24 December, 2010

Ho ho ho

Why hello there my lovelings!  Just a little note to spread some Christmas cheer.  It's been quite a year.  And while my original plan of going on a date a week didn't quite come to fruition, I'll be giving it a red hot go again in 2011.  In the meantime, you can count on me to flirt shamelessly at Christmas parties, and to possibly pick up on New Year's Eve.  So very much to look forward to.

So I wish you all a very safe and happy Christmas with your loved ones. Be they family, friends, lovers or four legged pals.  Because love isn't just about romance, sometimes you find it in the most unexpected places.  Just this morning my cat left a special Christmas present for me on the carpet.  It was a day early, and possibly not my favourite thing, but it's the thought that counts. 

Take it easy on the roads, be generous in your thoughts, don't drink and drive, I beg you, and have a roaring, hilarious, riotous, fabulous Christmas.

Love love,

Dead Fish Float.

21 December, 2010

Famous Faces

Ever have one of those days when people on the street all look like famous people?  A Michael Douglas here, a Cameron Diaz there.  No?  Really?  Well, I do.

And  from time to time I get people checking out my profile that look alarmingly famous.  Fortunately, I’m not a star-fucker.  Which is to say, I’ve never shagged a bona fide A-lister, and as the years roll by, my chances of doing so are growing increasingly slim.  Unless, you know, it’s someone way past their prime, like John Voight.  Wow.  I just had an image of being Angelina Jolie’s step-mother.  Wouldn’t that be awkward!  Especially at Christmas when, after a few too many egg nogs,  I tried to hit on her husband.   “Angie baby, get Momma another brandy will ya? There’s a good girl.  Quick, Brad, there’s something I have to tell you.  Let’s just nip into this bathroom…why am I locking the door?  Er, because I don’t want anyone else to hear the amazing, er,  secret…”

But I digress.  Ahem.  Below, feast your eyes on a rogues gallery of famous looking fellas.

You bet your life!

When I was 12, I had a crush on Groucho Marx.  I know, that’s weird.  But even a girlish yearning for the funny man couldn’t make me go on a date with this guy.  Actually, he looks a bit like Steve Martin in the ghastly remake of The Pink Panther too.


Back in the 80s, there wasn’t a woman alive who woudn’t have given her pinky finger for a romantic evening with bad boy Mickey Rourke.  You just knew he’d be dirty as hell.  This guy’s counting on that, except that dude, it’s 2010.  Time for a new look my friend.


If you don’t know who Alan Partridge is, you should.  And as much as I adore him, you wouldn’t catch me at a travel tavern with this fellow.  Or an owl farm either.  Back of the net!

"Give me your clothes, asshole"

Look, Schwartzenegger he ain't, but I couldn't resist adding this in, because dude clearly thinks that showing pictures of his biceps is going to have us ladies swooning in the aisles.  He's got a lovely shiny coat of shoulder hair too.  Rrrrow!

13 December, 2010

The good guys

I've had a bit of feedback lately that perhaps I might be coming across as a sarcastic man-hating bitch.  You see, I only write about the bad dates because they're the interesting ones.  Who cares if I had a nice dinner and nothing much happened?  Well, apparently you do.  So let me share the details of some of the good ones.  I guarantee they won't be nearly as entertaining, but for the sake of balance, here they are.

The Reporter

This guy looked alarmingly like a short version of the most handsome man I ever shagged.  He was a TV news reporter and as a result well travelled and well versed in politics and current affairs.  We had a couple of very fun dates after which I never heard from him again.  I sent him an email, but I didn't hear back, and it's not like me to push the point.  A girl has her dignity, after all.

The Art Director

Oh, this one was a heart-breaker.  I liked him a lot, and would have thrown in the blog for him in a heartbeat.  We had two very fun dates, exchanged a plethora of hilarious emails, and it was all going swimmingly until he gave me the "it's not you it's me" line and disappeared.  I was deeply disappointed, and it took me a full two weeks to get back on the horse.  I immediately unfriended him on facebook - that's how pissed I was.  In retrospect, he was probably a bit neurotic.  He also once asked me never to refer to him as a douchebag.  Instead, I will refer to him as a douche-lord, because he hurt my feelings.

The Chef

This one was lunch at Cicciolina (just about my favourite restaurant ever).  I knew he wasn't right for me from the minute I arrived, but the conversation didn't flag.  Nothing really wrong with him, but nothing outstanding either.  I think he would have liked another date, but I wasn't up for it.

The Project Manager

We had a very pleasant date at Madame Brussels, where I drank a margarita, and he had a beer and we talked about politics and art.  We had a second date at Gingerboy, that went quite well, but he was off on a holiday to the middle east for six weeks.  He left and I didn't hear from him again.

See?  Not nearly as interesting as the disasters, and not nearly as common either I might add.  But I'll include these draberies if it makes you feel better.

08 December, 2010

The List

So once I had a disastrous date with this American dude who turned out, like so many I've met, to have lied about a lot.  Like the fact that his work had sent him to Australia to complete a doctorate in political science.  Turns out it was a family company, which is to say, his parents who sent him to do a bachelor of politics.  Perhaps I'm splitting hairs but you know, whatever.

Anyway, the point of it all is that a few months after the date I deleted his number from my phone.  This turned out to be a Bad Idea.  Because my American pal called me out of the blue to see if I'd like to go for round two.  So now I have a system.  I keep their number, but preface it with an X (as in, don't cross this line).  That way, I can refuse to answer.  So allow me to introduce you to my little friends.

In this list, in no specific order, we have: the guy I nearly ran off the road; the Bad kisser; and the Man's Man.

Here, you'll find The Guy who looked like John Jarrett; Mike Yanagitathe Guy with the Shoes and the aforementioned American.  

But wait, because you also get:

Three more douches!  It's a good system.  I recommend it.

