Monthly Archives: November 2013

Hey I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my number…

Stage 5 clinger. Bat shit. Intense. Stalkerish.

Chance are if you’ve broken up with a man, you’ve been called one of these. If not to your face, then assume its been muttered behind your back. It’s the horrible truth that because women, you know, feel, that we can sometimes be labelled emotional. As emotions are the work of the hysterical female psyche, they are bad. Hence, when you show them, even totally justifiably, you are automatically banished to the kingdom of crazy.

A brilliant article by Harris O’Malley on the Huffington Post says it better than I ever could:

The trend of labeling women “crazy” is part of the culture that socializes women to go along to get along. When women are told over and over again that they’re not allowed to feel the way they feel and that they’re being “unreasonable” or “oversensitive,” they’re conditioned to not trust their own emotions. Their behavior — being assertive, even demanding or standing up for how they feel — becomes an “inconvenience” to men and they’re taught not to give offense and to consider the feelings of others before their own.

You can read the article here.

It’s absolutely the worst catch 22 in any relationship. The second you protest that you’re not being ridiculous or overreacting, you start being ridiculous and overreactive. I couldn’t even count the amount of times an ex berated me with this argument. On more occasions than I’d care to admit, he would ask me to leave the house and not re-enter until I’d changed my attitude. Classic example of how my feelings were second to his. My concerns were bothering him, so he’d simply ask them to stop.

In hindsight, probably should of told him to stick it, but fear of being the crazy chick stopped me.

I barely ever go after a man I truly like for fear of the dreaded C- word label. If a girl even thinks about texting after its obvious it’s over then she gets smacked with the clinger stick.

So I propose a change. Let your freak flag fly ladies. Don’t be afraid to express your genuine feelings. Men will just have to learn to handle emotions as they come.

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Are the Bachelor-ettes suffering ‘work goggles’?

Work goggles. Similar phenomenon to the commonly suffered ‘beer googles’, work goggles appear after prolonged interaction in the workplace. They can be cultivated after weeks, months or years with a colleague. A human who, under normal circumstances might repel or repulse you, suddenly becomes the apple of your eye. The reason to get out of bed and schlep into the office with more than some BB cream and a slick of mascara.

Sure, it’s nice to have a reason to go to those dreary lunch meetings and firm mingling dos’. But don’t be fooled. Chances are you wouldn’t accept a drink from this person in a bar, however end up pashing them on the dance floor at 2 am after a few too many pink lemonades.

My major concern with work goggles is how widespread the condition is. Some ridiculous figure like, 80% (by no means an actual estimate) of people meet their partners at work. So I’m not the only one falling prey.

A gorgeous friend the other day divulged she had developed a crush on a certain young gentleman at her work place. Now, I should add he has an equally Zeus – like boyfriend of 5 years so it’s not like she needs the attention or eye candy. However after a couple of wines, she divulged the identity of her crush. We managed a Facebook stalk (you’re kidding yourself if you don’t think that’s what it’s for), and lo and behold he wasn’t attractive in the slightest. She swore black and blue (and Pinot and Grigio) that it was his personality that brought on her fits of childish flirting everyday. I diagnosed her straight away: work googles.

Not that I’m immune. You may have caught some of my previous rantings about a certain gentleman who I work with. Hardly surprising, but I was repulsed by him in he beginning. Attraction grew by attrition: he just simply wore me down. Day after day after day of seeing him in the lift, the lobby, the kitchen… You can’t escape it and the next thing you know, you’re hooked.

I’m starting to think contestants on the hugely popular reality show ‘The Bachelor’ might be suffering from a mutant strand of the disease, not dislike Stockholm Syndrome. I mean don’t get me wrong, Tim the Chiropractor is gorgeous but his personality evident on the show is on par with that contained in my large left toe. There are hordes of women swooning over him, and last night I even gagged a little as Ali declared, via video message, that she loved him. Loved him, loved him, loved him. (Spoiler alert: she got booted. Too fast, too soon, too creepy sweetheart).

When you have constant, forced, inescapable contact with a person day in, day out, chances are you’ll grow to find their repulsive traits irresistible. It’s inevitable.

Next time you’re crushing on a colleague (or considering entering a reality show where ‘love’ is the only prize), pause and think: are you a victim of work goggles? The only cure is to quit.

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Hell no! H2O!

Wing woman-ing takes a certain amount of finesse and tact.

There are times when I’ve exhibited such skills and achieved immeasurable success. Just last Friday, I managed to acquire my friend a suitable partner after she eyed him across the bar. A coy introductory line from me to him, deflection to her and a subtle exit to the bathroom some minutes later saw them exchange by the end of the evening both digits and saliva.

Other times, however, have not been so profitable for any party. After accompanying a good friend to meet her Romeo at a local bar, I was in the common position of being left with the ‘spare’. Don’t get me wrong, this guy wasn’t half bad (besides the tattoos and smug awareness that they did, in fact, up his street cred). Under normal circumstances however I can say with certainty he just wouldn’t have caught my eye. However sometimes when you’re single you must break out of that little comfort zone and branch out into the unknown. Unchartered waters.

So I took a chance on the inked man and after some (read:several) drinks we decided to take the whole party back to my place. My friend, her man, his wingman and me. Happy little family.

After a few more glasses of red and some not so subtle banging on the door from our neighbour I decided to retire to my boudoir. As nothing more than some heavy petting had transpired thus far between the spare and me, I politely stated in no uncertain terms that if he did wish to stay over (as his friend had already managed a bed space) he could “lie next to me with no funny business”. Clearly, it was the invitation of a life time because after agreeing with a cheeky smile and a pash, he followed me into the room before declaring he needed a glass of water.

Either he got lost on the 10 metre journey to the kitchen or we were fresh out of running tap water, because he never quite made it back. I don’t think any guy has made a mad dash for the exit of a girls apartment before he’s even tried his luck. But, true to my dating form, I heard the front door slam moments after he walked away from me. I peeked outside the bedroom room, expecting a knock and a sheepish “I took a wrong turn” explanation, but none came.

I consoled myself with the thought that he must have not been well but I really don’t think that to be the case. Needless to say, his friend and my friend were able to have a good giggle about it in the morning when they expected to see his at the breakfast table but I emerged alone.

I guess two wings don’t make a right.