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The Reason Why I’m Single

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This is a question I have pondered often. Am I too pretty? Am I too smart? Am I too ridiculously hilarious? Am I too perfect, you know in that annoying too good to be true kinda way…

Perhaps I’m too modest?

A reader suggested why recently….FullSizeRender

Well that was a strange suggestion as I don’t even like horse riding?!?

Anyhoo, my search continued and I think I have found it! It’s my neighbours. No, not that douchebag detective that still haunts my hallway. Neighbours. As in the really, really, really good TV show, Neighbours.

Stop sniggering. It IS good. Last week I had a stupidly busy week at work and didn’t leave the office until really late each night. When I finally got home on Friday night, tired, cranky and stinging for a wine, I realised that I hadn’t had time to watch Neighbours any day that week. That’s right folks, I had 2.5 hours of Neighbours delight ahead of me. What more could a single gal ask for on a Friday night? If only I had 18 cats to share such a magical night with…

And maybe I soon will. An Elite Singles survey recently revealed that singles think that Neighbours is the least attractive TV show that a future partner may like to watch. Say what?! Shut the front door.

And that 67% of singles think that liking the right TV shows can make someone appear more interesting. Now that, that I can agree with. Like Kardashians. If I could just find a man who (would admit to) Keeping Up With the Kardashians, I would be all #soulmate.

The study perhaps also revealed another reason as to why I’m single. The top 3 most attractive shows were:

  1. The Big Bang Theory – favoured by geeks and freaks
  2. Game of Thrones – closet sexual deviants ;p
  3. Criminal Minds – homicidal maniacs in training

Yep, ain’t nobody got time for that….

The Insurance Policy – Part 2

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If you have found this post before Part 1, off you go….

If you read this blog in hope of an occasional saucy tidbit into a single woman’s sex life (come on guys, I know there a few of you and I’m sorry that I so often disappoint you), off you go too….

This is the second half of the story about me freezing my eggs.

Day 8-9 It’s the weekend and I’m glad of this as I’m feeling quite tired. I stay in bed until noon (mostly because I can, yay to no kids!) but I generally feel a bit off with no appetite at all and a slightly upset stomach again.

Fortunately I had no plans anyway so I can stay home and binge on Sex and the City. It’s also good to have a cheap weekend as I’m about to be super poor after spending $11.5k on my potential future children that I’m not even sure that I want now. It may be the raging hormones, but kids are really giving me the shits lately. As are all the Facebook mummy posts complaining about their lives or praising their kids for doing nothing of interest. Yay, little Johnny can drink from a cup. Who cares. I’ve been doing that for years. Where is my fucking prize?

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Day 10 Up early on Monday morning for the blood test and scan that I hope will indicate these suckers are coming out on Wednesday. The ultrasound nurse seems really excited about my progress and says I’ll need to take the trigger shot home today as I’ll take it tonight if my procedure gets booked for Wed. She shows me the syringe and it’s huge! I immediately feel queasy but she assures me that the actual needle part is the same size as the one I’m used to. Why do they have to go and do that huh?!? Size matters people, it does.

I head off to work with my new syringe packed in a delightfully discreet black cooler bag with a random bright butterfly on it and some words that indicate it contains medication. I’ll have to slip this into the communal fridge at work and hope for the best considering the fridge is usually a high theft zone.

I’m called at lunchtime and told that I’ve got some nice big eggs, but the stragglers need a few more days to grow, so I’m booked in for another round of the blood test and scan on Wednesday.

I’m not too fussed about this as today I feel great!! I feel like all the sleep on the weekend has given me a burst of energy and because I’ll need to take a day off work soon, I work back until about 8pm to get ahead.

I’m kinda digging this no appetite and stomach bug thing too. Although I feel fat and bloated, I envision that I’ll end up coming out of theatre looking like Giselle when these eggs are out. Maybe I can stay on these drugs forever….

Day 11 Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck! What the hell has happened overnight?!? I wake up with the most painful boobs EVER! Showering, towelling, dressing, it’s all torture to my nipples!! Driving to work I am for the first time regretting that I have a car with sport-tuned suspension as every single bump is killing me!! The cold office environment is also rather distressing. Could this be revenge from my hateful reaction to little Johnny’s cup triumph?!?

Day 12 Up early again for….you know the drill. Today I arrive and my nurse is unusually young. Up until now they have been older ‘mumsy’ types. This girl is young….and hot….and has ridiculously pretty blue eyes. Ok, this feels awks….

She is also really talkative and whilst I’m laying there waiting for her to get all set up for the scan she is chatting to me about random things. I haven’t noticed this before, but there is a basket of condoms on the ultrasound machine stand that are all unwrapped. The thought had crossed my mind during previous scans that these women were likely at a ‘super expert’ level of putting on condoms considering how many times they would do it a day, even more than a hooker I presume. But now I realise they would likely be foiled by the foil. I also can’t help but think that doesn’t seem all that hygienic, but I guess it’s kinda the same as rubber gloves in a box right?!?

Anyhoo, I also notice today the extreme amount of lube that goes on the condom on top of the ultrasound wand. It’s a blob the size of a large strawberry! Again I’m distracted by thoughts of them buying lube in barrels. Probably easier to just get it on tap. Anyhoo….