29 November, 2010

Six of the best

So as the behaviour of my dates hasn't improved a whit since my last post of dating tips (see Eight Easy Steps to Dating Bliss), it's time to post some more. 
  • Turn off your mobile phone. Or at the very least, don’t answer it. Sitting in a bar nursing a drink and watching you talk to your ex-girlfriend is boring, and makes you look like a wanker.
  • Don’t pick your face. Yes, I can see you. No, you’re not being discreet. Don’t do it. It’s disgusting. Oh god, now you’re bleeding.
  • Wash your clothes. This doesn’t mean spray them with Lynx. It means putting them in the washing machine with detergent and turning it on. The smell of stale sweat and body grease makes me more nauseous than two bottles of gin and a guilty conscience.
  • Be aware of my personal space. Look, unless I’m giving you the vibe, and believe me, I’m not a girl whose vibe you can miss, do not crowd me. There’s plenty of room on your side of the table. There’s no need for you to move over to mine (don’t believe this happens? Take a look at Mike Yanagita). And don’t touch my legs under the table either, you cretin.
  • If such a thing is possible, could you not adjust your testicles while you're talking to me?
  • Finally, it’s probably best not to talk about how you’re recovering from gastro when we’re having dinner. If you’re sick, stay home. Don’t spray your filthy bacteria all over me. And you’d better not come near me with that pox-ridden mouth either. Jesus Christ.

22 November, 2010

The Movie Buff

God, when will I ever learn.

So this bloke is crazy about movies.  And I mean crazy.  The more obscure the better.  I'd say it was pretentious, but seriously, it's more like insane.  Obsessed.  We'd had a bit of parlay back and forth by email.  I kept postponing him because I had better offers (yes my darlings, not every date I have ends up here - some of them are quite nice), until eventually I couldn't in conscience say no one more time, and he, frankly wouldn't give up.  And still hasn't I might add.

First things first.  He turned up a half hour late.  I really fucking hate this.  If you can't make it by six thirty, then don't say you'll be there at six thirty.  It is the very height of rudeness to keep someone waiting, even if you call to say you'll be late.  Black mark.

Then when he did arrive he was, well, so beige, so utterly bland and devoid of anything resembling cool that I knew, with sinking heart, that this was going nowhere, and I had at least two hours of chit chat before I could escape.  And he was kinda fat.

I bought the first round. 

We talked about film.  He was excited.  And when I say excited, think Tom Cruise on the couch excited. 

As the restaurant was full, we decided to get some food delivered to the table in the bar.  He goes up to the counter and orders dinner and another round of drinks.  When he sat down, he quite deliberately placed the receipt on the table between us.

Now I'm the sort of girl who always pays half on dates.  There are two reasons:

  1. I don't think it's fair to expect anyone to pay for my dinner when they don't know me at all, and
  2. I don't want them to think I'm obliged to put out at the end of the night.  Because I'm not.  Even if they do pay for dinner. 
So I said "Oh, did you pay for dinner?"  by which I meant, did you pay now, as opposed to them giving us a bill at the end of the night.  And he answered, rather snakily I thought:

"Well, it doesn't pay for itself, does it."

Black Mark 2.

I didn't have the right change at the time, so after a half hour or so, I bought the third round of drinks.  Afterward I realised that he'd ripped me off.  I bought the first round, half the second round and the third round.  Not that it matters really, but I find tight-arsery very unattractive in a fellow.

In spite of snarky cheapness, he was all enthusiasm.  Talking about the movies he hoped we'd watch together, how he looked forward to meeting my dog, how amazing it was that he'd found someone so very on his wavelength.  Schmuck.

Anyway, he's still emailing me.  I've told him politely no.  He's now angling to "be friends".  I have enough friends, I told him.  I've stopped replying.

19 November, 2010

The Quantum Physicist

You think I'm kidding don't you.  And look, I know it's been a while, and there will be more updates forthcoming.  Possibly on the weekend, but here's a little tidbit to tide you over.

So I was contacted on this site by a quantum physicist.  Now quantum physics really isn't my speciality, in fact, I'm not ashamed to admit that I got as far as chapter 2 of A Brief History of Time before my brain imploded.  I did read chapter 3 anyway, because black holes and spaghettification are cool.  But the point is that while I love science, I really do, I don't get physics.

This didn't deter my new friend, with whom I exchanged a few messages.  He gave me his personal email. Which is when I asked a question too difficult for even a man of his intellectual stature to answer.  It was "can I see your photo?"

Einstein has disappeared.  On reflection, scientists aren't known for their beauty (with the exception of a few of my fine pals who are scientists - yes Jesse and Ian, I'm talking about you).  Obviously he's got a head like a foot and realised that while a bit of witty banter might get him a foot in the door, if that foot's connected to a body and or head that looks like a half-eaten sausage roll, it's not going to get him laid.

I've got ten bucks says he has a beard.  If he should send me a pic, you know I'll share it.  Fingers crossed!

15 October, 2010

The Frenchman. Part 2.2

Did I say tomorrow?  Oh, I meant tonight.

Because Frenchy texted me at 4.50 to say he wasn't going to make the date at 6pm.  Rather he said "We're going to have to cancel".  By which he means, he's going to have to cancel.  Stuck in Belgrave or some such. What bollocks.

Well, that's torn it.  He's out.  Cancelling, I can handle, after all, I was really going on the date so I could blog about it here (that's the problem with this blog, it's making me go on dates with the unworthy, just so I can tell you about it), but letting me know when it's too late to organise something else is just plain wrong.

No second chances you French fuck!

Happily, I've another date lined up next weekend.  So we're all good.

The Frenchman Part 2.1

Alors enfants!

The Frenchman, alas, dumped me.  Well, we hadn't actually had a date per say, but he decided that it was all too hard.  I sent him a message saying "Okay!  Ciao!".  And thought, well that's that.

Imagine my surprise to get a text from him yesterday saying he had a free night, and would I like to meet after all. He called me last night, said something inexplicable, and we sorted it out. So tonight's the night my lovelies! 

I shall update again tomorrow with the details.

11 October, 2010

The Frenchman. Possibly Part 1.

So I was totally stoked to be chatting with this French bloke. Firstly, he was smart. Or seemed to be, and secondly, I just love French blokes because they sound really sexy. Even if they're not.  As a kid, I was utterly mesmerised by Charles Aznavour.  I wasn't the only one.

We exchanged emails. They were flirty. It was fun. And then we spoke on the phone. This is where it all went pear shaped.

