No, just...no.

It is a well-known fact that I loathe reality television - unless it involves cooking because, as I've mentioned previously, I am somewhat of a gastropod.  My aversion to the idea of marriage is just as well-documented, so you can imagine my joy when I saw an ad for a reality show called 'Please Marry My Boy.'  I managed to watch a couple of episodes before the urge to throw a brick at my TV overwhelmed me and I had to change the channel.  The concept of the show bothers me for three reasons, all of which are possibly a reflection of my increasingly cynical view of the world at large, but are compelling nonetheless.

1.  Why does it have to be about marriage?  While I understand that there are still some people who believe in it, is it really advantageous for a guy to start the search for love with the words 'I NEED A WIFE - NOW!' written all over his face in permanent marker?  It's positively Dickensian!

2.  The Cattle Call.  Choosing someone to spend the rest of your life with should not be something you take lightly, and weighing up the pros and cons of this potentially life-altering decision is essential, I get that; but is it really necessary for these guys to make women feel like they're at an audition?  I'll bet questions like 'How many times have you had sex?'  Never came up on Idol.  At least, not while the cameras were rolling.

3.  Who in their right mind lets their mother choose a woman for them?!  You'll pardon my creative use of punctuation there, but I find it both questionable and alarming that any man would relinquish control of his love life to his mother.  Any girl with a 'questionable' past (i.e: any girl who has had sex, hasn't been to church in the last five years or has her own mind) would surely be cut straight away, regardless of any and all great qualities they might possess.  And something the contestants, (which is exactly what these poor women are, let's face it), should consider before deciding to continue pursuing things is how far into these guy's lives does mummy's influence extend?  Picking the reception venue?  Naming the kids?  She's run his life for this long, who's to say that will stop once the vows have been exchanged?  I already have a female authority figure in my life to remind me of the myriad of mistakes I make on a daily basis; the prospect of adding another to the mix would make the idea of growing old with only cats for company irresistibly appealing. 


  

I don't.

My mother and I are two very different people and, as I have discussed here before, I suspect she's always been a little disappointed that she didn't get the best friend she wanted in me, but there is one issue on which we agree whole-heartedly: marriage or, more specifically, the determination to avoid it.  We came to this decision for different, but equally compelling reasons.

For mum, it was experience.  She married my father in 1968, having had to practically scream her acceptance of his proposal to be heard above the operatic din of friends and relatives trying to prevent her from making the biggest mistake of her life. 

She loved him. 

She knew him better than any of them. 

She could change him. 

Her honeymoon was spent in a sparsely furnished one bedroom flat which was extremely ecologically friendly for the time - thanks to the power being cut off the month before.  She hung in through seven years of utility restrictions, eviction notices, soup dinners and Dad's virtuosic ability to quite literally charm the pants off any female within a ten mile radius (including her bridesmaid and best friend across the street), until he finally exhausted her patience by selling their house while she was in hospital to cover personal debts.  The only man she has even considered marrying since then was engaged to her for thirteen years before the realisation finally hit that he wasn't planning on buying a partner for her lovely diamond solitaire ring any time soon.  Understandably, all of this has left her somewhat sceptical of the concept of wedded bliss.

I have never been married.  The closest I ever came was living with the father of my son in a de-facto relationship for five years, the demise of which, I can admit now, was as much my fault as it was his.  My aversion to matrimony, therefore, can not be attributed to experience.  My motivation for staying single, despite exasperated argument against it by my best friend who, bless her, still believes in happily ever after, is a selfish one.  I am what I am, and I ain't gonna change.  I have been living on my own for twelve years, and have consequently developed a lifestyle.  It isn't always a happy one, but it is a comfortable one.  I keep house appallingly, I shop with gay abandon, I eat like a condemned man, and I raise my son according to the unfortunately named 'Free Range' philosophy.  These are just some of the things on which I am unwilling to compromise.  From what I've observed of other people's marriages, the words 'I will tweak my life until it comfortably blends with his/hers' should be included in every honest couple's wedding vows.  