It all starts and we continue chatting which is still a little weird until she gets all excited by the amount of eggs she is seeing that appear to be of a good size. I can’t help but like her now, but it’s still weird that she keeps stopping what she is doing to make eye contact with me whilst we talk….whilst her hand is holding a wand in my hoo haa.

I’m told if my blood test is good I’ll likely be booked in for theatre on the Friday. I spend my day at work getting organised to take Friday off, and just before 5pm I get the call confirming tonight is trigger shot time. I’m to take it at the same time that I’ve been taking the rest of my injections, 10pm, then no more shots at all. I have to fast overnight and turn up at the day hospital at 7am for admission. I’ll likely be scheduled for about 8am, the procedure will take 20mins to half an hour and I can go home about 10am with a ‘responsible adult’ escorting me as I’ll be unable to drive following the light general anaesthetic.

Turns out the massive trigger shot needle wasn’t that massive. I put my last needle in my trusty yellow sharps container that’s been perched on my beside table for almost two weeks and get an early night.

Day 13 is bad. If I had known I would feel so shit that day I would have worked from home, but that wasn’t really an option as I’m crazy busy preparing for a brand launch the following week. My boobs are even sorer than before, I’m tired, my stomach is bloated and tender, it kinda hurts to sit and I’m on the verge of vomiting all day….until 4pm. All of a sudden I feel great again! And I stay at work until 8:30pm tying to get ahead considering I’m taking a day off before a long weekend.

Day 14 I’m up and off to the day hospital in the dark at 6:30am. When I arrive there are only men waiting in the reception area. I’m asked to fill out a heap of forms, pay a heap of money for the procedure that day and I’m asked 82 times what I’m allergic to. Unsurprisingly the answer does not change the more I’m asked.

I’m taken down to the theatre prep area and given an open backed cotton robe, with a terry towelling robe to put over the top and a blanket, all of which had been in a warmer. What a nice touch! Once changed I sit and wait for the anaesthesiologist to come and see me. There are magazines in the room with me and I see the top one has a story about Sonia Kruger wanting to have a second baby at 51. Fuck that shit! Sure, it’s potentially possible after doing this that I could do that myself, but I’m pretty sure if I get to 51 and I haven’t used these eggs, I would have stopped paying the freezer bill a while ago!

The anaesthesiologist guy comes and asks me all the questions I’ve answered on the forms. The anaesthetic nurse comes and does the same. My doctor comes and does it too. Then I’m taken down to theatre at 7:45am.

Shit this is a real theatre. There are lots of machines in the room and about 5 or 6 people who I assume are about to see my vagina. Everything is white and bright and I’m asked to lay down on the bed in the middle of the room. I’m not sure what I expected really, but it was probably something more like my doctors office when I get a pap test, the only difference being that I would be asleep for it today.

I’m laying on the bed whilst the anaesthesiologist is talking to me and putting a cannula in my hand and I notice the stirrup type leg rests beside the bed. Again I’m thinking about my vagina on full display with my legs in the stirrups and….

Holy shit where am I?! That anaesthetic guy pulled a swifty on me. It’s like I’ve been roofied. I’m in recovery and I can see a clock on the wall that says it’s 8:20am. I’m really sleepy but I’m feeling ok which is a relief as I’ve woken up from anaesthetic before and been sick over the side of the bed….and been told off by the nurse as I didn’t wait for her to give me a bucket. Sorry lady, I was not in control of my bodily functions!!

A nurse comes over and asks how I am and I tell her I’m fine, but sleepy. She walks away and I drift in and out trying to make my eyes stay open. She comes back a little later when I’m more awake and pulls back the blanket to get my hand out. They write the number of eggs they have collected on your hand so that you know as soon as you wake up and my hand is telling me….

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Sweeeeeeeeeeeeet! The scans were showing 8-9 eggs in each ovary so I had in my head I would get 16 or more. This is good!

After a while I’m feeling ok and the nurse gets me out of bed and moves me to the recovery lounge area to eat some breakfast. I’m put in an armchair and given cheese and crackers (WTF do you call this, French breakfast?), some cookies, an apple juice, a bottle of water and a coffee.

My blood pressure is a bit low and I’m told I’ll have to wait until it comes up. I’m offered more cheese and crackers and let’s face it, cheese and crackers are always the best little meal option on a tight ass flight, so I go again.

I’m sitting there alone with a number of other women around me also recovering who are all sitting their with their male partners. I overhear that the couple next to me are both called Peter. Yup, Peta and Peter. Seriously.

Soon I’m feeling better, my dad has arrived to pick me up (because #matureadult) and I’m ready to go home.

I’m told the scientists will analyse my eggs and call me in the afternoon to let me know how many eggs could be frozen. I hadn’t really considered that the number of my hand would not be the final number up until this point.

I get home and mum has made me a care package of her amazing cinnamon scrolls and chicken pot pies for later. The scientist calls shortly after and tells me of the 18 eggs they collected, only 12 were mature and suitable for freezing. Immediately I’m disappointed. A 33% failure rate is more than I expected. Even though 9-12 frozen eggs per cycle is average and I was on the upper end of average, I’m still frustrated that I so quickly went from overachiever to just average.

