08 June, 2011

Babes in History Part 1

As you know, I struggle with a dearth of quality man-flesh. I do, however take comfort in the knowledge that greatness has gone before me, and that I’m not one of the sisters living in a different time, where options were, if possible, even thinner on the ground.  For example, poor old Lucretia Borgia was married of to a string of old blokes with titles and bore eight children, the last of which killed her (the birth, not the baby).  Eight.  Sweet baby Jesus on a fire engine.  What’s more, she the subject of many delighted whispers, including accusations of incest, murder and various other depravities.  Poor bitch.  What a miserable existence.

Anyway for your entertainment, I thought I’d put together a little list of some of my favourite historical hellcats.  Women that make my dating life look like a fucking gang bang with the US mens' gymnastic team.

Elizabeth 1 – the (cough) Virgin Queen

You'd better be smokin' hot to mess with me.
Well, we may as well start at the top.  And Betty 1 was a corker.  She was super-smart.  She ruled England, won the hearts of the people, and was enormously popular with pretty much everyone.  She spoke English, Spanish, French, Italian, Greek and Latin fluently, and famously addressed visiting courtiers in their native tongues.  Damn straight.  She ruled the parliament at a time when women were considered a bit thick, and won several decisive battles against the Spaniards.  She was bad-ass.

But for all her achievements, Elizabeth couldn’t find a date.  Oh there were suitors aplenty, but none worthy (sound familiar?).  Also, she insisted on meeting them before she’d consent to marry them, which doesn’t seem so unreasonable today, but was a pretty fricken big deal in the 16th century.

Look, I’ve read a lot about QE1, and let me tell you, she may never have married, but I’ve got ten bucks says she wasn’t a virgin.  No way.  She was too smart, too sassy and way too rich to not enjoy a little fleshly pleasure now and again. 

Oh, so you should know that contrary to popular belief, she didn't stop trying to find a husband (in order to have an heir to the throne).  Even when she was in her forties, which is why she's my hero.  Although, you know, obviously I don't want an heir. 

Mary, Queen of Scots

Anyone for polo?  No?  How about nuptuals?
Okay, I’m going to be up front and tell you that Mary was dumb as a box of hammers.  She was sporty, horsey and apparently quite a fine-lookin’ gal (although you wouldn’t know it from the portraits), but smart she wasn’t.  But lets start at the beginning.

The First Husband – Francis II of France. 

He was 15, she was 14. Francis 2 was an idiot. Hopelessly inbred, he was narrow shouldered, short, with reeking breath and unsightly red blotches on his face. One court regular described him as "pale and swollen, rather than fat" and "bilieux". Frank 2 died at the age of 17 without having reached puberty.  Also, I'm told, his balls never dropped. 

Nevertheless, he was fine fodder considering the bloke they set her up with next - Don Carlos of Spain.  Holy fucking shit.  Another victim of a limited gene pool, Don Carlos he was not only alarmingly ugly, he weighed less than 40kg, and was an utter fucktard. He had one shoulder lower than the other, spoke with a pronounced impediment and was, on occasion, prone to epileptic fits. What's more he was violent, evil tempered and lustful. It was this last trait that led him to tumble down a flight of stairs chasing a chambermaid. The ensuing concussion left him partially paralysed, and blind. A wily Italian doctor drilled a hole in his skull, which apparently relieved his paralysis somewhat, but left him prone to unendurable fits of homicidal rage.  Fortunately for Mary, it didn’t work out with the Don. 

Second husband - Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley

Enter the dashing Lord Darnley, handsome raconteur, seducer of women, sportsman, favourite of Elizabeth, and er, first cousin of Mary herself. Although already syphylitic at the time of his marriage, he was considered quite a catch. Of course, he was also petulant, selfish and sulky.  Oh, but there’s more.  Because Darnley was intensely jealous, and once, out of spite, stabbed Mary’s best pal and favourite musician to death before her very eyes.  While she was knocked up too.  What a fuckwit.

Darnley pissed of a lot of people, and before you could say “succession plan” he was found strangled in the garden.  On to number three!

The Third Husband – James Hepburn, 4th Earl of Bothwell

Instigator of the murder of husband 2, Bothwell was hirsute, swarthy, and squat.  Oh, and a rapist.  Because after bumping off Darnley, he kidnapped Mary and repeatedly brutalised her.  As a good Catholic girl (see, religious people were stupid even then), Mary wasn’t overly comfortable with shenanigans outside the marital bed, and now that now they’d done the nasty, she’d better get hitched and pronto.  Silly idiot.

Anyway, the long and short of it is that the murder plot was uncovered, and the lords rose up against Mary and Bothwell.  He left her standing to take the rap, and pissed off to Scandanavia while she was imprisoned, making him both a coward and a douchebag deluxe.*

*So it turns out that Bothwell had hastily divorced his first wife to have a crack at Mary.  She had her revenge, because he was caught in Norway, where she was living, and she had him chucked in jail and took his boat as compensation.  Serves the fucker right I say.

01 June, 2011

I'm in love!

Okay, so he's not very tall.  And he's got kinda big ears.  But he loves a snuggle on the couch, and he doesn't talk back.  He's a little young I guess and he's got a hairy back, but he's got a curious mind, and beautiful green eyes.  And he makes me laugh.  Oh yes.

His name is Austin.

So you finally gave in and became a crazy cat lady, huh?

25 May, 2011

Dinner with Ted Bundy anyone?

On Friday, I got this email from I guy I don't know.  There was no preamble, no witty banter, just this:

"Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

No name, one picture that was kind of obscured.  I confess, I thought about it, because writing funny things for imaginary readers makes me take crazy risks sometimes, but then I shook myself out of it, and once again wondered how this blog can make me do stuff that could be injurious to my health.  I didn't answer. 