You see, I couldn't understand a fucking word he said. I'm all for a Frenchie, god damn yes. But he was telling me about a film he was making or something, and I just didn't get it. The conversation went something like this:

French bloke: Oh, well [cordon bleu, son des mots, bonsoir, petit pois, entrez-vous] the film and [À qui pâté en croûte de gorge de chèvre est celui]!

Me: Sorry?

French bloke: The film! It's [odeur de ces roses des figues de décomposition] and that's how I [mon âne a une queue brune]. Cool huh?

Me: I really didn't catch that.

Frenchy (slightly exasperated): Oh, it was [le poisson est dans la table de dressage].

Me: Oh really! Huh. How 'bout that.

Of course, I was still clueless. It was worse when he asked me a question.

So we kept trying to hook up. But he only wanted to meet on weekends, and I only could meet week nights, and in the end I got a text message saying "Are you free anytime in the next three days, or should we just give up? Doesn't seem that we are able to synch our schedules, so I am wondering if there's any point taking this any further...;-) What are your thoughts?"

I waited a few days, but I said I'd still like to catch up. After all, it seems a terrible shame not to have the chance to not understand him in person.

I'll keep you posted.

23 September, 2010

Eight Easy Steps to Dating Bliss.

So last Sunday night I went to see some fabulous impro and, as fate would have it, was called up on stage to assess the charm quotient of the performers in a mock dating scene (can you imagine?).  Anyway, it occurred to me, that some of you fellas could use a few pointers.  And rather than bitching about you week after week, I should make an effort to actually give you a helping hand.  So here's my top eight dating tips in no specific order.
  • If you're the sort of fellow who can't take his eyes off the television, then don't go to a bar that has one. 
  • Clean your teeth.  No-one wants to kiss a mouth reminiscent of the reeking depths of Satan's anus.
  • Don't pretend to know something you don't.  For example, don't say "Oh, I'm really into evolution." Because a smart, sciency type of girl might come along and say "Really?  Me too!  What aspect of evolution particularly interests you."  And when you say "Err, I just like how some animals are a bit like other animals,"  you will look like a douche.
  • In addition to the point above, when you are busted not knowing something, and your date says "you don't know anything about evolution, do you?"  Don't try to defend yourself and bravely guts it out pretending you do.  Especially if your idea of natural selection is letting the waiter choose the wine.
  • Try very very hard not to stare at your date's breasts.  I know they're more hypnotic than a one-point grand final, and it's hardwired into you to ogle them.  Just don't, okay?
  • If you're at dinner, eat with your mouth closed.  Nothing makes a girl think "No Fucking Way" like watching your half-masticated parmigiana rolling around your mouth, spraying lightly across the table while you regale her with a tale of how awesome you are.
  • Don't get shitfaced.  Once again.  Don't get shitfaced.  Don't get so drunk you fall off your chair backwards (see The Dirty Liar), or leer at your date and tell her you want to fuck her (see The Bad Kisser), or totter head first into the microphone stand (okay, that was a chick, but see Girls Night Out). Peaking early is not cool.
  • Try to look nice.  We're not talking about dressing up like Bonny Prince William on his way to Ascot.  Just try not to look like the kind of guy who fossicks about in garbage bins for cigarette butts.  And wear shoes. 

16 September, 2010


This is a true story.  Only my name has been changed to Barbara to protect my innocence.  Ahem.  This bloke blew ten smackers to send me this drivel.  Incredible.

From:       Mark
To:             Me
Time:        22:18 AEST
Subject:    whipcrack

HI,there, girl, You don't mess about do you,straight to the cyanoacrylate/anaerobic point with your profile,if i have to explain anything about that then,well ,doesn't matter or make much sense anyway,f'ing super glue,from what i hear.what i will do is comment on your're/your/ youse profile, it's good,i like it,girls who go for long walks in the rain are usually not walking but escaping from jail,and Poppy's are more likely to be on there mind,good to see your not' special' [ie spastic] horoscopes are for'special' individuals.i like science   mags,like penthouse and playboy,they are more directed to pictures rather than science stuff though.i love open fires[set the next door neighbor's shed ablaze last month],fire brigade came,bastard deserved it.he was bbq ing fish,and then i broke out my 2400 watt bosch hammer drill and gouged out his stupid eye balls. hey im just mucking around a bit here ,allthough some of it's true..possibly why  not e-mail me to find out.. Mark

From:       Me
To:             Mark
Time:        22:33 AEST
Subject:    Prose

Hello Mark,

It took me a while to work out precisely what the fuck you were saying.  Here's what'd be great: capital letters and punctuation used appropriately, spelling checked a wee bit, not a lot, but just a wee bit.  Spaces after commas.  Good lord, I beg you, put a space after the comma.  Oh, paragraphs.  That'd be delightful.

Having said that, references to semi-porn mags probably isn't a good way to get in the good books of a sciency feminist type like me.  So let's just leave it there.


And that, my darlings, is where the conversation ends.  I just didn't have the energy to decipher his bollocks.

See what I'm dealing with here?  Torture!  Oh, do you want to see a picture?  Of course you do! Knock yourself out.  Notice the gormless look, the open mouth.  The general air of cluelessness.  Sigh.

06 September, 2010

Girls' Night Out.

So last weekend I went out with a top notch chick mate of mine, Stella. Stella is fabulous for many reasons, not least of which is that she is a genuine, one hundred percent, bona fide Rock Chick. Complete with electic guitar and band. Awesome doesn't quite cover it.

Anyway, we thought we'd head out for a Big Night, and big it was. There were many glorious adventures - the man with the loaf of bread ("oh lord, I think I'm in loaf!" "I bet he's got a ton of dough" - we cracked ourselves up), the guy that was 6'11" and the funky bass player in the giant rabbit suit. Tequila shooters and a rockin' band (Vaudeville Smash is their name - recommended). But the highlight of my evening was "Sequins".

Sequins was an example of what not to do on a night out with your girlfriends. Tall, willowy, young and blonde, she wore a sweet little shift dress covered in...you got it.  She was also staggeringly drunk.  Oh the joy!

