Joining the Mile High Club…Sorta, Kinda, Not Really


So, I’ve been a slack lazy tart on this blog lately. But with good reason (I think/hope!?!) 

I’ve been focusing my attention on holidays. When I turned 36 in March (how the fuck did that happen so quick?!?) I decided that I hadn’t travelled nearly enough, so I decided to do #12tripsin12months. I’m now up to trip 8 and have been to some awesome places and made some seriously good memories. There is a very good chance that this could become #24tripsin24months or #36tripsin36months….

I’ve got a need for speed and a taste for adventure so I’ve been pretty busy on these trips and not really had much time for men. Some trips I’ve done with friends, some with family and some alone because my favourite person to hang out with is me….😎

But something completely random happened on my last trip when I was flying from Broome to Perth. I’d had this AMAZING two week holiday by myself starting in Exmouth Western Australia swimming with Humpback whales, then to Broome where the highlight was the horizontal falls day trip where I travelled by 4WD, then seaplane, then helicopter and jet boat. Yeh, it was pretty low key….

I started the journey back to Sydney by checking in at Broome’s very basic airport that was almost like a bus shelter and the customer service woman asked if I wanted to be upgraded to an exit row. I said sure. 

As I was boarding, the customer service woman told the guy in queue in front of me that he was upgraded to an exit row and asked if that was ok. He said yes. I followed him onto the flight and found that we were in the same row, which was the front row with a spare seat between us. 

We said hello and I joked to him that it was typical to get upgraded to the pointy end of the plane only when there isn’t a business class (we were on a lil’ Fokker regional flight). 

Then we kept chatting as everyone got settled. The flight attendant came and educated us on our responsibilities as exit row people and I warned him that in the case of emergency I was pushing him out the way and taking off down the slide first. 

We took off in silence and just as I was wondering if I should put my earphones in, we started chatting again. He was on his way home to Perth and I told him about some of my WA adventures. 

The inflight meal came and it was the absolute worst. It was bloody lucky it came with wine. I told him about the amazing meat pie I’d had on my QantasLink flights between Perth and Exmouth and because I can’t help but take photos of almost everything I eat (it really is quite the mystery as to why I’m single right?!?) I showed him the photographic evidence of said pie. 

Then we took a photographic journey of my life. My recent travels, the love of my life (my car), the racetrack…all whilst the wine flowed. We kept buzzing the attendants for more wine. It was a night flight and the cabin was dim and we were clearly pissing other people off with how loud we were talking and laughing. 

Quite a few wines on, I was showing my emergency exit buddy more pics of my holiday and swiped through some poolside cocktail selfies. He stopped me and swiped back and said, and I quote, ‘you look pretty when you smile’. 

Ok, it’s on! Like donkey….

Anyhoo, more wine, more flirts, more sexy glances and then in amongst the sleepy cabin he says quietly ‘kiss me’. 

Now I’m a lady and shit, so I said ‘noooooo, that’s weird’. And I meant it. For a nano second. 

The we pashed on. On a plane. Two complete strangers having met only 2 hours ago. And I’m sure the rest of the plane noticed as suddenly instead of lots of giggling we were silent. 

We landed and it wasn’t until I stood up that I realised how truly pissed I was. As we were waiting for the doors to open he grabbed my ass and I squealed and everyone turned to look at me. Because I’m classy AF. 

Just imagine if we actually needed to operate the emergency slide. Two bumbling messes getting the door open (maybe) followed by weeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! 😂

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Getting Some Mad Hot Skills

Seriously Single Woo Social Cock Caress Class Certificate

They say you should never stop learning right? I don’t know who ‘they’ actually are, but I think they are on to something there. I have a thirst for knowledge in most areas of my life, so when I stumbled upon a cheeky ‘C@ck Caress’ workshop on a dating site that I’d not heard of before, Woo Social Club, I thought hmmm could I pick up some new moves here?

Surely honing one’s skills in such an area could only enhance my single life? Perhaps even end it? Not my life that is, the single part….

I’ve written all about this experience for DatingScout.com.au. Read it here.

There’s even pictures ;p

I am proud to advise that I am now certified with some mad hot cock skills, specialising in the Firestarter technique. The best thing about this move is that it reminded me of how good this song is…

🎼I’m a firestarter, twisted firestarter. You’re a firestarter, twisted firestarter🎼

Guess who’s back?

Guess who's back

The Insurance Policy – Part 1

Eggs_Dollarphotoclub_91622679.jpg

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!

IMG_7228

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

best-chris-isaak-songs

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!!

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!!

The Gentleman Doth Protest Too Much

Tinder has continued to be full of previous disappointments and those that no doubt would be a future disappointment should I have chosen to meet them.

After some of my recent posts I had people email me or comment on the blog about me being too picky and like most women in Sydney, that I am looking for something that simply does not exist.

Someone wrote to me from a dating consultancy that claims highly eligible Sydney bachelors are struggling to find a lady here but when they open up their search overseas (and not to like Russia or something…), they are inundated with dates.

So obviously there is something wrong with Sydney women. It couldn’t possibly be that Sydney men are below par. Clearly all my sexy single women friends that are highly motivated, have a wicked sense of humour and great lives should think themselves lucky to go on a date with the bloke that looks like he hasn’t brushed his teeth since 1999, hates his job, whinges about it but does nothing to improve the situation and despite being pretty much middle aged, is still desperate for pay day to roll around each month.

Sure, I know you’re going to say that there are loads of decent guys out there that are not like that at all. But let me tell you, there are a shit ton of those losers and they are very active on dating sites!

And yes I do admit that there are some good on paper guys that I’ve met and they seem to tick the boxes, but when it comes down to it, I just don’t want them to tick my box so to speak. As shallow as it sounds, there has to be physical attraction and chemistry for a romantic relationship otherwise he is just like a girlfriend but with the opposite parts. Well that’s how it goes in my rule book anyway…

Recently I talking to a guy on tinder who looked like my type in his pics, sounded like my style in messages and seemed like he was ticking some boxes. When he asked for my number, I decided to ask him the usual deal breaker questions before moving offline.

This started with height. Absolute deal breaker for me. Yes, I remember that the Englishman was a little shorter than me and yes I remember I was really into him, BUT it was a brief dalliance so it remains untested if height would have become an issue down the track.

So I tell him that there are things I like to know before moving to chatting on the phone.  He seems keen to play and says shoot.

I ask him his height.

He responds 5’11”. Ok, not ideal. I do not consider 5’11” tall….

I respond saying cool I’m 5’10”.

And then it all turns to shit. His next message is:

“That’s great. But I’m looking for someone who likes me for who I am, not because I’m a certain height. You may call it practical but it comes across as superficial. Anyway, it’s a real turn off so I’ll respectfully pass on taking things to the next level”.

Hmmm sure as shit that man was actually about 5’7″.

Just imagine how he would have reacted on the 27th question when I asked for a pic of his teeth…..