About an hour and a half later, this arrived: 

"Hi :) would you mind replying to my earlier message? Sorry it's brief, I'm busy at work. I'll make good company, just think it would be a fun evening."

Oh, I'm sorry.  You're busy at work, but I'm just lounging about on the couch eating bon bons, watching re-runs of I love Lucy and designing clothes for monkeys in my imagination.  Note there is still no name, no number, no identifiers of any kind.  This is how girls end up in plastic bags by the side of the road near a state forest.  What's more everyone thinks they're "good company"  even those people who are decidedly "bad company".

This time I responded, with:

"I'm sorry dude.  I didn't realise you were serious.  I have plans tonight."

Undaunted, mystery man fired this off:

"Fair enough, can I book you in for another evening, maybe this weekend"

Not even a full stop.  Book me in?  Try calling one of these girls instead.

It was time to put a stop to these shenanigans.  This is what I wrote.

"Er, no.

"I'm sorry, but I know nothing about you at all. And I make a point of not going on dates with men who don't have a photo up where I can see their teeth."

See, I'm learning.  No more guys with bad teeth for me.  He shot off one last salvo:

"I see. Thanks for being honest and for replying. I'll work on both as they are simple to do. Have a good weekend. It was an impetuous idea no harm done I think."

Well, not unless you trawl the internet for blogs written by disillusioned single forty-something women.  I didn't respond, and I haven't heard back.  Although it'll be interesting to see if he puts up a picture with teeth in it.   Actually, it'd be great if he put one in of just his teeth with no face attached.  Although, if they were all lying bloody on a handkerchief, how could I be sure they were his?  And not his last dinner date's?

Give us a kiss, love.

18 May, 2011

Another office nuisance

So there’s a new contractor who’s sitting next to me in the office, and he shooting his mouth off, and trying to get a rise out of me (if you’re on Facebook, and you’ve “liked” this page, you’d know that.  See, just click that little “like” button on the right there). He's constantly making stupid fucking jokes that are neither clever nor funny.  He thinks, I’m sure, that it makes him charming, when in fact, it is the office equivalent of pulling my pigtails in class.
Anyway, in a desperate and rather vain effort to avoid his rage-inducing nitpickery, I’ve been forced to adopt a number of strategies.  One is to put my headphones on and pretend I can’t hear him.  But he's started to rudely interrupt my podcast, in order to tell me that he reckons I'd be a "plate thrower" in an argument (I swear, he's going to end up with a plate lodged in his pelvis if he's not fucking careful), or to observe that I've either put my jacket on, or taken it off.  So I've taken to typing furiously and staring at my computer screen, like I'm working on something Very Important, which requires Intense Concentration.  A great strategy, particularly if combined with the headphones, but I'd run out of writing work.  So I had to make something up.  And look very fucking serious about it.
I should add, that I don't think he's having a crack, he's just trying to ingratiate himself by taking the piss.  Problem is, he doesn't know me well enough to be able to do that yet.  Cocky fucker.
Here, my lovelies, is what I wrote Monday afternoon, at 4.40pm, to avoid having to talk to the Very Annoying Office Nuisance - unedited and as it happened. Warning! This contains some very coarse language.  Very. Like c-bomb very.

Just have to write something so that I can look like I’m concentrating so the douchebag won’t say anything to me.  I think I’ll keep this file going so that whenever he looks up to say something inane, I can look like I’m really focussed on what I’m writing.  What a dickwad.  Seriously.
Two minutes later.
So here I go again, because I can see in my peripheral vision that he’s looking at me, and about to make a comment on the chips I’m eating.  I don’t know what it’ll be, but it’ll almost certainly be something irritating, like – “oh, you like chicken chips do you?” or “you shouldn’t eat those, you’ll get fat.” Or something equally ghastly.  Maybe he’ll chastise me for not offering him one.
Okay, five minutes later.
It annoys the shit out of me that I can’t do ANYTHING sitting here without some stupid comment.  Or otherwise he talks out loud about stuff, like “I need to call Myki today”.  Like I give a shit.  Call them douchebag, and don’t tell me about it. He made me take my earbuds out so he could tell me that.  Un-fucken-believable.  Did I mention that he eats with his mouth open, shovelling food in and chewing noisily.  I think I may have to kill him. Slowly.  With a potato peeler and a bag of salt.
This morning, he banged on for twenty minutes about why cats suck and dogs rock.  Of course, he doesn’t know that I lost my beloved puss two weeks ago.  I think if he makes another comment in that direction, I’ll tell him about my sweet girl, and that he can fuck off.  That ought to shut him up for an hour or so.
Three minutes later.
I knew it.  I knew he couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut.  He’s been looking over here every few seconds to see if my concentration has broken, and the second it did, he said “So tell me about yourself – what do you do for fun?”  What the fuck do I say to that?  Well, I write a website about fucktards.  You’re going to be on it, because you shit me to tears.  Instead I said “what?” with as withering a look as I could manage (which is pretty withering), then ignored him and started typing this paragraph.
Which is now finished.  Fuck.  I need to think of something to write…think!  Think girl!
Oh, I know! Today, he passed me on the street with another one of the contractors.  The nice contractor said “hey!” as we passed, and the douchebag, by way of trying to be funny coughed in my face.  Disgusting.
And he listened into a phone call I had where I said something like “are you going to have a boys’ lunch? Because I can’t come to a boys’ lunch, and I want to be there.” After the call ended he said “if you want to go to a boys’ lunch, you should dress up like the guys in Monty Python.”  Please, I beg you, put a bullet in my head.
Oh, another one.  So somehow we got onto the topic of fish.  I never eat fish. I just don’t like it*.  Anyway, he told me that:
  1. I'm stupid and missing out because fish is delicious**
  2. He was going out to lunch and was going to buy fish because he knew how much I “appreciate it”.  Fucking cunt.
  3. Next time we’re in a meeting (which we haven’t been yet), and he wanted his way, he was going to bring two trouts in his back pockets and threaten me with them.  As he said it, he thrust imaginary trout at me to demonstrate. 
Oh, and he keeps all the soft drink cans when he's finished, and piles them up on his desk in a tower.  He said he does that because "all creative people do something quirky".  I said, "what, like stacking up piles of trash on their desks? Just put them in the fucking recycling dude."  But there they stand, teetering and sticky.  Utterly repellant.  And you know, sometimes creative people are quirky.  But they don't do it deliberately.  That's not quirky, that's pretentious, douchebag.

