Category Archives: Men

“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.


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!


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.



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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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:


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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“Basic Space” – the XX

Love a good set up. Normally I am on the receiving end of same, being one of a handful of single ladies in my social circle. However last weekend I played match maker myself. Just to try out how the other half live. Not that I had my work cut out for me: she’s a babe and he’s a bit of ladies man. Match made in artificially manufactured heaven.

Have I mentioned he’s a colleague? No, well that’s kind of crucial to the story. Daily interaction. Forced daily interaction.

First encounter was easy enough. She walked in the pub and he went “woah”. Not much I had to do to convince him. Her on the other hand was a bit trickier but I soon realised I had a God given and rarely used talent for finding other people dates. Shame about myself.

All went pretty textbook that evening thereafter. Boy buys drinks. Girl bats eyelahes. Before long I’m crow barring them apart.

Did I mention she’s my flatmate? Also crucial to the story and probably the reason I didn’t try my hand at match making earlier.

The clincher was waking the next weekend to find my colleague, clad in little more than a loin cloth, in my lounge room. To his credit he was endlessly entertaining and didn’t make me feel like a third wheel. Which is generous considering some hours prior I had been the worlds best wing woman and made small talk with several less than eligible bachelors while they pashed on.

After several days of relaying coy and not so subtle messages back and forth I was relieved when he finally got the figurative balls to ask for her number.

Lesson in all this totes awkes encounters? Set up people you don’t have to see every waking hour (and hear every hour allocated for sleep).

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“I came in like a wrecking ball, I never hit so hard in love” – Miley Cyrus, Wrecking Ball

My approach has always been softly, softly. Like standing on the edge of a 1950s dance hall, waiting for a chivalrous hand to lead me to the floor, I’m never one to initiate an encounter. Call me old fashioned, but I believe the man should make the first move. Chasing is unbecoming of a lady.

But does that mean that nice girls are finishing last?

If Miley’s chart topping film clip is anything to go by, brash is back. Perhaps I should take heed: plenty of times have I left a night out disappointed because a guy I fancied didn’t make a move. Maybe if I’d been more forward I’d have snagged a date. I’m not shy, not socially retarded; I’m just not overly a fan of having to pursue someone for their attention.

On one particular night I did make the first move. The end result? My first (and last) one night stand. Being forward is not my forte. I always feel, well, so tawdry.

I currently have a crush. I speak to him. Email even (serious stuff). But I’m so petrified that I’ve mixed his signals that I’m scared to even add him as a friend on the old Facebook. What if he is legitimately just looking for female friend. Whilst strutting around in flesh coloured underwear and gyrating on mechanical equipment might make my intentions pretty obvious, it’s not the usual way to go about the courtship thing.

For now, I’ll just have to hope he enjoys the chase, because I’m not running in his direction.

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It’s not over til it’s over…

… Til I’m over you.

Relationships are, by their definition, definable. Clearly definable. Friend, sister, aunt, colleague, lover, grandfather. But what if the boundaries are blurred. What if there was never any definition. What then, when the relationship is over?

I’m in the midst of such a redefining, if you will. The fling has ended. The tryst is over. However, for circumstances out of my control, we can’t let go. Not because there is any feeling there, but because we work about 100m apart.

It’s hard to have complete closure when it was never really open. Usually, a break up is dramatic and painful but it’s final. Kaput. Dunzo. In this case, it’s not that easy when you’ve not really got anything concrete to finish in the first place.

I never like letting things fizzle. I have gone out of my way to end things with dignity and respect even when they may not have been a Facebook- status worthy relationship. That’s just common dating decency. But I’m out of luck on this one. Short of leaving him a post it note thanking him for the random drunken hook ups but it’s now over, I don’t know how to end something that was, well, nothing.

I guess I’ve just got to wait till the fat lady sings.

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