But I had in my mind originally that I was hoping for 12, maybe I’d get 8 or 9 and if it was 6 or less I would have to go back for another attempt. 12 is enough for me to feel like I’ve got a reasonable insurance policy, so I am going to leave it at that.

My folks leave and I log in to work and respond to a few emails. Everything seems under control so I lay on the lounge for a bit…which turned into most of the afternoon. I could not stay awake and moving around hurt. This was the most painful my insides had been so far.

The day after I’m still really tired and tender and I again spend most of the day on the lounge. I’m really glad my procedure was done on a Friday so I had the next day to recover as well. By Sunday I’m not so tired anymore, nor as sore, but my boobs are still killing!!

Who knows what will happen from here. With my current dislike for children I may never use the eggs, but I’m glad that I will have the option there and available to me. Or I may not use them because I end up having a baby naturally, but at least I know I have back up and I can feasibly delay my choice to have kids (or not) for many more years than nature usually intends.

All in all, I’m glad I did it and it wasn’t that much of a disruption to my life. Assuming my boobs go back to normal. Otherwise I’ll need a new more sensible car….

The Insurance Policy – Part 1

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Guys, as in men, you may want to skip this post. It involves girly things and if you are the type that hates the word ‘period’ as much as women hate the word ‘moist’, I think you should stop reading now….

Still reading? Ok, well here is your second warning. This post is about babies…kinda. If you are the type of guy that thinks women in their 30’s are just wanting to have babies with you (which is actually quite frustrating and totally untrue, sometimes we just want to have fun with you too, seriously…) you should probably stop reading now.

This post is about egg freezing. I’ve been on a dating hiatus for a while now, partly due to starting a new job which has been keeping me insanely busy, but also because of my impending egg freezing treatment. I thought it would be best to refrain from dating someone new whilst I’m a hormonal nightmare.

This whole process started early last year. I was approaching my 34th birthday, I had a number of friends who had recently had a baby and I was certainly nowhere close to being in a situation of having one myself, nor did I really want to be. I was dating and I had in my head that I would have kids at some point, but I still felt it was a long way off.

But after hearing many a story of friends my age (or younger) struggling to conceive naturally, I understood that I perhaps didn’t have a ‘long way off’ to play with. Also, I was approaching my ‘scary age’ of 35. You know, the age at which you think it’s make or break for baby making. Many years before this I had thought 35 would be the age at which I would ‘buy a baby’ if I hadn’t met someone, which to me meant going down the sperm donor path and going it alone.

But at almost 34 I still felt very young. My friends that had had children, who were also about 34, also seemed far too young to have children. Not in the irresponsible parent kind of way, more that we were still laughing at ridiculously childish things ourselves. So I got a referral to an IVF doctor and thought about looking into egg freezing. I thought about it for about 4 months. I was busy finishing my MBA, then taking a holiday, then I was enjoying being between jobs, dating etc and finally mid last year I made an appointment at the IVF clinic.

I intended to go and just get the blood test done that assesses your egg reserves and let that make the decision for me. If it was low for my age, I would definitely look at egg freezing. If it wasn’t I would probably give it some more time. I didn’t realise though that I would have to go off the pill for an accurate read on the test and having been on the pill since about 16, it took a few months to even get my period back to normal to be able to do the test.  By then it was about October last year and as well as the blood test I had to have one of those delightful internal ultrasounds that commences with a woman rolling a condom on a giant wand and lubing it up, plus a round of standard STI tests to check everything was in order for the egg freezing to go well.

After enduring all that, I returned to the IVF clinic to get my results. Everything was good and my egg levels were ‘normal’ for a 34 year old woman. The bad news about that was that there was no chance of being deemed fertility challenged and getting medicare to foot some of the bill for egg freezing. The doc ran through the costs with me. $11.5K. Yikes!!! I knew it would be about that, but hearing it still hurt. And it might be more. Many people do it 2, even 3 times to make sure they have enough eggs in the freezer to counter the failure rate. On average I might get 9-12 eggs out of a cycle, but when I choose to use them half may die when they are defrosted, some more will swipe left on the chosen sperm (who I may or may not know the name of…) and some more just won’t implant. On average 1 in 6 could lead to a pregnancy down the track. So all this for a one or two chance, hmmm I don’t like those odds!

All of the things that I would rather spend $11.5K on were running through my mind. A Vegas trip? Part way to a second car (I really want a spare convertible ;p) Hell, I could even get a boob job for that!

But the doc had told me that up to 35 is pretty much the last of the ‘optimum’ time to freeze your eggs. They will of course do it after that, but because fertility declines so significantly from 35 the chances of it being all that beneficial declines significantly too.

I knew I was at least 2 years off realistically being in a position of wanting a child (at best). I was single and even if I met my unicorn the next day, I’m not a quick commitment person and it would be very unlike me to decide I wanted to have a baby with someone too fast, plus I still felt like my lifestyle did not really have space for caring for a baby at this point.