Anyway, he’s packing up his stuff now, so I’ll wait ten minutes before I leave the office – even though I’ll miss my train, because I’d rather miss my train than ride the lift downstairs with him.

Don't even think about putting me in your pocket, arsehole.

*I once famously threw up on the street in Paris when I walked past a fish shop.  They'd just hosed it out, and there were guts all over the pavement.  Which were soon joined by my lunch.

**No, it's not.  It's fucking disgusting.

11 May, 2011

The Cult Leader

Okay, so he wasn't actually a cult leader, but as sure as Charlie Manson is a mad bastard, he could have been.

To be honest, I don’t even know where to start, except to say it was utterly bizarre from start to inevitable finish. But I’ll take a big swig of shiraz, and have a crack my lovelings.

It began with an email on the site I’m on. This fellow was pleasant looking, and seemed quite literate, which was nice. He wanted to know how serious I was about my atheism, and what I meant by it.

This is when it started to go off the rails. These things always start out as just a little odd, and before you know it, ten kinds of crazy are crashing down all around you.

So he’s got this “philosophy” which he vehemently believes. In his words, it is this. "Based on my experience, it's my current understanding that we're like little radio beacons, sending and receiving energy. So, if I have a thought about you, it connects to you." In addition, "everybody has it, some people are more naturally open, but everyone can train themselves to be more aware." Sounds alarming like the appalling Celestine Prophesy to me (which is, by the way, is the worst written book of all time). I started getting a bit edgy. Especially when he said "It all makes sense - and, without wanting to sound too up myself - has the definite possibility of radically improving your life - but it takes time to get through it all."  Clock's ticking dickwad.

"Look into my eyes, not around my eyes, but into my eyes."
Good grief, just hand me the fucking kool-aid already.
One night, we engaged in a bit of IM.  That's when he dropped this clanger into my lap:

“I know that you and I will have great sex, because after I emailed you last night, I had an erection that lasted two hours.”

Well excuse the shit out of me, but that's just a little presumptious, don't you think?  I responded with this:

"Easy tiger!  See this from my end. A guy tells me he's looked at my pictures, spent an hour writing me an email, then gets a boner. I mean really." 

A string of exposition followed - including an explanation of why he flirts, how he flirts, and what it means; as well as a comment that I'm clearly jaded, and he feels like he's "wading through the prior sins of every other bozo on the internet".  Me?  Jaded?  Surely not!

Oh, but it gets better, because he also sent me a list of questions, ranging from "Do you like hugs and affection?" to "How often do you masturbate?" I beg your pardon?  How often do I what?

Needless to say I've shut off his vibe.  As far as I'm concerned, he can take his energy beacons elsewhere, and fuck off while he's at it.  Douche.

04 May, 2011

God botherers

There seems to be an awful lot of religious bollocks flying around right now.  I mean, on one hand you've got christians shouting "burn in hell Bin Laden!" and on the other you've got extremist muslims shouting "enjoy your 72 virgins, matyr!"  You know I'm pretty into the science thing.  So it seems as good a time as any to declare that I am both:

a) an atheist, and
b) frustrated by religious wankers.

So this dating website I'm on is kinda neat.  You answer tons of questions, and it rates you against potential suitors for compatibility.  Now, it's got various categories, and amongst them, are religion, ethics, and other cool stuff like that.

There's a pervasive theme I've noticed.

Religious people are stupid.

I'm talking about your bona fide hard-worshippin', bible-thumpin' born-agains.  I had one recently, that epitomises the genre.  Here's some of the questions, and here's how he answered.  Let's, for argument's sake, call him Judas.

"Is the earth bigger than the sun?"

Me:  No.
Judas:  Yes.

Also, the earth is the centre of the universe, and cavemen ran around with dinosaurs, just like in The Flintstones.  Got a headache?  Here! Try these leeches!

"Are clams alive?"

Me:  Yes, obviously.
Judas:  No.

How do you figure clams aren't alive?  What are they, rocks?

"Is contraception morally wrong?"

Me:  No
Judas:  Yes, always.

Nothing says douchebag like a man who won't put a raincoat on it.  After all kids, we all know that condoms aren't just about stopping us ladies getting knocked up, they can protect us from a whole host of nasties.  Unfortunately, it appears they can't protect us from fucktards.

Give me your money!  Go on, you can trust me!

Now Judas was very persistant.  Even when I told him I was a bleeding heart liberal, who lived on the other side of the planet, and I thought his view of the world was misogynist, medieval, and blood-boilingly selfish. He was the one, in fact, who insisted that I should continue to correspond with him because he found me attractive.  Obviously, my thoughts on the matter were of no importance.  Douche.

Now I'm not against religion, per se. To quote Ghandi (via my hero, Ricky Gervais) "I like your Christ, I just don't like your christians.  Your christians are so unlike your Christ".

Now before all you fundamentalists get all angry and uppity, let me say this:  I uphold the ethics of most religions. I give to charity.  I believe that forgiveness is better than vengeance, and I treat other people as I'd like to be treated.  So fuck off.

