel and (I hope) laugh themselves stupid at my baffling ineptitude and lack of social skills?  The more I thought about it, me giving advice to the lonely and love-lorn would be like Charlie Sheen leading an Amish youth group.

Another concern was the thought of having to be available - on call, if you will, - anytime to chat on Skype.  I have toyed with the idea of Skyping to my readers, at my own discretion, but then some friends rightly pointed out that doing so might also lead to unwanted attention from people who weren't necessarily interested in the blog at all.  Add to that the prospect of being yanked away from any number of activities, some of which I've only just gotten back into (nudge, nudge, wink, wink), and the idea was about as attractive as having my next pap smear streamed live on Vimeo.

My final, and greatest, worry was the money.  Utterly blissful as it would be to have a grocery budget high enough to not ever have to buy Z-grade vaccuum-packed minced meat again, I think that the guilt of taking someone's money in exchange for providing them with a guesstimate as to their romantic prospects would soon have me depositing my twenty dollar steak into the cylindrical bio-waste collection pail.

As flattered as I am that the blog has warranted such attention, I am going to have to decline the Wizpert offer, dear readers.  The laughter-derived aversion therapy both you and I get right here will just have to be enough for now.          

Back in the swing.

Dear readers; set down those hot beverages and brace yourselves: your humble narrator actually went on a date.  Well, technically a couple of them.  I set up a profile on yet another dating site, purely for the purpose of doing some research for a new post I was working on, (which I've since abandoned).  In the interests of full disclosure, I was completely upfront about what I was doing there, and even included a link to the blog.  Curiously, for all the discretion that forms part of the site's modus operandi, and asks for from its members, I garnered double the responses I usually get.  A lot of them were from guys who had followed the link and become readers (hey guys!), but I got quite a few other offers too, (most of which I can't mention in this forum due to their 'adult' nature).     

Anyone who was quick enough to have caught my last post before I deleted it, and I was so instantly unhappy with it you would need to have been, will know that I actually accepted one offer, (from someone single), and ended up having a lovely evening with a very intelligent and interesting guy who ended up staying the night, (and that is the most detail you are going to get lest this post turn into a cheap(er) Sex In The City rip-off.  I am still very much a single woman, but I will be removing my profile from the site shortly because, to use a horrible Hipster term, it isn't the 'organic' way to meet someone, but I'm not entirely sorry I did it.  I'm an unemployed,  forty year old single mother of a special needs child.  I have a psychologist on speed-dial, and if ever there was a movie made about my life, nobody short of Jessica Lange would be fit to play my mother.  These things put me very much at the bottom of the totem pole in terms of eligibility, but the point of this post is that I won't let that put me off getting back into the swing of things, because it doesn't scare me anymore.

Unlike some of the responses I got from the above-mentioned site.

Aint no way I'm blogging about those!  

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.

Guilty as charged.

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

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

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

Oh Mother...

When it comes to mortifying me so severely as to have me entertaining thoughts of matricide, my mother is the master.  My regular readers will know of her penchant for intervening in my love life, but for those new to this blog, you're in for a treat.  Late last Thursday afternoon, Mum and I shared a cab home from shopping and, as is her habit, she was soon machine gunning our driver with questions about his private life.  When her inquiry as to his marital status was responded to in the negative, she asked him how old he was.

'Twenty-eight,' he replied.
'Ooh!  My daughter's available, and she likes 'em young!'
'How old is your daughter?'
'Forty this year,' she turned to me, 'aren't you, love?'
'Gee; you don't look forty.'
'There you go, love!  Why don't you go out with him?  He's interested, aren't you?'
'Of course.'

Now, just to give everybody some perspective, I'll fill in a few details.  This driver didn't help us load our groceries into the boot of the cab, despite the fact that we had two full trolley loads, as you do for two households.  He was also rather cantankerous with my mother when she asked him to call another cab for an elderly lady who had been waiting over an hour.  He did not strike me as a friendly or accommodating fellow and I was therefore not interested in him romantically.  Fair enough, right?  Well, not according to my mother.

'Well, are you gonna go out with him?'
'Oh, I actually prefer to go out with guys closer to my own age.  I'm flattered though, thanks.'
'Since when do you not like younger blokes?' my mother exclaimed, 'God, you're fussy!'

The cab was silent for about sixty seconds after that and, judging by the way the driver was staring at the road ahead, I knew I had inadvertently offended him.

'Are you just not interested in Indian men?'