So I decided to go ahead with freezing my eggs with the idea that it was insurance that would possibly safeguard against the decision to have a baby or not being taken out of my hands. I also thought at the time that it would bump out my scary age from 35 to 39. If I still hadn’t met a potential future baby daddy by then, I would go it alone with a sperm donor. Done. Locked in. Let’s do this…

I was about to accept a new job at the time so expecting that I will soon be getting a salary again, I started proceedings aiming to complete a cycle before Day 1 of my new job. I headed back to the clinic for a lesson on how to inject myself with the hormones each night and practised on a little pin cushion thing which was supposed to replicate my flesh. I felt awkward and weird and the pen type syringe was simple, but the proper syringe freaked me out a little. I wrapped up the session quickly and thought I’d work it out by reading the instructions, or surely there would be a youtube vid I could watch later. I’m so Gen-Y….almost.

But then I changed my mind about that job and decided to hold out for something I wanted more. Early this year that opportunity came along and I booked an appointment with the IVF doc to get started again as my original referral had run out. I waited a month or so for the appointment, then again I had to do some more tests, then finally I was ready to go early May.

Just before I was about to start I was up early one Saturday morning to pick up my ultrasound scans. I was stopped at traffic lights, feeling hungover as I’d drunk a bottle of red in the bath the night before after a particularly big week at work and I was watching some parents on the sidelines of a soccer game in drizzly rain. The kids looked really little and clearly had NFI what they were doing on the field, the parents looked tired, bored and like they were hating their lives and I couldn’t help but think, fuck I really don’t want to be doing that! Not now, not in 4 years time at 39. Perhaps my new scary age is actually 42….

Then my period came earlier than expected that day and because I hadn’t sent back all my forms just yet, I had to delay for another month. Hmmm two false starts already…is this a sign?!?

But I decided to just go for it after all the effort I had already expended on the issue and this is how it played out..

Day 1 On day 3 of my period I head into the IVF clinic to do my first blood test and pick up my drugs. When I arrive at reception there is another patient, a man, who is carrying something and looking very uncomfortable. He is told to go downstairs to the day hospital so I assume he is dropping off a sample… There is another girl by herself who looks about my age and seems quite relaxed, as well as a couple who look quite anxious.

I’m called in quickly, a simple blood test is done and I’m given a cooler bag with my drugs, some of which I need to get home and into the fridge promptly. I’m in and out of the clinic within 10 minutes. When I get home and unpack the cooler bag, I’m quite surprised by how many vials of drugs I have!

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I was heading out to a dinner that night, which was to involve wine (it’s ok, alcohol is only really an issue when you intend to make the baby as part of the process), so I made sure that I read the instructions before I went with a clear mind so I could take the drugs as soon as I got home. You must inject within about an hour of the same time every night, so I had to be home at a reasonable hour, or be up late for the next two weeks.

When I get home I prep the syringe pen, the needle inserts easily into the skin near my belly button and I think I’ve done a good job until I see the reading on the side of the pen shows only 12.5 units went in, instead of the required 200. I didn’t realise the pen would kind of click each 12.5 units and I had to keep going until it zero’d out. So I had to inject myself again to finish off the job. Not ideal, but Day 1 was done without any drama.

Day 2-3 goes fine, no real side effects that were noticeable at all apart from possibly being a little more tired than usual.

Day 4 Things start to get more real. I’ve got cramps, I’m a bit bloated and I’m feeling a little spacey late in the afternoon at work. I also have a bit of an upset stomach, but all in all the side effects are quite manageable.

Day 5 I’m up early to pop into the IVF clinic for a blood test on my way to work to check how my hormone levels are responding. I’m in and out within 10 minutes again and they call about lunchtime with good news. My hormone levels are rising quickly, so my eggs are apparently growing well and I’m good to start taking the next medication that night. This means two injections each night and it’s now time to use the proper syringe. That needle seems sightly thicker and is definitely harder to insert. It also makes the skin around the injection site a bit red and itchy, but that subsides quickly. I’m starting to feel quite tired in the evenings now but again it’s manageable.

The nurse told me that day that I’ll possibly be good for egg collection by Day 10 based on how quickly my levels have come up. Yippee! Maybe this will be short and sweet…

Day 6 The bloat is getting worse and I’m now looking for the loosest work clothes I own when I’m getting ready in the morning. I had a shit day at work that day and got stuck back at work late finishing something urgent, possibly because my mind was again rather spacey and productivity was low! I was also really cranky and close to punching a number of people in the face….but to be fair, I think they deserved it anyway, it wasn’t the drugs talking ;p

Day 7 I’m up early again today for another blood test followed by an ultrasound to check how the eggs are growing and I get to watch on the screen as my follicles are measured. Not that I can really decipher much, but it looks like there are a lot of potential eggs there. Again the clinic is really efficient and although it’s not the most pleasant thing to experience an internal ultrasound first thing in the morning, I’m glad that it’s over and done with and I’m on my way to work in no time.

When the nurse calls early that afternoon I’m told the eggs are growing well, but not as fast as the previous blood test indicated. So I’m to keep doing what I’m doing and to come back on Day 10 for another blood test and ultrasound. Maybe they’ll be ready to hatch by Day 12 instead.

To be continued….

Read Part 2 now.

 

 

The Sexiest Unattractive Man Ever

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Last week Ms R and I headed out on a last minute adventure to the Chris Isaak concert. Grabbing some champers and a cheese platter in a bar before the show, we discussed the allure of Mr Isaak.