20 April, 2011

Vibe II - The Douchening

Before we begin, my darling ones, it has come to my attention that Dead Fish Float has made it around my office. Which is, well, awkward to say the very least.  So, er, hi fellas! Are you enjoying trawling through my personal life? Giving you a vicarious thrill is it?  I'm sure.  If you are in my workplace reading this, you should probably stop now.  You might read something you don't like.

Back to topic.  So the fucktard’s been at it again.  I’m at a loss as to know what to do short of pulling out a gun and shooting him in the head.  Except instead of a bullet, a little flag would come out that said “Dickwad!”.

Anyway, there’s been a couple more incidents.  It's hard to believe, that in 2011, a girl is still dealing with this kind of douchery. One could be forgiven for thinking one's been transported back to 1972 and landed in Carry On Matron.

The other week, I was in a meeting (of all men).  And talking about a website, I said “we can always tweak it later” and made a gesture of turning two dials (I gesticulate wildly.  I’m afraid my hands have a life of their own.   I once gave a friend a bloody nose trying to explain what the white bean bruschetta was like in Florence, and have knocked more than one glass of red into my lap). His Lordship piped up with “you know, when you do that DFF, I can’t think about websites.”  Gentlemen, please restrain the guffaw.

Today’s quote, which rang out across the office, and made my blood boil like a hot pot of milk was this:  “We all know that sexual harassment only exists in the mind of the harassee.”  To which a manager agreed*, much to my horror.

Now what this idiot is saying is code for this: “There’s no such thing as sexual harassment, just people  who are too sensitive or imagining it all.”  To which I say “Bollocks!” with gusto.  Anyway, I shot of a rather fruity email to the aforementioned Manager explaining that those sorts of comments just aren't cool.

Hard to believe, but after this had all happened, we were talking about a design.  The conversation went like this: 

DFF: Let’s do it, and see if it looks like a clusterfuck when it’s on the site.
Dipshit: what exactly is a clusterfuck? (As if he didn't know.  Pssh.)
DFF:  It’s a multitude of fuckups.
Dipshit: Oh, so it’s not a, you know, group…engagement.
DFF:  No it fucking isn’t.  (gives withering glance)

"Hey baby, lighten up.  I'm kidding!"
Yeah.  Right.

The problem with all this stuff is that it's just innuendo.  So if I come out and say "shut your filthy cake-hole you fucktard" (or more probably "That's really inappropriate, and you'd do well to keep those sorts of comments to yourself") he's going to pull the usual MO - which is to say "lighten up, god, I'm only joking", like it's somehow my fault that his entendre-laden comments are offensive.  I know his type.  I've come across them on more than one occasion, and believe you me, the buck stops right here. 

Updates will be posted on Facebook as they occur - so you might want to mosy your mouse on over to the right there and click the "like" button.

Let's get serious for a minute.  Ladies, this sort of thing happens all the time, in spite of training from zealous HR staff and constant reminders in the media.  I want to encourage you all to stand up for yourselves.  You don't have to put up with boorish behaviour, nor should you.  It's not always the easy thing to do, but it is the right thing to do.  Let's look after each other, ey?  In fact, after a chat with a girlfriend at work today, I went through his emails to me, and some of them are very inappropriate indeed.  So I'm in the quandry of whether I should raise them or not.  I'm erring on the yes side of the debate. Not for my sake, but for all those girls in the office who could benefit. Your thoughts would be appreciated in the comments section below.  Have you ever experienced this sort of thing?

* I later had a little chat with the manager, and I’m pleased to report that he was mortified, and that I had, actually, misunderstood his agreement.  He was trying to impress upon this fellow that people do take things the wrong way and he should shut his fucking dirty mouth.  Although, he didn’t include the adjectives at the end of that last sentence.  Anyway, the long and short of it is that Fucktard’s getting a talking to about his appalling attitude to women.  So that’s a good outcome, I suppose.

14 April, 2011

Dating tips for the ladies

So recently, I was perusing the web looking to see if there was any competition around. I’m like that. Deeply competitive. Anyway, I stumbled across this list of dating tips for girls.

In my opinion it should be titled “How to be a whiny fuckin' princess”. I seriously cannot believe the utter bollocks I stumbled across. You can find the whole list here, but for your delectation, here’s some highlights.

Dating Tips

Never reveal information you don't have to. An enigmatic woman drives men wild.
  • You know, it’s not good to blab every single fucking detail of your life, but not because it makes you enigmatic. Mostly, it’s because blabbing makes you boring (see The Man’s Man).
Let your man pay. If he is interested, he is interested enough to ensure you eat well and get home safely in a cab.
  • Okay, but what if he’s not interested? What if you earn more money than he does? What if having him pay means he’s going to expect you to put out at the end of the night? This happens. It happens A Lot.  
Ensure you receive flowers. If he doesn't know what a florist is, dump him.
  • What the fuck? You’re not going to shag him, you don’t even know him, but he’s supposed to pony up for some fucking flowers? Look, flowers are nice, but I’d be terribly uncomfortable about a bloke who turned up with a bunch of tulips, especially if they also had a teddy bear attached or a balloon that says “I wuv you” (ugh.  See Chemistry Lesson for that story) or some other inane bollocks.
Never ever sleep with a guy until he has fallen for you. Sex early in your dating game plan will ruin everything.
  • Oh, I get it. Sex is a commodity that you should trade for attention. I ask you fellas, do you really think less of a woman because she enjoys a good romp? Fuck that, if I’m on a date with a hottie, I’m getting my heels to Jesus as soon as he’ll have me.
Always keep a guy waiting and never turn up early. It is a lady's perogative (sic).
  • Now that’s just rude. I always turn up exactly on time. It shows integrity. Keeping a guy waiting is just poor form. Besides, if you can’t spell prerogative, you don’t have one.