So just before the band started, she decided to chat up the lead singer.  She stood, swaying gently, playing with her skirt and trying to effect a sexy girl pose while maintaining her balance on tottering heels.  Turning to return to her couch, she lost the battle and toppled head first into the microphone stand, and an amplifier in a tangle of arms and legs on the floor.


Her pals all ran to help her to her feet, and assisted her back to the couch, where she lay for perhaps a half hour.  Then she thought she'd have a dance.  The suspense was marvellous!  Watching her lurch about like Frankenstein's monster with her tiny black purse dangling from her shoulder, looking like a scrotum growing from her armpit.  Wondering if at any moment she'd pitch head first into one of the precariously perched dancers on the arms of the couch, or make it safely back onto her arse. 

Eventually, she settled again, and at last sight was texting on her phone oblivious to the fact that her dress had ridden up around her waist, and we all had a glorious view of the gusset of her tights.  Never a good look at the best of times.  Probably blew her chances with the lead singer too.  I wish I'd got a look at what she was texting.  Some hapless ex-boyfriend getting an earful no doubt.

Anyway, it was a valuable lesson in how to be a lady.  I wonder if she spent half the next day pondering why she didn't pick up.

25 August, 2010

The Set Up

Don't you just hate it when well-meaning friends introduce you to someone they just know is going to be perfect?  I'm not sure what's worse, the terrible disappointment when you meet them and realise they're completely wrong for you, or the thought that your friends think actually think you're a suitable match.

In fairness to my girlfriend, she'd not met the bloke before, it was a friend of her boyfriend's.  I mean, on paper he looked okay - mid thirties, stockbroker.  Except for the stockbroker bit.   He turned up in a pink plaid shirt, with a terribly conservative haircut.  Not a shred of cool to be found in a twenty foot radius.  Not chatty, not particularly charming, a bit old school.

The worst of it all, is that my friends not only made it clear to him that this was a set up, and that he should have a crack, but by way of introduction had told him about this blog.  Now this is Very Bad.  It's a rule I have that I never, ever tell potential dates about the blog.  No matter how much I like them.  Just in case, you know, later I want to write about them.  He commented rather wryly that he liked the story of the guy with chains on his shoes and said "I hope I don't end up on there!"

So, er, hi dude.

It was, by any measure, a lavish evening.  Bollinger, dinner at Rockpool, sixty dollar steaks, the works.  So I'm perusing the menu and I see this marvellous bottle of red that I used to drink when I could afford such things - the Giaconda Pinot.  So I'm all like "Wow, they've got the Giaconda!" followed by "Oh shit, we're not getting that", when I realised it was almost two hundred smackers a bottle.  My date waves his hand in the air "if you want it, have it!"  So I did.

Now I get really nervous about this sort of thing.  I'm not comfortable with it.  I'd rather go to the dumpling bar and drink a beer.  There's a couple of reasons.  I'm not very good at being a traditional girl, and having money thrown around to impress.  I'm just not.  But mostly, I hate hate hate feeling obligated to, you know, put out or something at the end of the night.  Which is kind of where I could see all this splashy cash leading.  The bill arrived, and the boys split it.  I offered.  I offered vociferously.  At least let me pay for the wine, I said. But they were having none of it.

We left the restaurant.  My pal and her fella were heading home.  Date turns to me and says "so you want to go for a drink?"  Now lesser women might have said "oh, what the hell" and gone to it.  But not your worthy correspondent.  Having consumed a bottle of pinot, half a bottle of Bolly and a couple of tequilas, I begged off and staggered into a cab, leaving him on the sidewalk with nary a kiss on the cheek.  Amazing I had the presence of mind really. 

And that, my darlings, was the end of that.

Author's Note:  I have to tell you that I have waited some months to publish this post.  It's weighed heavily on me.  And I confess, I have edited it somewhat to avoid hurting feelings.  So for those of you who are my friends, and are thinking of setting me up with one of your pals.  For fuck's sake, do NOT tell them about my blog.  And to my stockbroking friend -  if you read this, don't complain. You knew what you were in for.

20 August, 2010

The Violinist

Question: Why is a violin smaller than a viola? Answer: It's not, it’s just that the violinist has a really big head.

My ex, who’s a musician himself, told me that joke. Ah sweet fate, if only he’d told me before my date with the violinist.

I really had my hopes up on this one. A musician with a popular Australian orchestra, in his pictures he looked warm and charming. He had intelligent eyes, and well, he was a professional violinist. How artistic and interesting!

So, with hopes high and lipstick perfect, I awaited his arrival at a very-difficult-to-get-into restaurant in town. When he arrived I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. It was like he had a giant jelly head balanced on this skinny body. He looked like a tube of toothpaste where someone’s squeezed it all up to one end. My heart sank.

Then he sat down, and said “Hi!” A blast of toxic halitosis washed over me. I swear the candle flickered, considered committing suicide, but, thinking of the brevity of its existence decided to stick around a minute longer. This is a man who could rent himself out to the Texas Department of Corrections as an executioner, if it wasn’t for the clause “cruel and unusual punishment”. Breath that could have won the war for the Kaiser, if only he’d used it instead of mustard gas on the battlefields of the Russian front.

I found myself involuntarily holding a finger just above my upper lip in a subconscious effort to stop the smell getting in, or perhaps, to sniff the lingering aroma of soap thereon.

And yet, he wore aftershave.

He talked a lot about himself, asked a little of me. But it was to no avail. Far be it from me to be overly fussy, because the gods know that every day my standards slip a little further, I might even have forgiven his giant melon head, but I do draw the line at oral hygiene. He was second fiddle anyway.  No, actually second fiddle.

Oh Cupid, you utter bastard, why dost thou torment me so?

11 August, 2010

The Usher

Okay, so this isn't my dating story, and kind of isn't quite a dating story, but it's so wonderful, I had to share it.

I have a friend, let's call him Georgio, who told me about a job he once applied for at a cinema.  The company was run by an elderly gay man, who first insisted on getting my pal to submit to a full horoscope. 

You read that right - a horoscope.

So Georgio contacts his mother to get the exact time and place of his birth, and gets it back to the elderly gentleman.  He pays an astrologer to create a chart.  Given that I've never once heard of an astrologer saying "this person is an axe-murderer, or possibly capable of embezzlement", I can't imagine that there would be a problem.  There wasn't, naturally.