I’ve personally had the hots for him for many, many years. I told Ms R that although I thought he was in his early 50’s, I would most certainly go there given the chance!

Ms R disagreed saying he was a great entertainer, but far too old for her. To be fair, Ms R has been known to enjoy a slightly/lotly younger man ;p

Both in our mid-30’s, we were some of the youngest in the crowd when we arrived at the show. The opening act was James Reyne and he was amazing, yet had a distinctly 80’s sound. Again we debated if we’d go there and I was a definitive yes. Ms R was starting to come around, but not willing to commit. I googled and discovered he was 58. Shit!

So then we googled Chris Isaak. 59. Shit!!!

But……he is sexy as hell. The charm of a cheeky, charismatic man is very hard to beat. Many women go nuts for a musician, but personally my mind wanders to thoughts of how quickly they can strum their own instrument rather than how well they can strum mine….

After a few songs where we were up dancing and gazing longingly at Chris, I quizzed Ms R again as to if she still wouldn’t go there. She had changed her mind! I now had more competition….more competiton than the 40’s/ 50’s/ 60’s year old women just a glass of Chardy shy of throwing their knickers on stage.

Even with his boxer bashed nose, his Elvis hair and his ahem….short stature (185cm), I still would go there. He is deeeeeeeelicious!! Cheeky and charismatic trumps Bondi Vet/Channing Tatum caliber looks any day.

Oh and rich. That helps too…..   🙂

The Nice But Blah One…

Dollarphotoclub_58045195.jpgI haven’t been dating at all lately. I started a new job recently which is keeping me exceptionally busy and I’m like a man in that I struggle to focus on more than one thing at a time…

But I do have a date story from last month that I have yet to update you about. Following on from the time when I got drunk in the bath and fired up the Tinder machine, I also matched with a baldy. Now, I’m generally not that attracted to a bald man, but this guy had a really nice face, lively sparkly eyes and a great smile.

We started chatting and he lived in the west which is usually not my thing either. He also had a job that sounded a bit…..ummmm….low level?! But he was funny and we both liked burgers and binge watching the same TV series. That is enough right? Right?!?!

We discussed my burger hit list over Tinder and he suggested that we meet up for a burger lunch. Sweet! Two birds and all. But all my burger hit list places are near the city and he lived in Parramatta so was not so keen to commute. I somewhat considered this to be a deal breaker as I would drive at least 3 hours for a burger adventure and I would expect that my future husband would share these life values. Which also raised another potential deal breaker as he drove a Camry….apparently a sporty Camry….is that even a thing?? Actually why the fuck did I go out with this dude?? #destinedtofail….

Anyhoo, we agree to meet at a burger place that I like that is kind of between us geographically. He is early and tells me that he will be waiting out the front of the burger place for me. When I arrive I notice that he is wearing exactly the same purple Ralph Lauren polo that he is wearing in two of his six Tinder pics. I am suspicious it’s his best outfit….

I also notice when I go to kiss him on the cheek hello that he is shorter than me. Again. As usual. Fucking hell why do men struggle so much with measurements?!?! He had told me he was 6 foot. I wore flats. You can’t fool me on this dudes!!! I seriously want to take a measuring tape on my next date and measure the guy when he obviously is deluded about his height. They must learn!!

So I already know this is a fizzer, but he really does have a nice face that I’m quite drawn to. We order, he pays and we take a seat. Chat is easy, light hearted and fun. We finish our burgers after about an hour and he asks if I wanted to get another drink or a coffee.

Although I didn’t feel a spark, I was enjoying his company so I say yes. I buy him a coffee and we spend about another hour chatting. I have to run off to do some negotiating on my contract for my new job, so we hug goodbye and say the usual ‘talk soon’ stuff.

He messages me after the date saying he had fun and is keen to catch up again soon. I didn’t feel like I really liked him BUT I didn’t particularly dislike him apart from the shortness, so as usual I decide if he pursues me I would go on another date with him but I won’t be chasing him.

And I never heard from him again. Oh well…

I’m not exactly crying myself to sleep about it. I’m so totally over online dating though. I just can’t be bothered. So hopefully my unicorn will randomly turn up elsewhere. In the meantime, I’ve joined a car club and had my first track day recently out at Eastern Creek. Out of 98 drivers that day, I was one of only two women. I like those odds!!

A New Dealbreaker

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The Nutella Valentine’s Day Box from Kayter Co. Source: Instagram @kayter_co

I’ve been on a dating hiatus lately. I deleted all of the dating apps from my phone a couple of months ago having decided (for the time being) that online dating was not for me.

I was still in that mindset a few weeks ago, however after I had drunk a bottle of red in the bath one Friday night (you know, the usual) I decided to load up Tinder again just to look at the pictures.

But being a bit/lot tiddly, I was pleasantly surprised by what I saw. Some of these guys looked like fresh stock on the market and were actually quite attractive. I (apparently) swiped right on a number of them…

One I matched with immediately and we started chatting on the app. His name was Keith. Oops. I’ve written before that I can’t “see my future husband as a Wayne, Shane or a Keith” but he seemed like my type in both of his pics.