I suppose chucking the idea of marriage over mid-week chocolate feasts, relaxed bed times and a mild eBay addiction seems trivial, but these little things and many others make me who I am.  Were I to get myself into a situation where I allowed someone to chip away at my little habits and routines, I'd be losing myself, piece by piece, until it wasn't even my life I was sharing anymore, and the man laying next to me would eventually wake up wondering where the woman he married had gotten to.  I want love, but I'm not sacrificing myself to keep it.  I am a slovenly, gluttonous, stuff-addicted hippy.

I am me. 

If you can't see yourself standing with me before a full length mirror without wanting to flip it over, don't bother taking the tux off the hanger.   

          

Party plan.

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

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

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

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

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

...this is me relaxed!      



   

            

Typo.

Despite strenuous arguments, denials, and emphatic statements to the contrary, I have had to admit recently that I do in fact have a type.  Not a physical one exactly, although most of the men I fancy do remind me uncannily of either Jason Bateman or a young Davy Jones, (shut up! it's the dark hair, dark eyes combination, okay?).  I do find a guy with brains, sensitivity, a cracking sense of humour and a healthy dose of arrogant charm more than a little intoxicating, but it isn't exactly about personality traits, either.  What seems to attract me like a death row inmate to a loose-moralled appeals judge is not the handsome guy, the cheeky guy, the smart guy or the funny guy...it is the unattainable guy.

You know the guy I mean; he's the one who, despite your best efforts, seems determined not to test the friendship.  The one who affectionately refers to you as his 'Best Friend,' or 'The sister I never had.'  The one who sends you a smiley face, then liberally hands out wink emoticons to all two hundred and fifty eight of his other female Twitter followers and Facebook friends.  You could carry on an entire Skype conversation with him, wearing nothing but a smile, and he would still regale you with details of his naughty night out with the deceptively sedate looking school teacher he met on E-harmony.  My mother sagely advised me as a teenager that, when it came to women, men loved a challenge.  Not for them, the loyal, dependable, readily available girl who hung on their every word.  The chick who promised them the least would invariably end up being the one they wanted most.  I don't believe this is true of all men, any more than I believe that all men love football and hate quiche.  Furthermore, I don't believe that it is an exclusively male behaviour quirk.  How could I, when it informs my very own choices? 

You could stick identical twins before me, each boasting the same dark eyes, the same cheeky smile, the same irresistible Buddy Love type humour and bravado, the same leg-opening sensitivity, and I would still go for the one cruising Facebook chicks on his Iphone.  And now I know why. 

The challenge of it!  Fabulous as it is to be wanted by anyone, there's still no better ego stroker than snaring the creature who you had to chase through miles of rough terrain to get a clear shot at.  The one who put up the biggest fight is the one whose skin feels the most exquisite wrapped around your own on the living room floor in front of a roaring log fire.  I realise now that I've been choosing men like this my entire life and although I know that it's a pretty self-defeating practice, I can't seem to stop, and I have to wonder; is my need for gratification going to end up costing me long term satisfaction?

Am I the only woman who does this?  Let me know in the comments...I'm begging you.  Lol.      

One Fat Mother.

I love chips.  I love TV.  I'm a size fourteen when I should be a size ten.  I also have a tummy I sometimes have to cinch into my jeans by pulling on my belt a little harder than I'd like to, thanks to the eight and a half pound male tenant who moved out of there almost fourteen years ago.  According to designer Karl Lagerfeld's definition of the term, that would make me a Curvy Woman, were it not for one tiny thing:  I have never called anyone, be they large, medium or small, ugly in my life.  Yes, I have been known to shake my head when I see pretty young girls walking stony-faced down a runway, ribs poking out through dresses that hang on them like living room curtains, but I don't disparage them.  Far from it; I worry for them.  I worry that they are making themselves ill in order to fit someone Else's definition of the word 'Beautiful.'  I worry that they feel they have to live up to the standards of elderly fashion designers whose opinions should actually resonate with them at their age about as much as a fly fart in a hurricane.  I also worry that they hate themselves for going balls out and eating a cheeseburger.  Mainly, I worry about what will become of their self esteem when they are batted around like tennis balls by the sharply contrasting appraisals of people who have no idea what they're going through; it's just as hateful and ignorant for a person in the street or in a club to dismissively tell them to 'eat something, for fucks sake,' as it is for their bosses to guilt them into staying thin.

