Category Archives: Dating

“But you’ve got your demons and she’s got her regrets” – New Person, Same Old Mistakes, Tame Impala

I’ve had a minor hiatus. I wish I could say because it was of a glamorous overseas adventure, or that I fell madly in love, however alas it was a illness which has largely kept me off the dating scene (the Kissing Disease, no loss. How apt).

Fret not, I wasted no time in getting back onto the dating horse after making a full recovery.

Unfortunately, it seems that the time I took off dating made me momentarily forget that most men are selfish c&*#$ that will do and say almost anything to get you into the boudoir.

My latest mistake took the form of a good friends brother. I know, rookie error, right off the bat. He chased me for weeks, and I finally succumbed. I let the little voice inside of me that had doubts that it was a BAD FUCKING IDEA be silenced because. Man. Hot man.

I let the little voice that told me that he was 35 and single for good reason be silenced.

I let the little voice that told me that his disengaged mannerisms and flammable anger would be different with me.

LOVE CONQUERS ALL RIGHT?

So I dived in, lured by his promises of ‘happy ever after’. There was even a heartfelt declaration on the street. Much to the dismay of the little voice in my head, I believed him.

I sacrificed a friendship for a man. The ultimate betrayal.

Karma was none too pleased. So where I thought I had found my prince, I was rewarded with a demon.

After 4 months together (in which we fought little, but always about his sister), he pulled the rug out from under me. In the most despicable way (which will come to light, I’m not yet able to talk about it. That’s the level of devastation we’re talking here).

To say I’ve learnt my lesson is an understatement. But the lesson here was not ‘don’t date your friends brothers’. Instead, it was don’t silence the little voice. Your intuition is not often wrong. I thought, as so many ladies before me have, that I would be the one to change him. To soften him. To settle him.

I certainly have my regrets. And he was the ultimate demon.

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I woke up like this… Unfortunately.

I recently ran into a friend from university. Twice. In one day. Having been ‘alone’ for a while I took that as an invitation to end up in his bed. Not overly proud of it but, hey, girls just want to have fun, right!?

Normally, my golden rule is to bring the man to yours: always play a home game. There are multiple bonuses to this strategy: having your beauty products at the ready the next morning being one of them. (Not having to do the walk of shame another).

When I awoke the next morning I was suffering something much worse than ‘buyers remorse’. I had a tongue that could sand a table. My lips were caked in skin cells. My contacts had shrunk into my retinas. On top of that, my head throbbed and I couldn’t find my underwear (withhold judgment, please).

I couldn’t find anything remotely sexy about the situation. The previous night might have been loads of fun but the morning light was just far too harsh. My dear old companion didn’t seem to have so many qualms about his appearance – while I shied away from all human contact he was begging for round two.

I was infinitely concerned that he was thinking he’d gone to bed with a 10 and woken up with a 2. I wish in that moment I could be photoshopped into the woman I’d been on the dance floor only hours earlier.

I retreated to the ensuite and utilised the minimal arsenal I had in my clutch – bronzer, lip balm and contact drops. No transformation is complete without the old ‘toothpaste on the teeth’ trick. I emerged looking only slightly less dishevelled that I had been going in.

My friend quipped that I hadn’t taken long to which I wryly replied “you can’t polish a turd”. Classy.

There is a reason I never play an away game and my appearance that morning was it. As my friend so gallantly drove me home, I couldn’t even bring myself to give him a kiss goodbye. That furry feeling I had coating my teeth and the taste of last nights tequila didn’t the ideal kissing situation make. If he misinterpreted my cold farewell as a lack of affection I don’t blame him – I’d have been confused too!

If I’ve lost a potential date because I didn’t have access to baby wipes and a decent BB cream I’m going to be seriously pissed. And Beyonce – I blame you!

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Would you like a side of sex with that?

At a recent friends birthday party, I happened upon his attractive friend. There was instant chemistry, mainly assisted by a roaring fire and copious amounts of alcohol. After a good half an hour flirt, he asked me to the bar. My rubber arm didn’t require much twisting.

Once there however, the night went from normal to strange very quickly: Alice fell down the rabbit hole. He offered me a sample of the illicit drugs he’d been toting around. Now I’m no angel but I also don’t accept MDMA caps from someone who is essentially a complete stranger. However I decided to run with it and let him pour it in my glass of chardie: which I promptly proceeded to pour down the sink of the nearest women’s bathroom without taking a sip.

I’ve since learnt that being high and pretending to be high are two completely different kettle of fish. I don’t think I’ll be winning an Oscar for portrayal of a drug addict anytime soon. I had no idea how someone on caps is supposed to act but I obviously wasn’t doing it. Within a few hours I was blatantly boozed while my tall, handsome drug-dealing pash was clearly off chops.

