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?"

What?

"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.