We had some good chat filled with witty banter that had me laughing out loud for reals (perhaps a little spurred on by the wine though…) and after about an hour of typing I decided that I was in the mood to chat on the phone. I sent him my phone number with the message “you call me now so I can tell if you’re a weirdo or not”. It was almost midnight. In hindsight he may have thought I was calling for some sexy time chat…

When he called I realised he was English. This is also often a no no for me with my teeth concerns. He was not smiling in either pic. Because I was tiddly, I flat out asked him if he had bad teeth because English people so often have bad teeth. He laughed and said no, he has good teeth.

We spoke for about an hour and he also revealed that he is quite political (not my bag) and a real greenie who is quite passionate about climate change. So I’m sure he would love my desire to drive everywhere in my very thirsty car, as well as the amount of water I use/waste in my giant bath tub most nights….

It’s getting late and before we say our goodbyes he asks to take me to brunch in a few days. In between we are txting to organise where we’ll meet. I had told him that I have a foodie list of places that I want to go based on pics that I’ve seen on Instagram, so he suggests we go to one of those places. Awesome! I want to go to this place that does the famous ‘Tella Ball Shakes. It’s a ridiculous milkshake topped off with a Nutella doughnut.

I thought he’d be pretty excited about this prospect too because, Nutella. Turns out he isn’t excited at all as it could kill him. Yep, he has a nut allergy. My heart is broken. No Nutella. No peanut butter. Chocolate is a death trap. So is a lot of bread apparently. These are a few of my favourite things….

We instead arrange to meet at one of my favourite brunch places in Balmain. He messages about 15 mins before we are due to meet to say he is probably running 5-10 mins late. Another big no no in my book, but to his credit he at least told me before and not right on the time we were meant to meet, or even after like most guys do!

I take a table and check out the menu even though I know I’m getting the corn cakes with avocado and crispy, crispy bacon mmmm. When he arrives I get up to give him a kiss on the cheek and I feel quite tall next to him. He told me he was bang on six foot, I’m 5’10” and was wearing flats. Hmmm….

We start with the usual chit chat and he has a quite nice, lively face and a cheeky smile…but there is something unexpected. He has a big gap between his top teeth. To be fair, his teeth are nice, but gap teeth are something I just don’t dig. I know lots of people are into them, famous models have made a career with them, but it’s not for me.

But we have a great meal with lots of good chat, so when he suggests we get another takeaway coffee and take a walk I say yes as I’m genuinely having a fun time with him. We walk down to the park on the water and then back to our cars as both our parking meters are about to run out. He asks if I wanted to do anything else after that, but I had to leave to get some references and things sorted for a job so I head off.

We exchanged a couple of messages later that afternoon, but then it just fizzled and I assume neither of us were keen enough to pursue it which is fine.

It was probably for the best. I wouldn’t have been able to commit to keeping him safe by never eating delicious, delicious Nutella ever again. Mmmmmm nuts….

Reason #87 Why I Need A Husband

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Generally I really like living alone. I like that anything left in the sink I put there, so I can’t get the shits with anyone for it but me. I like watching Kardashians really loud. I like that I never shut my bathroom door unless there is company here. I do hate that someone keeps forgetting to fill the ice cube trays, but whatevs…

I like living alone so much that I sometimes worry that if I actually do find a man that I’d like to cohabitat with, no scratch that, I’m trying to start the year off being more positive. WHEN I find him, I worry that we’ll need a REALLY big house so I have my own space. He better keep the ice cube trays filled though.

Last night was not a night that I loved living alone though. At 12:45am (ok this morning), I had been in the bath tub for over two hours engrossed in the Kyle Sandilands book (I know, I know….it’s a wonder why I’m single huh) which I was reading on my iPhone in the dark with some candles burning. Yep, I can stay in that bath for hours on end but due to a new year health kick, I wasn’t even drinking wine!!

Anyhoo, it was all very relaxing, until out of the corner of my eye I see a huge spider run down the wall into the shower cubicle next to the bath tub. Thankfully. If it had run down the bath side of the wall next to me I think I would have just drowned myself to end the torment.

I get out of the bath as quietly as I can to avoid the spider working out that I was onto him and I run to the kitchen to get some bug spray. The good stuff is outside in my courtyard thanks to a prior redback spider incident (fuck why does everything try to kill you in Australia?!?) so I’m left with subpar equipment for my emergency situation.

I run back to the bathroom and the spider is still in the same spot. Whoo! Although I’m concerned about creating a fireball with the spray from the candles, I worry if I blow them out and turn the light on that it will shock the spider and it will explode with thousands of babies. On my face. And then my face melts off. Hey, it happens, I’ve seen Arachnophobia you know. So I spray shitloads of bug spray at it on the wall, it drops to the floor and crawls out under the showers door.

Spprrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!

It stops. Ahhhh I did it. No, it then runs right at me toward the ensuite door leading into my bedroom. Not on my watch!!

Spprrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!

I put a white coating all over the bathroom floor tiles as he runs. It stops at the edge of the tiles. Phew.

But then runs straight at me again. He seems to be taking this very personally…

Spprrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!

It stops in the corner of the door frame and looks like it will crawl up and die so I rush to the wardrobe to get some shoes to smash it and end the drama. Sorry PETA but one simply cannot sleep in a house with a spider that size and I’m CLEARLY too much of a girl to have been able to catch him and re-home him outside.