However, the proprietor of the business had something of a penchant for seducing his staff.  I asked Georgio if he succumbed to his employer's advances, to which he replied, "I'd only let him buy me drinks."  Glorious.

He did say though, that because he was a virgo he was made "marketing officer", which meant that he had to change the posters in the cinema, on top of his regular ushing and drinking responsibilities.

What a little piece of heaven!  I wish it had happened to me.

07 August, 2010

Family photos

Well. I thought about it, and I figured that if I black out their eyes, perhaps I could share with you the photos of some of my favourite suitors. Feast your eyes, my darlings, on these handsome devils.  All of them have tried to contact me in some way or another.

"So how 'bout it?"

This fellow described himself as "a bit overweight".  A bit.  One of the really frustrating things about this bloke, is that he's punching, frankly, way out of his league.  Look, I'll admit I'm not the most desirable woman on the planet, but you can be damn sure than even my mother wouldn't set me up with a bloke that looked like this.  I mean, did he really think I'd go out with him?  What does that say about my photos?  I must look either incredibly desperate, or incredibly bogan.

"Most weekends I'll go rollerblading, bike riding or play social tennis. "

This jaunty fellow doesn't realise he's gay yet.  You can't tell in this picture, but he looks very like Jimmy Somerville from Bronski Beat.  I bet he just loves Kylie.

"39 and Athletic"

If this bloke is 39, then I'm 17.  And I have to say that when I think althletic, I'm thinking of something more like this:

It would probably also help if he didn't look quite so much like one of the Milat family.  I just get the feeling that if you took a look in his back shed you'd find a whole lot of european brand backpacks.

06 August, 2010

Doctor Jekyll

So I've had this wretched head cold for about a month, and finally decided to go to the doctor about it, just in case. It was a clinic I'd not been to before. I turn up and am met by my fifty something doctor. He's bald, shortish.

Anyway, he takes a look at me and puts me on some antibiotics for a secondary infection in my sinus. Whatever, you don't really need to know that bit. The bit that's interesting is that he wrote out the script with a beautiful fountain pen, which he periodically dipped in red ink.

I'm a bit of a sucker for truly beautiful things, especially things that hark back to a time long gone, and so I said "I like your pen."

That's all I said.

He looks at me sort of quizzically, then leans back and takes off his jumper. He's wearing a tight, white t-shirt. I noticed that he'd shaved his arm-hair and it was growing back. He turns to me archly and says "so, do you need any contraception?"


"Er, no."

Why did he ask me that? I mean, ladies, you know there are times when you get "the vibe" from a fellow, but this went way beyond that. I was looking shit too. Nose all red and head all stuffed up. Go figure.

He is a doctor, so perhaps I should have given it some thought. After all, there must an advantage to going out with someone who can prescribe all kinds of conscience-suppressing drugs, but you know, it just didn't feel right.

30 July, 2010

Self Awareness

So this is the sort of profile that just sends a chill down my spine:
"hi there i have been living in melbourne for just over a year comeing from qld its so cold , but anyway I an entertainer by profession iv been working all over melbourne and would like to meet someone special out there , so if would like to meet up for coffee please send me an email and see how it goes.

"dont forget lifes to short , lets go out and have some fun . only people with photos please"

So.  Let's talk about punctuation.  And spelling.  And then let me tell you about this bloke's picture.

Part 1.  Punctuation and Spelling (I figured I'd spare you the long version, and just summarise).

According to my count, and it may be flawed because it is, after all, 10:31 pm and I've had three quarters of a bottle of wine, but there are precisely five punctuation marks.  Now, because I have impeccable grammar, I can tell you that there should, in fact, be at least ten.  That includes the missing apostrophe on "iv" which should, of course, be "I've".

Spelling.  Oh my lord.  Let me count the ways: "comeing", "its", "if would like to" (okay that's grammar, not spelling for those of you more pedantic than me) and while we're at it "lifes to short"  You know, it defies logic that these guys just don't even bother to spell check.  And this dude is expecting me to blow ten bucks sending him an email.  I don't think so my jolly friend. The phrase "anyway I an entertainer by profession" itself makes me feel a little queasy. An entertainer.  Just what do you think this guy does?  Sword swallowing? Read on my lovelies!

Part 2. The photos vs the description.

Right. So this fellow describes himself as "a bit overweight".  I am telling you now, judging from his pictures he'd have difficulty getting into a MaxiCab.  We're talking about your worst nightmare on a long haul flight.  The man that needs not one, not two, but two and a half seats. He is, frankly, enormous.  Elephantine.  But just in case you're blind, or really really desperate, he says he's "a bit overweight".

My other theory is that he believes that.  He really believes that if he just gets up a half hour early in the morning, and goes for a run, he'll work it all off in no time.  And you know what, he probably would work it off in a couple of years.  But if he's anything like me, he'll be hitting the snooze button all the way from 7am to 7.37am (which is the very last minute I can stay in bed and still get ready for work and make the train).  And by the looks of him, he's stopping off at Maccas on the way to work for a double McLard, sausage, cheese, double bacon and hashbrown burrito.

God almighty.  Why?  Why do they email me?

26 July, 2010

The one I liked (but almost killed)

Candidate No. 11 probably wasn't ideal, but I really liked him. There were a few things that stood in the way of our love - he was vegetarian, I'm a committed meat eater, he doesn't drink, I certainly do, he's gluten-free, I'm gluten-rich, and so on. But I really liked him.

We had a few dates - an appalling Spanish art film, a dinner or two, some gallery hopping, and he was charming, funny, and intelligent. A school teacher, he had some really interesting views on things. As I've said, I liked him a lot.

But then the day came when the phone rang and it was No. 11 telling me that he really just wasn't into it. Or rather, into me. Which was a bit crushing, but at the same time, you should never get upset about rejection on a dating site - after all, it's all a bit hit and miss, but I was disappointed. I was very gracious about it all, but gnashed my teeth a little afterward.