Anyone who knows me well enough will tell you that I don't have a discriminatory bone in my body.  Not to mention the fact that my Stepfather, a man who has actually been my real father for all intents and purposes since I was seven years old, is Indian, so I can say without so much as a hint of hesitation that race was not a factor in my decision to reject the advances of the man who looked ready to turn headlong into oncoming traffic at that moment.  The simple truth of the matter was, I just didn't dig him.  Despite my assurances, the driver looked unconvinced as to my subscription to the Melting Pot Theory, and the cab ride was eerily silent once we dropped Mum off at her place.

But it all turned out okay in the end; my mother was later advised, in no uncertain terms that she was not my pimp and that I am perfectly capable of making my own romantic connections when I so desire, and she has promised not to interfere again.  I don't think there was any real harm done as far as the driver was concerned either...anyone can accidentally take their foot of the brake and let the car roll back while someone is unloading groceries from the trunk.



 

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.

The People's (and Tom's) voice.

Move over, A Current Affair! Throw yourself under a bus, (I'm begging you), Today Tonight! To make up for my failure to post last week, I decided to go all out with this make-up post and conduct a vox populi, of sorts. Well, in this case the 'General Public' was the five single over thirty year-old's I managed to find at my local shopping centre who were willing to voice their opinions on dating with me. Just like a younger, less vitriolic Barbara Walters, I arrived at my chosen venue bright and early, material and sound recording device, (i.e. my rather battered pink iPod), at the ready. I practically had to beg to get anyone to open up but once they did, I hit them with the following five questions. Enjoy!

WHY DO YOU THINK YOU'RE STILL SINGLE?
Tom, 37 - Because women are too bloody fussy! (You know Tom, maybe we are. Who says intelligence, character and a post secondary school level vocabulary are important in a life partner?)
Maria, 42 - Because there aren't any good men left and the ones that are are gay!
Melissa, 41 - I'm too fussy. And most of the good guys are gay.
Sheridan, 39 - Because my mother interrogates every guy I go out with and scares them off!
Helen, 41 - No good guys left. (I absolutely refuse to believe that.)

*Note to self: must track Sheridan down to discuss starting a support group.

WOULD YOU DATE SOMEONE WITH KIDS?
Tom - Yeah. As long as she didn't expect me to be a father to them. Unless they were brats. (Oh Tom; I don't think any woman in her right mind would expect you to help raise her offspring.)
Maria - My family probably wouldn't like it, but I might. Depends how many!
Melissa - Not if they were teenagers; I can't handle teenagers. (Didn't have the heart to tell Melissa that baby's and toddlers do, god willing, eventually become teenagers).
Sheridan - I've got two of my own, so it wouldn't bother me.
Helen - Yeah. I love kids.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT INTERNET DATING?
Tom - It's a bit of fun. I've been out with a few girls on one site. Nothing yet. Like I said, they're too fussy.
Maria - I'm always on dating sites. I've been out with a lot of guys through those. Most of them only want one thing, but sometimes you meet someone nice.
Melissa - Don't go on them! I went out on one date with a guy, and he kept calling me for months afterwards. I ignored his calls and didn't ring back but he wouldn't give up! (Might I suggest communicating your disinterest? It's a viable option unless you prefer sleeping with a baseball bat under your pillow).
Sheridan - They're okay as a last resort, but most of the people on those sites are just looking for sex. It smacks of desperation to me. (I second that emotion!)
Helen - I've used them a few times. You see some weirdos on there, but I've gotten a few free dinners out of them! (McDonald's or KFC?)

WHAT'S THE WORST THING ABOUT BEING SINGLE AT OUR AGE?
Tom - Gets a bit lonely sometimes. And I can't cook to save myself! (There we are, ladies; the way to Tom's heart is his stomach. Run down to your local TAFE college and sign up for cooking lessons, post haste!)
Maria - Your family thinks there's something wrong with you!
Melissa - It's hard to find guys who are available.
Sheridan - I don't think it is the worst thing in the world. I've had my kids, so I'm in no rush to get married and start a family. That's the reason most people our age are in such a rush to meet someone.
Helen - People think you're either a bitch or you're gay. (Is anyone else seeing a pattern here?)

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN SET UP?
Tom - No. I wish someone would, though. What are you doing on the weekend? (At this point, your humble reporter thanked Tom for his help, avoiding eye contact, and scanned the immediate area for security guards).
Maria - Once. Never again! My boss set me up with his cousin and he told me he was tall and good looking and when he showed up, he was shorter than me and had a beard! (There's a reason they call them 'Blind' dates.)
Melissa - Never. No thanks.
Sheridan - Quite a few times by my friends. They're hopeless at picking my type! (Sheridan then elaborated and said that, like me, she prefers her men to have souls and at least a double digit i.q.).