In my haste I’ve grabbed my Crocs sandals. Stop it. I know what you’re thinking. That is not the reason why I’m single. They are not those Croc clogs things everyone (including me) hate. They are like thongs, but really comfy and kinda strappy and no one ever knows they are even Crocs ok….shut up your face.

The spider is STILL moving and I’m too much of a wuss to get close, so I try throwing my Croc at it but I totally miss and the stupid rubber shoe just bounces back at me anyway. So if it did hit it, it would probably have thrown the spider at me with it…and exploded babies…on my face.

After more spray it finally curls up on the carpet in the middle of my doorway.

R.I.P.

I run and get a heavy glass mixing bowl from the kitchen which I placed over the carcass to contain him until the morning.

Feeling proud of myself for being so cool, calm and collected in dealing with the situation, I step over the bowl into the bathroom to let the bath water out and brush my teeth. But I hit the slippery floor where I’ve sprayed the bug spray, skid along the tiles, smash my shoulder into the door frame and twist my knee recovering.

Fuck. My. Life.

The Other Side of the Story

Young woman writes an SMS to your mobile phoneHello, it’s me. I was wondering if after all….

Ok, it’s been a while since I’ve posted. I’m sorry, for everything that I’ve done….

Yep, I’ve been busy singing Adele songs and not really dating much, so I’ve had nothing to write about.

But something did happen recently that has made me reconsider my sometimes harsh treatment of men that I deem to have behaved in a cowardly way. I still don’t think it’s a nice way to treat people, but I now somewhat understand it.

A few months ago I was out at a show with Ms A and we’d had many a glass of wine. After the show people continued to linger in a beer garden type area and my memory is a bit fuzzy, but we got talking to a security guard. The place closed and as Ms A and I were heading to get a cab, the security guard appears again and we get chatting and joke around which included taking some photos of us. He is going out, but we are going home, so we exchange phone numbers and he says he will be in contact as maybe we can catch up the next night.

The next morning I awake with a mighty headache and looking through the photos on my phone I wonder why I was interested in this guy. He is tall and has nice teeth, but he isn’t my usual type. And he is wearing a reflective vest. Oh that’s right, wine…

I don’t hear from him that day and I forget about him. Until the following month. Ms A and I and another friend Ms K are out and about at a wine festival. We’re about 3 glasses in and feeling a little tiddly when we stumble upon a familiar face wearing a reflective vest.

Not that I was interested, but this guy never contacted me so I play it cool and politely say hello, but I have better things to do. But as the festival plays on, I’ve drunk more and I find myself winking at him as I pass by him. Now my closest friends know that I’m rubbish at winking so it probably looked like a bad twitch, but whatevs….

The day progressed, we get a little messy and by the time the ferry arrives to take us back to the city we are very very tiddly. On the ferry, everyone is in a good mood, there is music and dancing and lots of drinking and it’s getting quite dark outside. I find my security guard and I think we chatted and flirted for a bit (?!?) and the next thing I know we are pashing. On the ferry. In the middle of everyone. Whilst he is working. Okaaaaaaaaayyyy….

When we arrive at the wharf we swap numbers again and he goes off to get changed as he plans to meet up with us at the bar. I attempt to rejoin the ladies but Ms K has decided to call it a day. Ms A and I decide there is no talent at that bar, so we head off to have cocktails at another bar whilst Mr Security calls and txts asking if I’m still at the original bar.

I’ve moved on already and ignore it. He ditched me last time. I haven’t done anything he didn’t do first right??

The next morning, again hungover as shit, he txts and asks if I remember him. Of course I do, I wasn’t THAT drunk. A few hours later after not responding, he txts again saying ‘why did you give me your number if you aren’t going to reply?’

And now I feel bad. I don’t want to be slack to him, but I know I’m not interested. I respond and play the ‘sorry, ended up going home early with my friends last night’ card and tell him I can’t chat as I’m out.

Over the next few days he messages every day and I do that thing that I hate guys doing where I was answering with basic answers that encouraged no further conversation. But he wasn’t letting me off so lightly. One night he said goodnight to me and my real name is Michelle (I think we’ve known each other long enough for me to reveal that to you…) but he spelt it Mechail. Honestly. I’m not even shitting you.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnndddddddddd I’m definitely out…..

The next weekend I was heading out with another friend Ms M and he suggests that maybe we can meet up later. I try and play it cool saying I won’t have a big night out, so unlikely. He txts at 8:30pm asking if I’m having a good night. Then again at 10:30pm asking what I’m up to. Then at midnight I get a ‘Mechail?????’

Why? Why am I doing this to myself?

I don’t hear from him the next day, but the day after I get a message asking why I ignored him that night. Why can’t he just get the point? There is NO WAY I would be this pathetic with a man!

Why can’t I just say to him ‘It’s because I don’t like you’. At brunch that day Ms J suggests I send him this…

NOT INTO YOU

And I realise that is exactly the problem. I feel bad because I was keen when I saw him in person. Drunk. But not enough to want to do it again sober.