'What would you know about it?'  I hear some of you ask, and rightly so.  Being thirty nine years of age and having a kid in high school, one would think I had more important things to worry about than how my butt looked in a pair of jeans, but the fact is, I do still struggle with insecurity over my appearance.  I sometimes worry that the sight of me naked might send potential suitors screaming for the exit, which is categorically insane, because I'm only two sizes above what is considered 'normal.'  When you add this to the myriad of issues I already have with my self worth, it's a wonder I'm not posting this from within a rubber room.  Despite this, I'm happy to say intermittent, lack of self esteem, Lagerfeld's assertion that people did not want to see Curvy Women didn't make me hate myself. 

I did, indeed, scream obscenities at my TV the night Lagerfeld's wretched opinion aired on the news, but it wasn't at skinny models.  It wasn't even at Lagerfeld.  It was at myself.  The words of an octogenarian fashion designer caused me to drop what I was doing, go to my room, strip down to my undies, look at myself in the mirror and say:

'Shit; I'm hot!'

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.     




    

Confusion.

As I sit here, pondering the failures and successes of my life thus far, as I tend to do when I'm terribly bored and similarly un-motivated to do anything about it, it has occurred to me that I have been complicating things unnecessarily, particularly when it comes to my love life (or more specifically, the lack of one).  While it is certainly true that I suffer from anxiety, mild depression and low self-esteem, and that they have impeded what progress I might have made socially if I were of a 'normal' disposition, (if there is such a thing as 'normal' nowadays), shrink wrapping the problem has only made it seem worse than it really is.  There is one obvious, divinely simple explanation for my perpetually static relationship status.

Confusion. 

I'd love a boyfriend.  Having someone around who shares my refreshingly loud and inappropriate sense of humour, who isn't afraid to disagree with me, and who can keep up the same mental and physical pace as I do would be delightful. 

But then...

I don't want a boyfriend.  Having someone around who doesn't understand that I sometimes feel bombarded and need to be by myself, who isn't willing to concede defeat when I think they're wrong, (read: is just as stubborn as I am), and whose opinions and desires don't always coincide with mine would be irritating.

To summarise, I need someone who is loud and funny, but quiet and contemplative; sparky and confident, but contrite and humble; sharp and virile, but on my terms.  Confusing, isn't it?  The funny thing is, if I ever met a guy with the same set of requirements in a girlfriend, I'd think he was a spoilt, arrogant prick. 

But then...

...most of my boyfriends have been spoilt, arrogant pricks. 

If someone could please explain the Darwinian cock-up that is my mind, before my head explodes, I'd sure appreciate it.



       

She's a rocker.

I've always said that I was a fourteen year old girl trapped in a woman's body, and over the past few weeks, I seem to have been on a mission to prove it to myself once and for all.  At the tender age of thirty-nine and a half, you'd think I'd have put away childish things like harbouring hopeless crushes, wouldn't you?  Unfortunately, dear reader, it appears I haven't and the funny thing is, whether you're a teenager, or the parent of a teenager, it feels exactly the same.  Remember the butterflies in your tummy?  The sweaty palms?  The giddy rush when he acknowledged your presence?  To say nothing of the high voltage thrill that coursed through you when he actually spoke to you!  Now cast your mind back to the day you realised you were just one apple in an overcrowded tree, and that you were probably doomed to hang on for grim death by your stem while he had his pick of glossier fruit.  Well, I have news for you; it's a whole lot worse when you're an over-ripe Granny Smith, and you're fruit picker is a lot closer in age to the firm young Pink Ladies hanging out on the top branches. 

Think my situation couldn't possibly be any more cliched?  Try this on for size: he's a musician, and I met him on Twitter.  A few months ago, in an effort to try to increase my following on the site, and in doing so gain more readers, I followed the accounts of some of my favourite rock artists, the majority of whom were sixties acts.  I thought that putting my personal tastes out there as bait might attract like-minded people, and late one Saturday night, I got my first nibble.  He sent me a tweet that read: If you like Zappa, you'll love my music.  I followed the link to his website and was indeed very impressed with his blend of psychedelic pop rock; so much so that I downloaded his album.  We tweeted back and forth for a couple of months, chatting about music and movies mostly, and although I was instantly drawn to him, the fact that he was born when I was still in high school put paid to any thought I might have had about flirting...until last month, when he invited me to friend him on Facebook and started flirting with me via Facebook Chat. 