Never be available when he wants you to be. Never be at the end of a phone when he calls and always let him leave a message or two first before replying.
  • What is WRONG with these people? Don’t answer the phone? Don’t call back? If I was a bloke I’d tell them to just fuck off. Actually, I found a study recently that said that men don’t like women to play hard to get. They like to them to play hard to get to every other man. Makes sense when you think about it.

If he is available Tuesday, you are available Thursday.
  • Really. Lady, you are so not getting laid.
Keep your man standing on quicksand by shifting landmarks and goalposts constantly.
  • Because that’s what we girls need. A reputation for being difficult, impossible to please, uptight, unavailable and not clear on what we want.
Ensure you are a good kisser. Men will walk away if you cannot kiss. Practice on a mirror if you have to.
  • Practice on a mirror. Har! Why not practice on your date? Much better idea. That’s what boys are for!  But the mirror’s not going to give you any constructive feedback. And they’re a bitch to clean.
If the guy in the corner is gorgeous, go get him and create the need in him for you. Never wait for men to come to you because you may watch him leave with someone else.
  • Oh, so now you’re supposed to vamp it up with the hot guy. But if he calls you, don’t answer. If he wants to see you on Tuesday, don’t be available. I love the “create the need in him for you.” Actually, most fellas I’ve met already have the need.   I like to call it “the little brain”. It takes care of that.

When good dates go bad.

Online Dating Rules

Post the best and most vampish photo you can find.
  • That way, you’ll look like a slut, even if you expect flowers and don’t put out.
Always reply to emails at least 3 days after receipt.
  • Clearly the internet equivalent of the phone call rule above. Doesn’t work.

Never provide your real email or phone details.
  • Because it’s always better to lie about stuff. Especially later on when you have to confess that you lied about stuff.

Make sure your login name is stunning and sexy, as well as enigmatic.
  • Like what? Furry-fancier? 
Do not assume the person you are talking to is destitute or sad.
  • Just because you are, doesn’t mean they are.

Never ever reply to emails on weekends. Wait until a weekday.
  • That way, you can pretend you’re popular and busy, when in reality you spent the weekend sitting around with your cats, crying, eating tub after tub of Sarah Lee extra-chocolate-chunk o’ misery ice cream with lonely caramel fat sauce, watching Eat Pray Love over and over again.
Never state how good your sexual performance is in your profile.
  • Especially if you have to practice kissing in the mirror.
Do not chat to hundreds of men at once. The delay in replying is a dead giveaway and your Mr. Right will be off.
  • First you’re not to reply, now you have to jump to it. Oh, I get it, this is “goal post changing”.
So there you have it ladies. How to stay single for the rest of your life and be an unlikable wankress at the same time.


06 April, 2011

Chemistry Lesson

I'm kinda sciency.  You know, I like reading science magazines. Especially about brain science.  So recently, I thought, "what is it that makes us fall in love.  Perhaps I'm missing it". Well, obviously, the first thing you need is a someone you're attracted to.  Which is clearly one part I'm missing.  But love's quite a journey once you find the right road.  Here's what I found out.

Firstly, let's not call it love.  Let's call it by it's proper name.  Pair bonding.

Stage 1: Dopamine = Lust

Dopamine makes you feel goooood.  Loved up, sexy as hell and ready for a romp.  When you find someone you want to shag, dopamine goes off like a frog in a sock, zapping pleasure signals around your synapses. It's a natural cocaine high.  That's actually true.  Because a line of coke will stop your brain from being able to turn off the dopamine, so you get a feeling of delicious pleasure for hours (the downside is, of course, that eventually, the dopamine breaks down.  So the more coke you snort, the more you need. Eventually, you can't experience pleasure of any sort. Also, it's very expensive).

Advertising executives have long employed cocaine
to simulate joy in their empty, wasted lives.

Anyway, dopamine is the chemical of lust.  That instant attraction that people claim to feel - it's just dopamine zooming around, doing dirty stuff to their nethers. Dopamine is what happened to Mike Yanagita.  Also the tight-arse movie-buff.  Unfortunately for them both, it didn't happen to me.

Stage 2:  Norepinephrine = Infatuation

If dopamine is the drug of lust, then norepinephrine is the drug of infatuation, and it follows close on the heels of its buddy.  It makes your heart pound, and it focuses you on that hot bloke on the other side of the bar.  The one with the bedroom eyes and the rippling biceps.  Unless you're me.  In which case the guy on the other side of the bar has bedroom hair and rippling stomach fat. 

Norepinephrine makes your hands sweat, your blood pressure rise and is pretty closely related to adrenaline. It's the one that causes that surging, delightful feeling you get in your stomach when you see your crush arrive at the party.  It's a rush.  And it's focused on the object of your desire.  If you're a douchebag, that's probably me.

If he wasn't dating her, he'd be having a crack at me. 
Norepinephrine will do that.

 Stage 3: Oxytocin = Calling each other stupid names

Right, so this bad boy is given the nauseating nickname "The Cuddle Hormone".  Personally, I reckon that's right up there with fucking care bears, but you know, I don't make this shit up.  Here's what the scientists say about it: "The hormone facilitates nest building and pup retrieval in rats...and the formation of adult pair-bonds in prairie voles*. In humans, oxytocin stimulates milk ejection during lactation, uterine contraction during birth, and is released during sexual orgasm in both men and women." 

Yep, oxytocin goes ballistic when you blow one off.  Apparently, the more often you get laid, the more you'll like the person you're shagging.  That's oxytocin's fault.  It tricks you into thinking the person you're banging is attractive and makes you want to keep banging them.  In short, it keeps you together when the dopamine rush wears off. 

Prairie voles hot for each other.  It's the oxytocin you fools.