The birthday party moved back to an apartment in the inner city and before long I was kissing the mysterious stranger. Kissing, and yawning. It was, after all, almost 3 in the morning and I’m not known for my stamina. My wannabe lover enquired as to whether the effects had ‘worn off’, having no idea that they’d never kicked in! He was still clearly relishing the effects of the chemical reactions while I was on my way to the Land of Nod. Not ideal. After a couple of minutes he promptly stood up off the couch and declared that he was leaving to go back out. I had no issues with that, clearly myself wanting to make a dash for the door and my bed some few blocks away. Preferably alone. He walked to the door of the apartment before turning and somewhat dramatically returning to my side where he ever so politely enquired:

Did you want to have sex?

Not your normal invitation. I think he was just trying his luck, of which he didn’t have much. Needless to say he didn’t get lucky that night but I did have a giggle the next morning relaying his proposition to my girlfriends.

That was until I got a text at 8 am asking if I’d care to drop round to his place.

He might have been ridiculous, but least he was a gentleman.

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Alone again, naturally…

Apologies for the hiatus. I was, you see, temporarily not single. For someone who writes a blog about the hilariousness, awkwardness and otherwise fabulousness that it is to be solo, suddenly getting a boyfriend puts a little spanner in the works.

It was the age old story: boy knows girls for 10 years. Both become single. Boy asks girl out and, despite having him firmly in the friend zone for a decade, girl agrees to be in a relationship. Almost instantaneously. A week before he leaves for three months abroad.

So, maybe not the ideal start to a relationship. I really should have cottoned on to our incompatibility after realising that there was a reason he had been friend zoned since first year of university. But, I yielded to his requests to “go steady”. I’m not proud of it but I liked the attention; it was nice to be wanted. It was nicer to be talked about by our mutual friends: our union caused quite the stir.

After a few months talking on the phone, receiving extravagant posies of flowers and French champagne on Valentines Day, I flew interstate to meet him. It was a bizarre 5 day reunion. I was almost sick on the plane ride over. We’d decided to wait to get jiggy until we met again, all very romantic. Turns out, if you haven’t wanted to sleep with someone in 10 years of knowing them, there’s probably a reason. We had less chemistry than oil and water. It just didn’t work, at all. While I’m the first to concede that sex isn’t the be all and end all in a relationship (I should know, my first boyfriend is gay) it isn’t great when you aren’t wanting to rip each others clothes off within the first 4 months.

The decision was made for me. After we returned home and settled into normality with my new man home, I realised how much physical compatibility was critical to a relationship. Within 11 days I was having the chat and ending it. I cried for about an hour, then hardened up. I haven’t come this far to be with someone who the thought of being intimate with excited me as much as having to pumice my feet.

Lesson learned: once in the friend zone, it’s just not worth letting them cross over into lovers.

Alone again, naturally.

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Single phobia: don’t box me in

Because I am female, I am expected to aspire to marriage. I am expected to make my life choices, always keeping in mind that marriage is the most important. – Beyone

I have been single a while. Not a decade or an eon, but long enough to know that I am pitied. It doesn’t really matter that I am a (somewhat, sometimes) attractive, young, vibrant and personally successful female, my accomplishments in all facets of my life are somewhat overshadowed by the glaringly obvious flaw:

I AM SINGLE

For my male counterparts, they are allowed and encouraged to be the perpetual bachelors: young, sprightly gentlemen with the possibility of a plethora of women only a SMS away. When they attend work functions ‘stag’ they are desirable. When I do, if I’m not pathetic, I’m desperate or worse: a threat.

The pitying isn’t coming solely from men. Over a crisp glass of vino this evening a friend divulged that she too (newly single) had been the victim of the ever so condescending

“Oh, but you’ll meet him!”

As she quite rightly pointed out- she didn’t want to bloody meet him. She, for now, was enough. Men were “love of night” not “love of life”. A scary concept for our loved up friends.

I suffer the same ‘pep’ talk from female friends constantly. The differences are sometimes subtle:

Single friend: Next! Move on babes, he’s not worth it.
Taken friend: Are you sure you shouldn’t go on a second date with elevator boy? I mean, you can always live with a third nipple and surely the prior sexual assault conviction isn’t a deal breaker?

My reasoning has deduced that my shacked up friends like to be able to categorise their single friends. Gay. Morbidly obese. Relationship phobic. Slut. Cat lady. Neat little boxes that you can slot someone in, to explain the unattached status of their love life. If you’re available, not emotionally restarted and you can’t really see a reason why you’re single (other than no one is worthy), then it stands to reason that neither can your friends. And that scares them.

They. Can’t. Put. You. In. A. Box.