Fast forward a week. I'm driving to my brother's place in the outer suburbs for lunch. It's about 11am, and I'm on the M1 out of town, when an idiot driver pulls in front of me suddenly, forcing me to slam on the brakes (er, and the horn), and let forth some choice expletives. The guy then slows down, so I indicate and pull into the lane to my left.

Narrowly missing Candidate No. 11.  Who just happened to be on the same stretch of road, at the same time, quietly minding his own business.

Yep. I just about ran the poor guy off the road. I can only imagine he thinks I'm a bitter, vindictive spurned woman, who, on seeing him, thought she'd side swipe him into oblivion.

Of course, I'm nothing of the sort. By amazing co-incidence, he just happened to be driving on the same road, at the same time, in my blind spot.

I'm sure he thinks I'm a stalker now. If you're out there reading this No. 4, I'm sorry! It was an accident, and I'm not trying to kill you.

But I understand now, why you had to let me go.

23 July, 2010

The guy who looked like John Jarratt.

You know, I love Wolf Creek.  It's really scary.  And John Jarrett is awesome in it.  But to be honest, I wouldn't want to date him.  Not in character.  Not in that character.  So I was a little taken aback when I met with Candidate No. 476 (or so it feels), to find he looked alarmingly like John Jarrett.

He had a really interesting job.  He's an investigator for the Attorney General's office.  He busts drug cartels and domestic violence cases.  He's worked all over the country.  It was pretty interesting.  For a bit.

But as he talked about his extensive travel in outback Australia, visiting remote indiginous communities, all I could see was a big truck with a roo-bar and a couple of hapless English tourists in the back seat, laughing nervously.  

I tried awfully hard to stay on track, and there was an amusing moment where I explained my somewhat complex family history using mixed nuts to represent various family members, and eating the people who had died.  But you know, overall, it was a bit of a wash out. And perhaps that eating the dead people thing wasn't such a great idea, you know, given the company I was keeping.

There's not much more to say about that one, except, dang!  He really looked like John Jarratt. 

[John Jarratt, if you read this, you're not a bad looking bloke okay, it's just that you were so damned scary in Wolf Creek that I wouldn't want to date you.  Sorry.]

The Male Nurse

They’re never quite what you expect. When I saw this candidate's profile, he looked confident, warm, a bit of a hippy. When he arrived in person he looked like a bit of a loser. His hands were shaking with nerves, and he was wearing a brown pleather jacket with what looked like a cigarette burn in the collar.

Now I should confess that I was no oil painting myself. I’d been wildly drunk the night before, with an ugly head cold to boot. So when he arrived I was both deeply hung over and off my tree on Sudafed, which made me both overly chatty and without the ability to construct a sentence properly. Not an ideal combination, to be sure.

My date was a nurse. I still find this an incongruous combination, and I know that it’s wrong. But somehow, it just seems odd to have men as nurses. I guess I'm reverse sexist.  He’d also, in his time, been a butcher, a baker (although sadly, not a candlestick maker), a roadie, a construction worker and a bee keeper. Like a one man Village People. A Village Person, perhaps.

Anyway, while I’m always partial to a bit of gore in a tale, and was fascinated by the stories of amputated limbs and biohazard bins, flooded morgues and exploding abscesses, hearing about the explosive diarrhoea of the elderly and the rotten stench of someone who’s just shat themselves was just taking it a bit far. Especially over thai minced beef with chilli. I think I ate three bites for the whole meal.

It was nearing the end of the date when Candidate X made a fateful mistake. He said “so, do you want to do this again?” I hate that. I really hate that. I’ve always had a rule that one should never ask a question to which one may not necessarily want to hear the answer.

I’d like to think I said what I did because I was trying to spare his feelings, but the truth is that I’m a coward and didn’t want to tell the brutal truth. So I settled on “I’m not sure yet. I haven’t made up my mind.” Which took him back a little. I think he figured it was all going swimmingly due to my excessive chattiness (and I’m chatty at the best of times. Get a bit of pseudoephedrine into my system and I turn into a regular Robin Williams).

We finished up, split the bill (I insist on splitting the bill), and left. Outside I said, “well, I’ll be in touch!” It was a Seinfeldian lie. I won’t be in touch. I won’t be anything like in touch. I’ll be decidedly out of touch.

I think he knew it. We turned and walked in opposite directions.

08 June, 2010

Going out with the ugly guy

So, I won't bang on about this too much, but I recently had a date with a guy that was just really, really ugly. He looked sort of interesting and charming in his picture, but when I met him he was ghastly. Overweight, terrible skin, bad teeth, the works. The problem was that he was a really nice guy, and quite funny and interesting. But I just knew I could never have sex with him. Hell, I couldn't even look him in the eye. Disaster.

There's nothing worse than an ugly date. A rude one, or a stupid one you can handle. You don't feel too bad about letting them down. But an ugly one is terrible. Because they're usually really keen. And you have to give them a reason why you don't want to date them. You can't say, "it's because you're ugly". You can only say, "I'm not in the right place right now", or something equally inane. To which they usually respond, "well why did you go out on a date with me?" Which is a fair enough question.

So my advice is to never, ever date an ugly guy. If you can avoid it.

Meet Mister Typical

So I get a lot of contact on this dating site I'm on. And there's certain stuff that just sends me into a white hot rage. At the risk of sounding like an utter bitch, I have transcribed a typical description, and added my own comments in parentheses, in italics. Think of it as a sort of translation.

Tall Dark and Handsome, a True Gentleman, one of very few left, an Extremely Intelligent Self Employed Professional.

[Okay, let's start there. Not just intelligent, but Extremely Intelligent. Although not so intelligent as to have a clear understanding of how to use capitalisation. Note the excessive use of adjectives.]

Good Looking, Healthy, Happy, Fun, Clean [why does he feel he needs to mention this specifically?], I take pride in my appearance and always smell nice [what? What's that about? that's the second mention], extremely Positive, GSOH, Lots of Stamina, Very Romantic, and Knows how to treat a Woman; You know, the kind that would send you flowers and simply say (I love you). [I'd be happy with the flowers alone actually. And maybe some booze to inhibit my inhibitions. What's with those damned capitals? And may I suggest that good looking is subjective. For obvious reasons I can't publish the fellow's picture, but I can say that his is definitely on the below average side of handsome.]

