Monthly Archives: May 2013

Dear Future Self,

When a man says he can’t be in a public relationship with you because you work together and his father happens to be the managing partner of the firm at which you both work, he is lying. Clandestine relationships ought only exist in the most minuscule of circumstances, usually when one party is betrothed to another or publicly assumed to be attracted to the opposite sex. This particular man will tell you all manner of porkies. You will believe him. You will learn the true definition of ‘don’t shit where you eat’.

Also, stop wearing nude eye shadow. It ages you.

Sincerely,

Your younger and slightly less cynical self

Xxxxx

“And in the end, the love you make, is equal to the love you take” -‘Golden Slumbers/The End’ – K.D Lang

I went to Bali late last year for 10 days. Drank, ate, sunned myself in the company of 3 gorgeous girlfriends.

In the months proceeding said trip I had met literally my dream man. Like he’d stepped off the set of ‘Farmer Wants A Wife’; he was your true blood, life like country bumpkin. And I was smitten.

First kiss was staged magnificently on my behalf (I’d had a pre-crush you see: a crush which occurs before you even know them well enough to have a crush. Target acquired). Managed to get him invited to a rugby game courtesy of my best friends boyfriend, with whom he was best friends. Alarm bells should have been ringing at the stage, right? Well, someone forget to check my batteries at daylight savings cos I went along with it. Cornered him in a bar until 4 am when he had no alternative but to offer to walk me to a cab. Had a cheeky pash on Elizabeth Street before making a graceful lady- like exit.

Waited 3 weeks.

Seems the old three day rule doesn’t apply to those that have grown up outside at 500 km radius of the big smoke. Finally set up a date. I felt drunk with excitement before I’d even arrived. Felt super drunk as I left because I’d smashed a bottle of wine. But, another cheeky farewell pash. So far so good.

Whirlwind of dates followed. Met his mother, lunched with his brother, was his date at a charity ball at which he spoke (and we won the romantic weekend for 2 in the raffle), double dated with our mutual best friends. Wasn’t long before there were adult sleepovers but I held out long enough to know I liked him.

Thought it was all a little too good to be true. He was courteous, charming, making travel plans with me in mind… (How can you not love a man that makes plans!?). When I jumped on that Jetstar flight to Depensar not for a second did I contemplate that leaving him at home for 10 days could spell disaster.

Rookie. Error.

My final day in Bali I decided to get my palms read. A good friend of mine had recently ended a long term relationship and was currently seeking not Susan, but answers. I went out of deference to her needs, only to be told in no uncertain terms that the man I was currently seeing was going to leave me.

Impossible. I’d already had one disastrous relationship end in dramatic fashion in 2012 (more on that to come.. I’m still not quite even sure how to start that story). And Cotton Eyed Joe was SO INTO ME. Sure enough, he texted later that afternoon asking me exactly what time I’d be home the following day, which in my mind cemented the fact that the old woman pretending to read my hands in Seminyak was a crack whore.

I love hindsight. It has that uncanny ability to make you feel foolish. In hindsight, I should have known that ‘old college friend’ translated to ‘love of my life that left me and I never truly got over it’. In hindsight, I should have had also know that ‘Oh, we haven’t seen Tim with another girl since Sarah’ was really a polite way of pointing out that my current beau had not been seen in public since his last relationship went pear shaped. And, in hindsight I should have known that ‘What time are you flying in tomorrow?’ really translated to ‘What time can I come over and break up with you?’

To his credit, he did it to my face and did not use the multitude of social media technological devices available to him. To my credit, I managed not to strangle him with the Bingtang singlet I’d purchased as a gift whilst simultaneously disembowelling him with the sharp edge of one of the bootleg DVDs I’d smuggled into the country for him. But I did tell him politely to ‘get the fuck out of my house’. Not my most witty line, yet totally effective.

Never did end up taking that romantic weekend away with Tim. Thought briefly at Christmas about sending it to him and Sarah as a present. Laughed a little, then thought better of it. Finally gave it to my folks.

In hindsight, a much less passive aggressive option. Whether you’re a country boy, or a big city girl, good manners never go out of style.

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“Happiness hit her like a train on a track, Coming towards her stuck still no turning back” -‘The Dog Days Are Over’ – Florence Welch

I can remember the exact moment I first fell in love. I don’t think age has anything to do with it. I think you can feel as much when you’re 16 as you can when you’re 60.

My first love was Oscar*. When he sauntered into the fast food chain where I worked for pocket money, sports bag slung over one shoulder, perfectly balancing out his lopsided smile, that was it for me. In all my gangly, awkward teen glory, I was hooked: link and sinker. He was all charm, an Abercrombie & Fitch model in the flesh. Shame he was a little on the simple side. And by little I mean he had swallowed ‘The Idiots Guide to Nothing’. Then populated ‘Idiot Town’. Then written ‘Dumb & Dumber’.

It started innocently enough. My dream boat had a girlfriend, who, ironically enough lived on my street. It wasn’t until I returned from an overseas holiday with the family to find him newly single that I let myself believe that Adonis would fall for me. I won’t bore you with the very PG details, everyone had a first love, so you know how the plot goes. But let’s just say when he asked me to help him study for his school certificate, he legitimately needed to study. Handsie stuff had to wait.

I couldn’t write a novel on our romance. I could barely fill an entire blog entry on good old Oscar, as it was over in a blink of an eye. The most potent memory is sitting in an empty bathtub surrounded by two of my best friends while a house party raged around us, bawling. Oscar had moved on, quite publicly. Yeah, ouch.

However it was the aftermath of the first relationship of my life that taught me that my heart wasn’t just a muscle made of flesh. I’d never felt anything so painfully agonising than heartache. And truly, despite two further long term, more mature relationships that both ended badly, I don’t think I have again. I don’t know if scar tissue has formed, making me immune to that kind of pain, or if Cat Stevens had it right and the first cut really is the deepest. But god damn, that shit cray.