Even though he was now steering our conversations, (are on line communications considered conversations?), in a 'friendlier' direction, I was reluctant at first to reciprocate.  The Graduate may be an enduring classic, and one of my favourite films of all time, but the Mrs Robinson thing is generally considered a bit de-classe in real life, even in our supposedly evolved 21st century society.  But when it comes to (metaphorically) charming the pants off women, no one does it like a songwriter, and he gradually wore my defences down using his honey dripping way with words.  We started calling each other on Skype, and it was a blast in the beginning.  His profile picture on Twitter was enough to induce heavy breathing, but seeing him in the flesh made me feel like a mere mortal hiding behind a tree, spying on a Roman god as he bathed in a river. 

It was positively trippy, but as with most chemical reactions, the high didn't last.  We continued chatting on Twitter and Facebook as before, and things were friendly enough, but I soon sensed his interest waining.  What was to be our last Skype conversation only lasted a few minutes, and while I put this down to him being tired, international time differences being what they are, a glance at my Facebook profile the following morning showed that I was minus one friend. 

Guess who? 

Most rational women pushing forty would have smiled and said to themselves, "Well, that was fun while it lasted,' and moved on, but I degenerated into my dorky teenage self and started wondering what it was that I'd done to put him off.  I wasn't, by any stretch of the imagination, harbouring a notion that things would go any further; he lived in another country and was at that age when waking up in a bed other than his own was as serious as things were going to get for a while, but for some reason I can't explain even now, I had to know why he didn't want to be my playmate anymore, so I logged onto Twitter and asked him if I had done or said anything out of turn. 

I can practically hear your collective groans as you read this, and you're right; it was an utterly pathetic thing to do, and all I can offer by way of an explanation is that after ten years of singledom, gaining the attentions of a gorgeous, intelligent, charismatic younger guy was like being on the receiving end of a shot of the most potent energy serum you can imagine, and quitting cold turkey was never going to be easy.  He sent me back a message saying that there was nothing wrong, he was just really busy, which was probably true, but it wasn't long after that he also dropped off my Twitter radar and I finally had to concede that the party was over.  The house lights were on, coffee was being served and it was time to go home and resume my normal life.  I've been pondering things for a couple of weeks now, and I've come to a realisation.  I'm entering into my fourth decade on Earth this year, and while a lot of women my age were busy ushering their kids to soccer, or dragging themselves to a four o'clock staff meeting, I was being told I was hot by a guy almost half my age, a musician no less, and this realisation has lead me to a startling conclusion about myself.

I fucking ROCK!                                     

Dating for dumb-arses.

I swore I'd never do it again, but boredom and lack of inspiration in terms of subject matter conspired to have me consult a dating advice site for men, in the hopes that I would either be pleasantly surprised and be able to post a positive review of one of these damn things for a change, or that it would provide sufficient comic material to relieve the dry spell that's left this blog looking rather bleak of late. 

It excelled in the latter respect.

Upon entering the site, I typed the following key phrase into the search box: Single women over thirty survey.  The article that came up in response wasn't actually anything to do with a survey, but the 'information,' (and I use the word in the same context as a reporter from the National Enquirer would use it), contained therein proved to be just as side-splittingly stereotypical.  What I found most captivating was the section entitled: Types of women you'll meet. 

How wonderful, I thought, tongue firmly planted in cheek; this wise and altruistic gentleman is going to use his experience and vast knowledge of the female psyche to pigeon-hole women into types, making them easily identifiable by virtue of their behavioural traits so that his fellow man may pick out the perfect breed, I'm sorry, 'type' for their emotional and physical needs. 

The canine adoption analogy may seem harsh, but it's also hysterically apt once you read these personality descriptions.