I respect people for what they are, and I've never met a person that I did not like. [Liar!]

Well educated, respectful, considerate, generous, affectionate, always have good intentions, understanding, supportive, Caring, Spontaneous, Elegant, A very well balanced professional. [Seriously, is there anything this guy isn't? Does he have a Nobel Prize? I mean, it's good to be positive about yourself, but really.]

Did I leave anything out??? LOL!!! [Ten points off right there for multiple use of question marks and exclamation points. And another ten for the odious LOL]

I enjoy the best that life has to offer, love getting outdoors, but just as happy cuddling in front of a fire. [This is two of my pet hates. "The best that life has to offer" is just stupid. Who doesn't? As opposed to enjoying just mediocre things that life has to offer? Pssh. Then there's the bet hedging - I'm outdoorsy, but just in case you're not, I'm also happy to just sit quietly.]

love to travel with someone special, Weekends away (A must), Spending quality time with my special partner is exactly that (Very Special). [And then misses the capital at the beginning of the sentence, but feels inclined to use one throughout. Must I really go away for a weekend with this guy? Oh, and did I mention I'm not your fucking someone special? I really hate that sort of language. Someone special, special lady...blech.]

Did I mention that I can cook??? Oh, and I always wash the dishes afterwards, LOL!!! [see above re: multiple punctuation etc]

And Finally, I always make sure that ( my day starts right and ends happy ). [Oh, by that I assume he means he either has a wank at either end of the day, or a shit in the morning and a wank at bedtime.]


And there you have it. Mister Typical. Breaks my fucking heart it does. Breaks it.

The English One with the Shoes.

Every now and then, I think that maybe I just need to lower my standards. You know, maybe I'm expecting too much. So once in a while I give a bloke a chance that I normally wouldn't. Like Candidate No. 6.

We met at a very nice restaurant in Fitzroy that does ripper tapas. I was a bit early. He arrived, and looked exactly like his picture which was good. We 'fessed up our nervousness. A glass of wine helped. No. 6 is a shortish guy with a nasal English accent and, well not a lot going on really. He told me all about himself on the first night. Some slightly disturbing history of drug abuse, but nothing too serious. Look, I'm going to cut to the chase here and tell you that I broke a cardinal rule of mine and shagged him. It might have been the wine, the beers and the vodka. It might just have been because it'd been quite a while. Anyway, I did.

A couple of weeks went by, and I invited him to mine for dinner. Now the day he arrived, I had a monster hangover. Six kinds of fucked up. I'd cleaned the house, picked up all my clothes, emptied the kitty litter (gah, gluh, hurk), changed the sheets (I really hate doona covers), and cooked a fine dinner. Then he turned up. I went cold. Completely off him. His aftershave was cheap, and he smoked. I used to smoke, so I don't want to get all precious about it, but the combination of bad cologne and dirty smoker mouth made me not want to kiss him. At all. But you know, he was over, so I was sort of in for a pound. As it were.

The final straw was the shoes. They were slip-on things with a fucking gold chain across the instep. Worn with grey socks. God damn they were ugly. Bad shoes. Bad breath. Bad news for Candidate No. 6.

I shagged him anyway. He stayed. He slept all over me. And look, I'm just not into all night oppressive spooning. I kept pushing him away. He kept moving closer. It was hot (in a temperature way). I felt pawed. He snored. I barely slept. Worst night's sleep in a long time, and that with a roaring hangover too. Hideous.

Anyway, he sent me a text message later that week. For reasons I can't explain, we talked almost exclusively through texts. He wanted to know we could catch up again. I dumped him by text message. It was a mostly kind message, but clear. I haven't heard from him since.

The moral of the story is to never drop your standards. They're yours. Just trust them. And don't get too fucked up on the first date. I must try to remember that one.

21 April, 2010

The Man's Man

Meet the Man's Man. He's tall, good looking, well dressed.

MM asked me to meet him at a bar I'd never heard of in town (this is something of a rarity, as I'm no doubt a borderline alcoholic these days). When I finally found it, it was closed. But happily, MM turned up, and we wandered down the street, a little awkwardly, to a very posh restaurant. I won't name it here. Let's just call it Grossi Florentini.

Anyway, we sit down at an outside table (it was a rather balmy night), and MM says "Oh do you mind if I go say hello to some friends of mine?" Which frankly, was a little odd, but what the hey. So off he goes.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm still waiting.

Finally, he returns, and says "Oh my god, your eyes are so beautiful. I could drown in them," which made a little bit of sick come up into my mouth. He launches into a story about himself. This was followed immediately, by another story about himself. I listened to several stories about him, before he said, "so, you know what I'm really good at?" I could hardly imagine. Not reading body language, or taking breath. "Do tell," I said. "Survival. I'm really good at survival. I've done a survival course. If I was lost in the bush for three weeks, I could survive. I'd just cut the head off a snake and eat it raw."

Some skill that.

But it turns out, that survival wasn't MM's only talent. Oh no, he had another one too.

Samurai Sword Fighting.

Seriously. He was really good at Samurai Sword Fighting. He demonstrated this with two spoons on the table. He showed me exactly how one spoon got the advantage over the other spoon. Apparently, it's all in the hip.

MM finally asked me a question. It was this:

"So, why did you choose to date me?"

Which is kind of code for, "enough about me, what do you think of me?" clearly fishing for compliments. I paused for a second, and said "your reading list. You read some really intelligent books." He said, "Oh, I just copied that from some girl's profile. I haven't read any of those."

My jaw dropped. I seriously considered getting up and walking away. It must have shown on my face (my face just gives away everything. It's one of the primary reasons why I'm so crap at poker, that and the fact that I'm just crap at it), because he quickly followed up with "oh, don't worry, I do read. "

Very suddenly, and somewhat to my relief, the heavens opened, I listened to several more stories about him (how his house is in Urban Magazine because it's so fantastic, how he used to work in radio (selling ad space), how he's developing six properties in Preston, how ... oh you get the picture), before the bill arrived. We payed it. I literally threw the money at him from my wallet, then, without a kiss, without even a fond wave, said "well, that's that. Goodbye!" and availed myself of a very convenient taxi that had just pulled up next to me.