Categorising is the curse of the couples. If you’re not happily snuggled up to a significant other (as they are), how can you possibly be happy (as they are)? I believe that single phobia is spreading. Instead of being feared, we should be revered. We manage just-fine-thank-you-very-much. Sure, Valentines Day isn’t pleasant and tandem bike riding is difficult solo, but we grin and bear it with sass and style and a sense of freedom.

So to the pitied: you may not have met the one, but in the meantime you might as well have fuckloads of fun.

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Stuck on my elevator

Chance meetings can be serendipitous; ending in love scenes which wouldn’t be out of place in a Richard Curtis movie.

Last week I had one of my own, that, whilst not yet ended, I can tell you would be more suited to a scene out of Australia’s Funniest Home Videos. Without the ‘boom tish’.

We met out in a bar. I was sober (with the flu, not out of choice) and chaperoning a best friend on her birthday. For some reason I had resisted the temptation to smoke bomb into the night at every turn, and we all ended up at a local dive bar, devouring tacos late into the night. As I was walking (nay: stumbling in a Sudafed- induced haze) back from the bar, I was approached by a young man who I instantly recognised as working in my building. Awkward eye contact, followed by a hasty introduction to him and his friends before I returned to my table was the extent of the effort I could make in my feverish stupor.

It wasn’t until I went to the bathroom that he approached my friends, managed to secure my mobile phone number and started a very interesting and very public texting session. I was doing my best to be both witty and cute whilst snot dribbled to my top lip and I was doing my best just to stay upright. After a few cheeky exchanges, we decided to unite our tables. His friends met my friends to mixed levels of success until we disappeared into the night.

Over the next few days we harmlessly texted back and forth, mostly sticking to safe topics including other inhabitants of the buildings lifts and his job interview. Despite him knowing where and when I work, there was no invitation to lunch or even coffee.

In a moment if weakness I whinged to my secretary about his lack of ability to set up another meeting. In a moment of stupidity we decided to google him, little did I know my not so private Linked In profile would automatically log in, allowing him to easily see I had stalked him. Without knowing his last name. Nor was I aware that my secretary had also gone back to her desk to show his portrait to a number of colleagues so that they too, could be on the look out for cute elevator boy.

It wasn’t until my phone dinged minutes later from said elevator boy, asking why me and my colleagues were all checking out his credentials that the penny dropped. Mortified would be an understatement. The boy thing to do was to laugh hysterically for half an hour, then cheekily respond:

sprung…

Luckily for me he saw the funny side.

A couple of days later I got a knock on my office door from a colleague, passing on a greeting from a tall handsome man she’d met in the lift. I guess he’d decided to meet me on my level: cute but creepy.

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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.

“Love Me Tinder”

Internet dating has a stigma. Hiding behind a LCD screen allows a person a certain amount of anonymity not afforded in the public sphere. After a short lived foray into Internet dating (in the name of research, of course) I’m starting to understand why that stigma is warranted.

For those that have been living under a rock, or, say, in a relationship, Tinder is a dating application that works on a very simple, brutal premise. Swipe right for yes; left for no. That’s it. Five photos which stand between you and your potential soul mate.

I entered the realm of the unknown after a few too many margaritas. Buoyed by a friends’ positive experience with several young gentlemen she had been “matched” with via the app, I brazenly picked 5 of my most worthy pictures and set up my profile. To be judged. And to judge. Damn, was it addictive! Suddenly the power was back in my hands. After years of sheepish, coy glances across the bar, waiting for texts and taking the back seat in the dating game, it was finally my choice, my swipe, that gave me the opportunity to potentially pursue.

There were a few good men, but one particularly caught my attention with a few cheeky exchanges and, after successfully stalking his Facebook page agreed to meet up. For all those attempting to Internet date, let what happened thereafter serve as a guide:

Always meet the match with a friend in tow. That way, if he is a serial killer, at least someone would have copped a look at his face. Small comfort.

Remember photos can be photoshopped, cropped, filtered, darkened, lightened and just downright fake. Grain of salt when basing your opinion on the photographic variety of evidence.

Speak on the phone before you agree to meet. Wittiness can be manufactured over text, but is very difficult to replicate in real time conversation. Once you’re on a boring date, you’re stuck there for what feels like eternity.

While a few drinks under your belt can help with the old Dutch courage, being blotto is not really advisable. And under no circumstances should you follow my lead and meet up after midnight. Nothing good can happen after Cinderella’s curfew.

The second a guy admits his baby blues are due to contacts: run. Briskly, towards the nearest exit.

While the power of the swipe was certainly a thrill, I’m not sold. Nothing can recreate that first rush when meeting someone in the flesh. Back to the meat market for this little Miss Piggy.

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