And another thing

It turns out that pair bonding makes you crazy.  Legitimately, certifiably crazy.  Dr Donatella Marazziti, a psychiatrist at the University of Pisa conducted a study and analysed blood samples of couples in love.  She found that their seratonin** levels were low.  Really low.  As low as people suffering obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Which explains a lot really.  All that mooning about, thinking about the object of your affection.  Doing genuinely stupid stuff like texting them forty times a day and using appalling names like "Schnookems" and "Boopie".  Ugh. 

Actually, that reminds me of a time where I sort of dated a guy (for less than a week) when I was in my early twenties.  This fucktard slipped a note on my tray (I was a drink waitress), that said "I wuv you from your hush puppy xoxox."  Made a little bit of vomit rise up the back of my throat.  Naturally, I had to dump him after that.  Disgusting.

Don't call me Schmoopie, dickwad.

How to pair bond.

So I stumbled across this sage advice.  It comes from a study conducted in New York, by psychologist and professor Dr Arthur Arun, who investigated how people fall in love.  Here's what you do.
Firstly, find a complete stranger.  Preferably one that gets your dopamine on.
Next, share something personal with them. Some intimate detail of your life (although resist the urge to tell them about that irritating itchy rash on your anus.  Yes, it's intimate, but no-one wants to know about that).  Let them share a bit.  Keep this up for around half an hour.

Finally, stare longingly into their eyes for four minutes without talking.  Presto!  You're in love.
According to the good Professor, most of his test subjects felt deeply attracted to each other at the end of the study.  Two of the couples ended up getting hitched.  So you know, give it a crack.  But not with me, okay?  I don't want to hear your whiny bullshit about your childhood and how you secretly like to watch German porn dressed as a giant prawn.

*Turns out prairie voles indulge in way more sex than they need to propagate.  They're at it all the time, the little darlings.  They also form long term relationships.  So technically, they're more evolved than I am. Also, they're getting more action.

**For the uninitiated, seratonin controls appetite, sleep, mood, and muscle contraction. It's also got its fingers in memory and learning. It's kinda bad-ass.

31 March, 2011

The twenty somethings. And then some.

I am getting a ludicrous amount of attention from twenty somethings.  And I must say ladies, particularly those of you under thirty, it's time for you to lift your game.  Because some of these boys are smokin' hot.  Unfortunately, they have the mental acuity of an eggplant.  Allow me to share some of the messages I've been blessed with in the past week.  Before you read this, I'd like to say that I do not have my rack out in any of my profile photos.  Young folk just have vivid imaginations.

27 year old, Melbourne :"Mmm cute pics...I'd love to cum all over your perky tits, sexy"
Well there's a nice way to speak to a lady.  Will you buy me a drink first?  No?  Oh.
23 year old, Minnesota: "I like ur boob"
Which one?  The left or the right?
24 year old, Egypt: "you very attractive"
Thanks fella, wish I could say the same about you. 
Then again, perhaps I should be grateful for small mercies.  Because this dickwad deluxe also sent me a, frankly, obscene message that even I can't bring myself to replicate here.  If a picture says a thousand words, then this one says yokel for 999 of them, and bogan for number one thousand.  Makes Mister Perky Tits up there look positively darling!

Look at that fucking tooth.  God almighty.

25 March, 2011

Getting digi with it.

We're moving into the digital age. 
Watch out future!
 So I finally got my act together, and now you can  follow me on Facebook.  That way you'll never miss a riveting second of my love life wasteland.  Watch aghast as tumbleweeds roll across the plains of romantic disillusion as the days and years pass...

Actually, I do post the odd tidbit there that doesn't make it here, but I promise not to bug you too often.  I'll also let you know when there's an update.  Oh, and I love feedback, so if you want to write to me, you can!  deadfishfloat.blog@gmail.com.  Knock yourself out.

Love, love,


24 March, 2011

The Writer

It's a little known fact about me that in my youth, I starred in a horror movie.  One would think that might be good training for the story I'm about to tell you.  Especially since the director was both smitten and hideous.  Alas, nothing prepared me for The Writer.

You might remember a few posts ago I mentioned that I was courting a charming young author.
I met him on the dating site where diaper boy got in touch, and he seemed, well dishy. His photos were hot. They were his publicity shots. His eyes were intelligent. He was a fucking author for god's sake. Articulate, clever, with a turn-of-phrase that made me swoon. We parlayed by email, flirted like mad. I was half in love with him before I even met him. And then I met him.

I have to tell you, I could hardly wait. I wore my best cowboy boots. I got to the restaurant exactly on time. I'm always exactly on time. He was a little late. Then he arrived and...

I nearly fucking died.

He was a giant goth. A towering six foot something, with long, thin, stringy black hair, and a pallor so white he looked blue. Like an Antarctic ice shelf. He practically glowed in the dark he was so white. He was clad in black on black which only served to highlight his ghostly achromia.

And his teeth. God almighty. They pointed in all directions, grey as tombstones, jutting from his gums like a creepy Victorian cemetery. Which was appropriate given he looked like a fricken vampire. And not a sexy True Blood vampire, but a Nosferatu vampire. There's a lesson there, a lesson I'd learned before. Way before. When people have their mouth closed in their photos, it's probably because they've got ghastly teeth.

What I expected.

What I got (but with long hair).
I knew it wouldn't work. It wasn't even Halloween for christ's sake.

16 March, 2011

The Vibe

Let's talk about the vibe.  The vibe is the feeling you get when someone wants to shag you.  Or at least, take you out back and fool around a bit.  My ex-husband once said "if you're ever getting the vibe from a guy, and you're not sure if he's actually interested, I assure you, he is."  That stayed with me.  As opposed to the husband.

So I'm getting the vibe from a guy I work with which is most unpleasant.  We had a discussion by email about Facebook Connect.  I wrote something and called it "FB connect".  He came back with "Does it bother you that FB has the same initials as a certain kind of buddy?"