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. 

Bliss

Being single over thirty is a real dichotomy for me.  Most of the time I love it; I've stated the various joys of being my own romantic boss addnauseum.  But being a red-blooded woman, I do get lonely and it's at these times I seem to come across every insanely happy couple in the south eastern area.  While shopping with my mother on Thursday, I had the privilege of crossing paths with a pair who taught me a valuable lesson about viewing things while wearing dusty pink spectacles.

Mum and I were having lunch in the food court, and I was returning to our table carrying a tray laden with coffee and pastries, walking slowly so as not to perform an impromptu caffeine christening on any of my fellow diners, when an elderly lady started chatting to me.  Her husband kissed her on the cheek, took her tray and placed it on their table before going off to talk to some friends of his, a group of elderly men-folk who congregated at the same table every week.  I couldn't help but envy the two of them just a little; they had stumbled upon that elusive thing called marital bliss, and had inexplicably managed to maintain it far longer than most.  While we were exchanging pleasantries, I realised she was a former neighbour of mine over a decade ago.  I rested my tray on her table for a few moments while we reminisced about how much my former neighbourhood had changed since I left, how much my 'baby' has sprouted since she saw him last, and so on.  Then I asked her to come over and say hi to my mum.  She was walking over to the table with me when a booming voice from behind us very nearly made me drop my tray.

'Sit back over there!'

Her husband was a hefty man of average male height, but was probably seven feet two in his own estimation.  The lady shuffled back to her table and sat down without protest, leaving your humble narrator gaping in astonishment.  The happy hubby then ordered her to stay while he got their lunches, and left with his held high, obviously secure in his own authority.  She shrugged and gestured her apologies, and I said 'That's okay,' although obviously it wasn't.  I've been a resident of this planet for almost four score years, and it took me until that moment to realise how naive I still am when it comes to my perception of coupledom.  Despite the countless disastrous relationships, communication meltdowns and infidelities I've been privy to in my own life and the lives of others, I still hold onto this romantic notion that, once a couple has been together for as long as the one being honoured in this post, they are blissfully happy and completely accepting of each other.  The truth is, it isn't that way for everybody.  That's not to say it can't happen, or that it doesn't; I think the real lesson I learned here was that a committed relationship isn't a cure-all.  Some people are arseholes, and always will be, even with the love of a wonderful person in their possession.  

Heroes.

I love my city.  It plays host to an enormous variety of people.  So much so that I never feel out of place, no matter my mood or choice of attire.  The beauty of the city, as apposed to suburbia, is that no one stands out.  There are no cliques.  No ruling factions.  Just a blend of characters going about their business without fear of judgement from the taste police.  A visit to the city always leaves me rejuvenated and confident in my individuality.  Yesterday was just such an occasion.

Every year around this time, Melbourne plays host to a pop culture festival called Supernova.  Being a pop culture nut, and being mother to an anime nut, I would love to have gone, but unfortunately couldn't afford the tickets this year thanks to an inexplicably badly timed school camp.  Oh well, I thought, all my favourite super heroes and (hopefully) Will Wheaton will be there next year.  As it turned out, I didn't need to fork over forty dollars to see framed pictures of my favourite childhood comic book characters.  They were everywhere!  Well, technically, it was their deputised likenesses I saw ordering Happy Meals, scanning Miki cards (apparently, being charged with the well being of our citizens doesn't grant you free travel on public transport), and having a smoke on the steps of Flinders Street Station.  Nevertheless, it led me to wonder; why can't we be more like our heroes? 

Consider Wonder Woman, my childhood hero.  Not even born of this world, she has saved it far too many times to count.  She left her homeland behind to live among us and protect us and yet the thing people comment on more often than not is her, admittedly skimpy, costume.  I for one wish I possessed the courage to put all of my womanly assets on show.  I'd save a truckload of money at the butchers alone!  But aside from physical beauty, the most wonderful thing about her is that she also has a brain; and isn't afraid to use it.  She has forged battle plans to fight age old enemies from every possible realm of existence, making herself an integral part of what is largely a male dominated profession.  She'd never date beneath herself; can you imagine Wonder Woman having dinner with a guy who talked to her substantial bosom all night?  Even if you could, would you imagine him surviving the night with his manhood intact?  I thought not.  The Wonder-ful thing about her is that she wears her intelligence, her courage, her sensitivity and her personality like she wears her costume - loud and proud.  Wouldn't this world be a better place if we all did the same?