I can very easily be upfront and tell guys that I’m not interested when I’ve been out with them and realised that there was nothing there and nothing happened. But it feels really mean when I’ve attempted to pick him up twice AND pashed him. A lot.

This realisation made me think about all the guys that go AWOL after one or two or even three great dates. For whatever reason they have decided that they no longer want to see you, maybe they’ve met someone else in the meantime, but they never tell you, they just disappear. You never get a response to your last txt and it’s nicer to assume they died….a gruesome death that involves their penis being sliced off. Fuckers….

It seems kinder to ghost than to say you’re not interested to someone that you at some point did seem interested in. You don’t want to hurt their feelings. After all, you were genuinely  interested….at some point….at some very drunken point.

So I’ve ghosted him now. It’s for the best. I just hope I don’t run into him and his reflective vest again anytime soon…

 

 

Rob’s Dating Horror Story

I asked for bad dating stories and you guys have delivered. Here is Rob’s story….

On Valentine’s Day in 2004, I was at my weekend job at the hardware store when I got a message. It read (last name changed for privacy – and comedic – reasons):

“Hey there, it’s Crystal Meth, are you going out tonight? If so let me know and we can catch up. PS Happy Valentine’s Day xx”

The name sounded familiar, so I asked my work friends if they knew her. They too thought it sounded familiar, but couldn’t pick her, so I responded with:

“I have no idea who you are, but Happy Valentine’s day to you too!”

Then it continued:

“Well, looks like I have the wrong number. So…you know my name, what’s yours?”

“I’m Rob.”

“Nice to meet you Rob, how are you? Where are you from?”

“I’m good thanks. I’m from <suburb>, what about yourself?”

“I’m from <suburb in the same city, which is completely random as a mobile number could be from anywhere in Australia>. So I’m 5’4”, 115 pounds. What about you?”

*assumes she’s learned because she uses imperial units of measurement, so I follow suit*

“Ok, I’m 6’0”, 140 pounds.”

So the banter continues over the next few days, we have a phone conversation, and – seeing as it must be fate that a random text message ends up going to someone who is a) single, b) of the opposite sex, and c) in the same city – decide to go on a date that Wednesday night (phone conversation with Crystal Meth was nice…almost addictive).

During conversations, she’d told me that hippos were her favourite animal, so when I stopped to get fuel on the way, they had fluffy hippos, so I bought one for her and put it on the dash. I also set it up with a mate that lived in the same suburb as her to stay at his place and, should things go south, I would use the “my mate needs me home by 9, because I have to help him unload his fishing boat as payment for staying as his place” excuse (that ol’ chestnut).

So I pull up outside the street address she has given me, and as I hop out of the car and head towards the gate, I hear a rumble from across the street, followed by the gravelliest voice I’ve ever heard:

“Are you Robert?!”

It was barrelling across the road towards me, the inertia more than one man should be placed in front of. It was at that moment that I a) considered saying “no, I just saw you sitting there and need to ask you for directions”, and b) realised that she wasn’t learned at all, but instead didn’t know the difference between pounds and kilograms. But alas, my frightened mouth was too quick to say a shrill “yes” and then I knew I couldn’t pull out now. So in the car she got. She saw the hippo and said “Ooooo a hippo, is that for your…little sister?” (note: I had a sub-3 year old half-sister) to which I replied “yes” and promptly threw it onto the back seat, never to be spoken of again.

“Right, that’s it” I thought to myself – she described herself inaccurately, and I’m not even sure I was talking to the same person on the phone (they sounded completely different – phone Crystal sounded sultry and fun, in-person Crystal sounded like she ate a packet of cigarettes mashed up with gravel for breakfast each morning), so I figured I’d do my best to make sure she didn’t find me attractive whatsoever: I ordered the sloppiest, wateriest meal on the menu (spag bol, with no cheese for extra sloppiness), spoke whilst eating, chatted about (fake) ex’s and pretty much rushed through the whole evening. Whereas over the phone she was fun and the conversation flowed, in order to get her to say anything in person it was like pulling teeth – except for the one piece of information she shared: that her and her friend had walked past bridal shops the day before and had said that she’d be back there soon because she’d met me. Danger Will Robinson.

I pulled my emergency “my mate needs me home by 9, because I have to help him unload his fishing boat as payment for staying as his place” chute, but alas it was only 8:30, so she suggested going for a quick 15 minute walk up the street, to which I agreed (after paying for the meal of course – I might have ordered slop and spoke whilst eating, but I’m still a gentleman)…but OF COURSE during that walk I had to run into Jasmine and Carrie, the smartest, funniest, hottest pair of twins from uni that I knew, who stopped us and asked me to introduce my “friend”.

Anyhoo, back in the car she said “so I’m never to contact you again, right?” to which my (once again, frightened mouth) immediate response was “don’t be like that, if you’re out we can have a drink or something”…which meant that I continued to receive (unreciprocated) text messages for the next 6 months. When I got back to my mate’s place (there was no boat, but they HAD gone fishing), I walked in, went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, sat on the lounge, downed the beer, then proceeded to tell the story, which they thought was absolutely hilarious.

If only memes were around back then, I could have answered it in the way I now answer all unsolicited texts:

Thanks for sharing your story Rob. As promised, a buttload heap of lube and condoms from the guys at Durex is all yours!!