Then, I said something in an unrelated email like "Fuck me.  That's a disaster!"  To which he replied "I take it that was an exclamation and not an invitation?"  There's been knowing looks, unaccountable desk-loitering, and muttered comments in the kitchen.  Compliments on apparel and a variety of other unmentionable mentionings, including a rather casual invitation to a house-warming.  Although I'm slightly worried that I might be the only guest - a la Sunset Boulevard.

The vibe in action.

Now, this is just not cool.  Apart from the fact that he's married, he's also jaw-droppingly unattractive.  I may be single, and hell, let's face it, I might even be considered a bit of a slut in some circles.  But I'm not easy. And as should be apparent by now, I'm rather discerning.  I'm certainly not going to be banging someone's husband.  Well, not unless it's Angelina Jolie's or Vanessa Paradis' anyway.

Personally, I'm rather obvious with the vibe.  And I can assure you its electric massage-fingers have not been waving at him.  I do wish he'd stop.  Otherwise there may have to be Stern Words.  And those words might include the expression "Sexual Harassment Suit".  Which should put him off his game for a week or two at least, I daresay.  I'll keep you posted of eventualities.

04 March, 2011

All hands and heart

So last month I had a blog-threatening date.  Which is to say, a date that went so well that I thought that it might end my interminable and miserable dating life and leave the blog high and dry, a record of my romantic failure before my final, lasting success.

The date was great.  The guy was wonderful.  Smart, funny, working.  Good looking, charming and generally all round top bloke.  A second date followed, and a third.  Before long we were in the sack having the time of our lives.  And then it all went horribly pear-shaped.

Look, I know this is going to make me sound like I have unrealistic expectations.  I know you're going to think I'm a whiny bitch.  But if something's not right, it's just not right.  And this was not right.  You see, my paramour was just way too affectionate.  Cloyingly, graspingly affectionate. All the time. I'd be trying to cook and he'd be trying to cuddle me.  And I was toasting sesame seeds too.  Those little bastards go from golden deliciousness to black and bitter in about ten seconds.  You really have to keep an eye on them. I'd sit for a second on the couch to download something and his arms would be around me, pulling my face toward him, his mouth trying to kiss me.  Every fricken second of the day that he could touch me, he did.  It did my head in.  I felt like this.

Only more so.  Except it wasn't spicy, nor was it an adventure. And I don't look like that.  I looked far more aghast.

In bed it was worse.

He slept all over me.  Like he was trying to maximise the amount of skin contact. Is this how normal couples sleep?  I don't remember it being like that.   I was spilling out my side of the bed because he's pressed up next to me, head on my pillow, great expanse of mattress behind him, arms and legs all intertwined.  Hot and uncomfortable. I cannot sleep like this.  I can't.  Three times I asked him to move.  Three times!  I couldn't roll over because his face was right in mine.  Breathing on me.  Kissing me.  I seriously thought about moving to the couch just to get some rest. 

And the morning was even more appalling.  Because he woke me up before I had to wake up on a Sunday.  Now nothing sends me into a white hot rage faster than being woken up before it's absolutely necessary.  It's the reason I don't have children.  I gave up a perfectly serviceable marriage because I like to sleep in on the weekend, so you'd better not fuck with that.

He said "oh God, I can't stop touching you."  This compounded my fury! It's not my fault that he couldn't keep his fricken hands to himself. I snapped "Oh, for fuck's sake, cut it out!  Now!  I need sleep!  And move the FUCK over."  He moved over. Finally.

Even writing this is making my wrath rise as sure as the sun.

The damage was done.  After that, every time he reached for me I felt a desperate need to run. A choking, claustrophobic, strangling panic. A week later, I ended it.  I didn't tell him it was because dating him was like wrestling a giant man-squid.  I said it was no-ones fault but it just wasn't working for me.

17 February, 2011

What. The. Fuck.

So I'm trying a different dating site.  And I got a message from this guy.  I'm just going to put his profile picture up.  It says more than anything I could write.

Yes, that is a diaper.

I kid you not. Apparently he's a truck driver.

Now, I gave up a reaonably okay marriage because I didn't want children.  So I'll be damned if I'm changing my boyfriend's nappy.  Fortunately, he's something of a rarity, and I'm also courting a rather dashing young author.  A real one, who's published and everything.  Thank god.  Now excuse me while I go pour bleach into my eyes to get this image off my retinas.

10 February, 2011

The Swarthy Man

So recently, I was out with some pals.  We landed at an utterly fabulous venue, which I cannot name for reasons that will soon become obvious.  At the end of the evening, as we were leaving, I met The Swarthy Man.

The Swarthy Man owns the venue, and was largely a very unattractive fellow.  Apart from being excessively hirsute, and somewhat squat, he was also one of those men I despise - a rich fellow who thinks money is all it takes to be interesting and attractive.

Here's how the conversation went.

Swarthy Man:   So are you married? Single? What.
DeadFishFloat:  Well, single actually.
SM:  Give me your number and I might call you some time.
DFF:  Might?  How about this, I'll give you my name and if you want to call me, you'll work out the rest.
SM:   No, really, give me your number (goes to the bar, gets pen and paper for me to write it down).
DFF:  (writes name only on paper).  I'm on Facebook.
SM:   What if I'm not on Facebook?
DFF:   Well that, my friend, is not my problem.
And with that, I left the building.*


I don't think I've ever done anything cooler in all my life.  I felt like Lauren Bacall. 

Lauren Bacall.  Possibly the coolest woman who ever lived. 
Until now.

*I would, at this juncture, like to thank the universe for not making me fall over, drop my handbag and have lipsticks and tampons go rolling across the floor, or have any other embarassing mishap occur as I was strutting smugly from the room. 

08 February, 2011

Whoosh! There goes another one.

You may notice a small change on the site. Look up. 