I see Oscar from time to time, and it’s almost weird when I don’t feel something. A girlfriend joked the other day that we would end up together: our own version of a childhood sweetheart usually reserved for the silver screen. I doubt it. Whilst he be cute and all, the boy was a few croissants short of a continental breakfast. And in the real world; beauty fades, dumb is forever.

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“The only way is up, baby, for you and me now” -‘The only way is up’ – Yazz

There comes a time in a young lady’s privileged life that she will inevitably fall for the bad boy. I chose a slighter watered down version. It wasn’t like this guy carried a pocket knife and a prior conviction, and his only tattoo was of an elephant (oh so badass) but he did like the grass. Weed. Pot. Ganja. Marijuana. Whatever name you gave it. He’d smoke it.

I’m not actually sure if this is what attracted me to him. That’s not something even with the benefit of hindsight I can ascertain. I must have been smoking something a little harder than the old skunk when we hooked up. He kinda looked that like 90’s cartoon character ‘Hey Arnold’ and he even earned the moniker ‘Football Head’ from my girlfriends. We met through mutual friends and I don’t really think he ever took me on a date. Badish boys don’t do something so common I spose. We did once hang out at his place of employment (read: skanky hotel north of the city) whilst he worked on his entrepreneurial project (read: made necklaces for men out of chain and pendants).

Other than that it was me watching him smoke the good stuff on his balcony surrounded by a constant stream of people coming and going to join him. Other than both breathing, there wasn’t a hell of a lot in common. We once watched “Into the Wild” whilst spawned on a grotty mattress and ate 3 buckets of popcorn. Quite embarrassingly I managed to keep up with his appetite, despite never having had even so much as a puff. It wasn’t my drug of choice.

It wasn’t long till I learnt that the ads the Australian Government place on toilet doors to deter youngins from drugs actually have a ring of truth to them. He wasn’t so.. Um.. able in the bedroom. It couldn’t possibly have been me (dear god let this be true) so I’m putting the blame squarely in his..erm, lap.

Half a dozen failed attempts later over a few more nights kinda sealed the deal. And not in the good way. I found him out on the balcony with tears in his eyes, and, you guessed it, a lit spliff in the other. I took my first and last drag, returned to the bedroom to get dressed and hailed a cab.

Couple months later he started dating a girl I worked with. It was such a relief to look her in the eyes when she asked for my blessing and truthfully wish them well. Not. My. Issue.

“Get back, get back, get back to where you once belonged” – Get Back – John Lennon/Paul McCartney

Next week or so is my birthday. Yes I’m a typical Tauren. That’s another story.

It’ll be the first time in three years I’ve been single-lady-put-your-hands-up-in-the-club. After last years disaster I think it’s a blessing in disguise (boyfriend ever forgot your birthday? Kinda fizzles quickly). That however is also another story.

This post is centred around my last ‘potential’. Started out typically enough. Boy meets girl in club. Girl think he looks like a slighter shorter but just as delicious Bradley Cooper. Boy’s not so movie star quality friend hits on girl. Girl rejects. Tactically stages a run in at the unisex bathrooms… Subtlety never got anyone anywhere. Anywhoo… We had a hour conversation, a pash, exchanged numbers and I received an early morning wake up call via SMS saying it was nice to meet me. Witty exchange; date arranged.

First two dates I (quite unashamedly) got absolutely bungalowed. Not serving a lady with an appetite so much as a bar snack will result in that. Both dates, after a bet with my one of my besties that no hand action below the belt would occur before this mythical cut off point called ‘Date Four’, ended with me in a cab. Always cuddly, always a midnight kiss, always an early morning text.

Overall he wasn’t my ideal prototype. English, investment wanker, little shorter than I’d prefer (towered in heels) but, hey, you know beggars can’t be… Yeah yeah. Regardless, there was definite attraction and shit, he looked like Bradley Cooper. I wasn’t kicking him out of bed if he farted.

Turned out he had a little more aversion to bodily functions that I did. Third date was going swimmingly. Drinks at a hip Mexican cantina followed by a soggy wait in torrential (shared umbrella…cuuuute!) Sydney rain before standard Thai feed. Think he cottoned on that the way to my heart was through my stomach. Shame the dumplings I’d had for lunch didn’t also care to pass through my stomach. One whiff of our duck stir fry as it came to the table and the bile was in my throat quicker than you could say “Sawadeewherethefuckistheladies?”

Managed to excuse myself as politely as possible while drips of sweat (sorry ladies, we don’t always just perspire) formed on my brow. Made it to the bathroom, swallowed whatever breed of pork/shrimp/beef dumpling was coming up for seconds before dashing back to the table to retrieve my belongings. Apologised profusely that I wasn’t feeling well. One look at me and you could tell I was not A-OK in the whole living department. Bradley C looked longingly at said duck masterpiece which lay untouched on the table then back at me before promptly paying the bill like the gentleman he had no choice in this scenario but to be.

Stood again in the torrential rain (not so freakin cuuuute while suffering from acute food poisoning) whilst he rubbed my back and assured me it was fine. Only saving grace was that I made it to my front yard before… And that was the last I heard from Mr Coops. To my credit (he deserves none) I texted the next morning at the insistence of my mortified mother and sheepishly explained my predicament. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I could bullshit and say I’d learnt a lesson. But hell, I’d never be so idiotic as to tell a girl not to date a guy that looked like B-rad. So would go there in a heartbeat if I had my time again, even if he was a little too good to be true.

Think the only possible lesson to be learned is that the arbitrary ‘Date Four’ rule is there for a reason ladies. Use it wisely.