THE DIVORCEE.  ...you'll probably be told how happy she is to be rid of the louse.  You may be in for a lot of man-bashing.  On the other hand, if you're looking for some good, vengeful sex, you're in the right place. 
Maybe it's just me, but I don't imagine that most men would find the idea of spending the night with a woman crowing about how much she hates her ex, and screaming: 'Men should eat shit and die' between "Oh god' and 'Oh yes' while ripping out tufts of their chest hair to be a very powerful aphrodisiac.  Speaking for myself, I still love men, and should I be fortunate enough to have sex again this millennium, I wouldn't waste time picturing any of my exes whilst in the throws of passion.  To describe how I'd feel if an image of an ex popped into my head just as I was about to drift into the blissful abyss more succinctly, I'll use a term that's popular with the youngsters these days; Eeeew!

THE ETERNALLY SINGLE WOMAN.  There's a reason she's eternally single - she's not really sure what she wants.  You'll realise she fits into this category when you get to talking and she tells you all the things she's looking for in a man, and each sentence contradicts the one before.  She'll want you to be the most spontaneous guy around, but you'd better plan out that spontaneity to the last detail for her.  With loads of patience, maybe you can sift through her delirium...maybe. 
Huh.  And here I thought crazy chicks were a turn-on. 

THE CAREER WOMAN.  She'll get straight to the point.  She's a busy woman with little time to waste on games.  There's a life plan in motion and a man is but one aspect in the greater scheme.  The good news is she's ambitious and will get what she wants out of life.  The bad news is you may be just another prize. 
The seed this one planted in my mind germinated into an awesome mental picture.  I could just see her, the uber-successful executive; six feet tall with a Pamela Anderson head and Madonna body, blasting one of her under-performing minions on the phone while barking out instructions to the potential new mate feverishly applying for a position under her desk, which he would only get if he was willing to be on call twenty four hours a day to service her and fit the particular employee demographic she had her eyes on that month.  All the writer forgot to add was her ability to snap unworthy men's necks between her knees.


THE SUGAR DADDY WOMAN.  When the first words out of her mouth are 'How much do you make?'get ready for expenditures.  This honey wants to be pampered, and you can own her, but for a price.  If this is your ideal and you have enough bling-bling, you're all set to go.  She'll do her part in bed and on your arm at functions and charity events, just don't expect too much and keep the cash flowing.
If there are still men who only desire a trophy woman, and I pray to God, Alla, Buddha and the benevolent creators of chocolate that there aren't, I know of a venue that has an abundance of them; it's called an escort service.



              

All men aren't bastards!

My mum is a tough lady.  She has survived some incredibly hard times that would have seen a weaker minded person declared certifiable, and she got through it all by virtue of her sheer, steely determination.  Once she sets her mind to it, there is nothing she can or will not do.  Unfortunately, it's a character trait that wasn't passed down to me; I inherited my dad's Cross-that-bridge-when-you-come-to-it/Don't-stress -until-you're-down-to-your-last-five-cents attitude to life, which is something I've always been ashamed of.  But there is a point when determination becomes blind stubbornness, and when it comes to men, my mother reached that point years ago, crashed through the road block and kept on driving. 

As with most women who've suffered a lot of heartbreak, Mum has major trust issues with the opposite sex, and I can understand why she's reluctant to ever enter into a relationship again, but the zeal with which she's adopted that old eighties 'All men are bastards' philosophy alarms me sometimes.  She doesn't hate men in general; she just thinks that they metamorphosize into thieving, skirt chasing Mr Hydes once they get their own set of house keys, and has erected an Olympic swimming pool-sized moat around herself to keep them from getting too close.  Mum told me not long ago that the reason she was so glad she had a daughter was because she'd envisioned us being more like sisters, and I know she's always been a little disappointed that she didn't get the kindred spirit she'd hoped for, but the fact is that despite my own similar experiences, I love men, don't believe they're all bastards and wouldn't mind having one share my life again some day. 

As I've said before, my skill for character judgement is rather sketchy, but like any other skill, it needs to be honed, and I think everyday life is doing a decent job at that.  It's taken until my fortieth year to finally begin to learn to trust my gut, and my gut says that not all men are bastards, any more than all women are bitches.  Stereotypes are like cliches - they might roll off the tongue easily, but they're over-used, ugly and, ultimately, meaningless.