That's right.  I'm no longer 42.  Now I'm 43.  Today, actually. 

And you know, I just don't feel bad about it.  I really don't.  I feel like a million smackers!  Even though, this morning, there were no presents, no flowers, no cards.  Instead, I woke up to the sound of my cat vomiting on my shoes.  Which possibly isn't the happiest way to start one's birthday but is still a gift of sorts.  If a rather unsavoury one.

Nevertheless, this evening, I encourage you to go out and have a lovely cocktail.  A martini perhaps.  A martini so dirty you have to take it out the back and smack its bottom.

I'll see you there.  I'll be the one in the shoes with the suspicious bile coloured stain on them.

03 February, 2011

The Circus Strongman

It's been a bit quiet on the dating scene for yours truly.  Not that I haven't been pursued by lots of suitors, quite the contrary.  But there's been none I could actually bring myself to date.  Even for your sake.  God knows I'm determined to get my sorry arse out there, but really, some of the blokes that have been floating my way on the tawdry tides of love have been downright scary.

For example, let's take a look at this fellow. 

Now there's a few things worth noting.  Firstly, he's the size of a fucking ox.  Secondly he's got no friends because he has to take a picture of himself in the bathroom mirror.  Which is a bit sad.  Although the tiles do look quite clean, which is a mark in his favour.

When I saw him, he reminded me of something.  It took me a minute or two to work it out.  And then I remembered.  He looks exactly like a character I saw in a computer game.  Magical Google soon found the answer.  It was this chap*.

Alarming coincidence, don't you think?  All he needs is a mobile phone in his hand. 

I wonder where we'd go for dinner.  A steak restaurant probably.  And he'd eat his steak raw. With an egg yolk chaser.  Yikes!

*That second image is probably copyright.  So let me say that you should all go download the Mystery Case Files Madame Fate game for PC.  It's fun, and it has great graphics.  There, that should keep the lawyers off my back. 

21 January, 2011


So I'm pretty active on Facebook.  Yeah, I know I should just get a life, but I like it.  It makes me feel connected.  Anyway, imagine my surprise when I got this message from a complete stranger:
"i love a woman at work ms lady ,may we become friends to conversate,i really would like to be your friend ms [Name],i like your eyes and everything else that come along with it"
The grammatical horrors alone preclude me from further correspondence with Desperado here.  And he didn't even sign his name. Admittedly, his inventiveness with verbs should be commended. 

Now I should explain that my current profile picture on Facebook is me wearing a yellow hard hat which explains the "woman at work" comment.  Why I'd be a woman at work in a hard hat and black silk top is beyond me though.  Whatever.  I mean, I expect that sort of thing on a dating site, where one is kind of asking for an email come-on, but on Facebook?  Back off buster!

Oh, and he lives in Sacramento.  So I don't know what he thinks he's going to get when we conversate.  Or what we'd even have in common frankly.  I should start a roadshow of village idiots.  I'd have quite a collection by now.

14 January, 2011

Einstein's Law

Einstein once said something like "the definition of crazy is doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome".  At least, I think it was him.  Whatever, I like the concept. 

So given that my profile on this dating site is getting me precisely nowhere, I thought I might update it a little.  Then I thought, hell, why not just write the anti-profile and see if there's any bites.  Just for fun.  So I'm setting up a new profile.  And this, my lovelings, is what it's going to say.

I’m a lazy, disloyal, dishonest slob with all the moral fibre of a rattlesnake. Less actually. I don’t enjoy getting out, and also despise nights of DVDs and cuddling on the couch. Bike rides are tiresome, but takeaway, especially if bought from a drive-thru, is awesome. I drink to get drunk and buy my personality by the cask. I’m selfish, self-indulgent and I don’t care what you think. In fact, whatever your opinion is, unless it’s the same as mine, it’s wrong.

I lie through my teeth, and until recently had a profile that made me sound like a fricken dream date. The truth is I’m not. I’m middle-aged and I’ve let myself go because I can’t abide exercise of any kind. It’s boring and it hurts. If we watch a movie, it’ll be something I like. Usually something violent. I like violent movies. I also like extreme fighting. Dinner for two is fun like sticking pins in my eye, and I’d rather chew off both my legs than go away for a romantic weekend.

You, on the other hand, need to be patient, witty and more fun than a bag full of puppies. You’ll be at least fifteen years younger than me, thick as a post, and preferably mute. Ideally you’ll be totally ripped. Actually, that’s not negotiable. You have to be hotter than a jalapeno in Texas on the fourth of July. You’ll have your own transport, because I need someone to drive me home when I’m smashed. You’ll be a qualified masseur or similar, and have your own apartment that you’ll go to when I’m done with you. It wouldn’t hurt if you had the stamina of a long distance runner and could hold your breath for fifteen minutes at a stretch.

Interested? Then you'll have to pay for the contact, because I'll be damned if I'm wasting a buck on you.

Update: So since I posted this, a few people who know me have expressed concern that this is what I actually think I'm like. It's not. I'm not disloyal! It's just a parody of the sort of profiles one reads all too often. So don't worry my darlings, my ego is as robust and self-deluding as ever!

05 January, 2011

Happy New Year!

Huzzah!  2011 is upon us.  I would love to tell you that I got up to some hijinks on New Year's Eve, but sadly, I was crook with bronchitis, and instead, spent the evening alone on the couch watching the campest movie of all time (You Can't Stop the Music - just remember, leathermen don't get nervous).

Nevertheless, I'm back on the horse, as it were, and am hoping to be getting some serious dating action in the next few weeks.  What's more, I'm planning an NYE re-enactment with some girl pals, so hopefully, I'll pick up then.  I'll keep you posted. 

In the meantime, turn off your computer, and enjoy the warm weather.  Or, if you're in northern climes, go roast some chestnuts or something.