When I got home, I had to wear my "It's all about me" pyjamas to realign my ego, and watch a horror movie to cheer myself up.

18 March, 2010

Mike Yanagita

Remember that scene in Fargo, where Marge Gunderson has dinner with an old school friend? That school friend is Mike Yanagita. Remember the fumbling desperation? The pleading eyes, the excessive enthusiasm?

Meet Candidate No. 3.

At around 5'5" (profile says 5'10". For fuck's sake, Men, do not lie about your height. You will be caught. Seriously.) Candidate No. 3 is a jack of all trades who lives in an office building near the beach. In an actual office. Which kind of raises a red flag in my mind, but I digress.

He turned up looking quite a bit older (and fatter) than his photo, wearing jeans and thongs (if you're an American, that's what we call "flip flops" here in Australia). Now, I don't want to get all uppity, but is it too much to ask for a bloke to wear shoes? And while we're on it, here's a note for the ladies - if a chap's got his mouth shut in his photos, it means he's probably got really bad teeth.

My first impression, frankly, was no frickin' way. I tried not to let my disappointment show.

Now, to be fair, he's a nice guy I guess, but there's something just not quite right about 3. And after an hour or so of chatting, he started making bedroom eyes at me.


Soon after he went for beers, came back and sat on the same side of the table as me. I got a dreadful feeling, like I was being hit on by a creepy uncle or something. You know the sort. The one that kisses you on the mouth at Christmas, when a cheek would have more than sufficed. Or grabs you on the arse when they give you a hug.

It soon became apparent that we were engaged in a slow-motion game of kiss chasey, where he'd move a little closer, and I'd move a little further away. He'd lean forward a bit, and I'd lean back a bit. When I ran out of bench, I declared it home time.

I grabbed my bag, thanked him for a pleasant evening, and made a run for it.  Sometimes, you know, one really does feel as though one has dodged a bullet on these things.

16 March, 2010

Really bad profile names

So this morning, I was contacted by a chap on a dating site with the nom de plume "IwantDDs". If you're reading this, Mister DDs, telling a girl that you're just after big tits probably isn't the best way to get on her good side. In fact, I don't think I know a woman alive who would have "an interest in really large breasts" on her list of must-haves for a potential new boyfriend.

Another favourite is "Dissapointed" (sic). Nothing says bitter, disillusioned and miserable more than "disappointed" mis-spelled. Not only are you carrying more baggage than Paris Hilton on a holiday in Monaco, you're not even clever enough to run a spell-check over your misery.

Okay, and I may be alone in this, but I think horoscopes are really really stupid. So if you've got a handle with your star sign in it, you're basically telling me you're a brainless schmuck. That goes for you too Mssrs BombersRule, HawksRock and DockersFan11. Seriously.

The Bad Kisser

I really don't know why I let him kiss me. I guess it was the twenty champagnes and an inflated sense of manners that made me think I should. But lets go back to the beginning, shall we? Take my hand and let's run through the fields of mediocrity that is my sorry dating life.

Candidate No. 2 is a 42 year old photographer. A good looking bloke around 5'10". Well travelled and articulate, I met him on an internet dating site.

He arrived a half hour late, sat down and ordered a beer. It was the first of several thousand he'd drink that night. Is it nerves? Or is there something about me that drives men to drink themselves into a stupor?

After the first ten or so we got to talking about creationism vs evolution, which developed into a discussion about agnosticism vs atheism (are you still awake? Stay with me). This is where it all started to go pear-shaped.

You see, men love arguing with me. I'm assuming it's just me, because most of my single girlfriends don't have the same experience. It seems to happen to me a lot.

So he starts arguing with me, but without a point. Great, complex trains of thought disappearing into the night without a destination. Frustrated and bored, I tried to change the topic. To be something about him. Three times. But Candidate No. 2 doggedly changed it back, verbally meandering here and there, eyes rolling around his head like a shark in a feeding frenzy, as he ordered beer no. 428.

After an hour or two of this I figured it was home time. And that's when I let him kiss me. I really shouldn't have, and frankly, I wish I hadn't. For our hapless candidate was a Very Bad Kisser. His tongue had a life of its own and, like a dental Indiana Jones, explored the deeper recesses of my root canal, and the folds of my epiglottis.

I pulled away, slightly horrified and feeling oddly violated. He said "what's wrong?" then, eyes narrowed, "I really wanna fuck you." So I told him.

"Whoa, dude. WAY too much!"
"Too much tongue. Really way too much." He looked hurt, and I felt bad.

We sat silently for a minute or two.

"Well, I guess it's home time for me." I said weakly.

He paid the bill, which was kind. Nevertheless, I had to let him go.

The Dirty Liar

Meet Candidate No. 1. He's 5'10", 35 years old, and speaks both French and Latin. An urban, inner-city dweller, he's a sculptor and painter. And while he smokes a little, he's trying to give up.

Sounds dishy, doesn't he? Rrrrrow.

I met Candidate No. 1 for lunch.

I arrived exactly on time (as always), and sitting out the front of the restaurant with a fag hanging out of his mouth was a short little guy with mustard coloured teeth and thinning hair.

Slightly mortified, I took my seat opposite. He flashed me a wide, nicotine smile, poured himself a glass of wine, and lit up another fag. We talked of this and that, and I asked him about his French. Well actually, I said "je parle un petit peu francais. Où avez-vous appris la langue?"

[Insert awkward pause here].

After a minute or two of blank Homer face, he smiled nervously and nodded. Clearly, there was no French there. I'd wager a month's salary that he spoke no Latin, either.

He continued to drink steadily.

Turns out he wasn't really a sculptor (although apparently did a sculpture once in art class in high school - it was an abstract piece), but rather, was a boiler-maker working at a small company that manufactured tin dingies. Fascinating stuff.

Another bottle down the hatch.

It was around this point that he made a comment about his fortieth birthday. Fortieth hey? I mentioned that his internet profile said 35. Caught out again, he shrugged and laughed. I called for the bill. He, on the other had, having nervously scoffed at least a bottle and half of wine, lost his balance and fell backward off his chair.

Needless to say, I had to let him go.