First Date: Check

So, we kept on chatting. A lot. He told me where he works and as it happens, I know one of his colleagues so of course I contacted her immediately to ask her about him. She gave him her highest recommendation, said he was a really nice guy, sweet and easy going, and encouraged me to go on a date with him. Which I did.

We went out for dinner mid-week, at a cosy Italian place. Nothing too formal or overly romantic, very relaxed atmosphere. Jonathan turned out to be no monster at all, a little too thin for my taste perhaps but healthy looking and presentable. The conversation over dinner was very entertaining and I discovered to my delight that he‘s one of few who‘s familiar with my favourite musician, Neil Finn! He sure scored a few points there.

The weather was so lovely that after dinner we popped round to his place to collect his dog and went for a walk with it. It was all so casual and relaxed, didn‘t really feel like a date. In fact, I didn‘t have any butterflies or sense any fireworks. BUT...that‘s what usually gets me into trouble with men so I definitely think it‘s worth giving this one a chance. Besides, he‘s around my age and I really should try to associate more with those, it‘s not like all the older ones have proved to be so great.

So, I‘m determined to see him again. And he wants to. Unfortunately, he went out of town for a week, but we stay in touch via text messages, quite lively ones too.

Simply must tell you about some of the messages I‘m still receiving through the dating site. Yet another 18 year old wrote and said he really wants to experience being with an older woman! He then described himself in some detail, stating he has a 7.1 inch penis!!! Out of curiosity I did think about it for a few seconds, but he blew his chances by referring to me as an older woman.

The same day, I received a message from a 52 year old who stated both there and in his profile description that he only wanted younger women. I didn‘t even reply to him and got into a really bad mood after reading that.

Why is it that one man so desperately wants to meet a woman 20 years younger than him, without having a clue what she looks like, what sort of a person she is or whether she‘s intelligent enough, mature enough or funny enough to be compatible to him? Meanwhile, other men just can‘t get pass an age gap of 15 years, 13 years, even just 10 years, despite having gotten to know me very intimately? I‘m beginning to seriously wonder about that excuse of theirs...

New Friends Too...with Benefits

Back to virtual life though. I’ve been spending time on that dating site again, sifting through the idiots to see what I would find.

I found one who’s really into pregnant women...no hope for me there. Another one hadn’t been laid for eight months and said he was exploding, poor thing. I didn’t find that very appealing; probably a recipe for a complete, but short, disaster – such as those that were all too frequent during adolescence.

But then, I bumped into one who’s my age, divorced, no kids, loves animals and is a bit of a farm boy at heart. Doesn’t smoke and says he doesn’t party much. Sounds like a good guy. We started chatting and I quickly found out that the marriage had been very short; based on a hasty, ill-contemplated decision, he said. Isn’t that a bad sign? A man who gets too easily carried away when he falls in love, a romantic dreamer not in touch with reality. My commitment phobia instantly kicked in. This man must NOT fall in love with me; I wouldn’t be able to trust a word he’d say in that state!

The fact that he doesn't have any children also bothered me. I asked him straight out whether he wanted to have kids in the future. ‘Oh yes, I’m old-fashioned that way, I want a wife and kids and a good family life,’ he replied. That was it then.

I told him I had no plans of ever having kids. He didn’t say much but when I asked him whether he wanted to stop talking to me therefore, he said ‘no’. So we’re still talking. He’s not going to be Mr Ever After but we might be able to have some fun for a while. His name’s Jonathan.

It turns out he’s very recently divorced. I have no interest in being yet another man’s practice partner while he gets in the game again so I had to pry and asked Jonathan if he’d already, y’know, gotten things out of his system? *wink wink* He thought it was funny, but understandable, I’d ask. And assured me, he had actually been in a woman’s bed since the divorce. Thank God.

So I’m going to keep on chatting with him. He’s intelligent, witty and sounds kind. We might not be destined to be together but maybe we can enjoy each other‘s company for a while, if you know what I mean. *wink wink*

A New Flat = New Neighbours

Well, the most obvious resemblance between me, Carrie Bradshaw and Bridget Jones is that I work in the media too. Not so glamorous though, I’m a reporter at the domestic news desk of a daily paper.

And even though I occasionally get to write about something I find interesting, I’m more often trying to muster up enthusiasm for some death defying decision that may or may not be taken in some local council. At those times I'd much rather write about Saif Gaddafi, whom I find disturbingly good looking by the way.

But alas, it’s a paid job at these hard times, and I’m rather good at it so I can’t complain. And it’s going to look nice on my CV. I guess this blog serves as an outlet for my need to write about something other than politicians arguing over incredibly petty things.

I also tried to glamourize my life a little by moving into a new flat, in a little trendy neighbourhood. I love my flat and the fact that now I have a spare room-slash-home office. I’ve been doing some interior designing and now find my home so cosy that I need a really good excuse to be bothered to go out at all. On good days though I also enjoy going for a stroll in my new neighbourhood. It’s quite old and distinguished, and quiet despite being within a walking distance from a very busy high street. And the people here are friendly, smiling and greeting as I pass them. They’re also terribly healthy it seems, they walk, jog or bicycle and buy their groceries at the farmers' market, carrying them home in reusable canvas bags.

It seems that many artists live here as well, musicians and painters and a handful of actors, maybe to no surprise ‘cause we’re close to a theatre district too. Now, if I were vain I could drop a few names that are somewhat well known, but what sort of a neighbour would I be then?

However...I have discovered I have a neighbour who makes my heart beat a little faster. We’ve passed each other in the street three times and he’s started smiling and nodding as he goes by. I know who he is. He's the front man of a band that was quite successful when I was a teenager and he still has a boyish, rockabilly look that makes me a little weak in the knees. He must be in his late forties now though, but is still incredibly handsome. Of course he has a wife, a well-known actress - what else - slightly older than him and they’ve been together over twenty years, according to the tabloids. One of those rare, long-lasting, happy showbiz relationships. Oh well, good for them.

I’m still gonna enjoy those moments when we pass each other in the street and he gives me a big smile and raises his eyebrows above the forever cool ‘80s shades. Aaah...

True or False?

Some of my friends have started teasing me, saying I’m becoming a Carrie Bradshaw or Bridget Jones or something. Others worry that my career as a writer will end before it really starts because I’m copying that kind of literature and will never be taken seriously as a writer.

Therefore, I want to make a statement: Carrie Bradshaw is a fictional character! I am real, I exist! My life can sometimes be a little too eventful or colourful or what have you and I can see how that sometimes resembles that of a TV character but in no way do I ever try to imitate Carrie Bradshaw’s life. At times, my life has also been a little bit like a pathetic imitation of Bridget Jones’ life, now that I think about it. But I’m sure the reason for this is that Sex and the City and the Bridget Jones’ diaries were written by women and we, women, often have similar stories to tell. We find ourselves in similar circumstances and wonder about similar things, at least when it comes to men.

I did enjoy watching Sex and the City though, and often found I could easily put myself in the shoes of any of the main characters, but there was one thing I found absolutely unforgiveable. The writers had these four independent, intelligent, successful women, wind up with a guy; all four of them had a boyfriend/husband and were all beaming as they walked down a street in the last scene in the last episode; happy at last. 

I was furious. All through the series the fact that it’s quite all right, fabulous even, to be a single woman, had been emphasized over and over again. Finally, I thought, the message to women was changing. But nooo, it’s obviously only OK to be a single woman till the end of the movie or the TV series, then you better run and find someone before the curtain falls!

I promise you, I’m nothing like Carrie Bradshaw; there will be no curtain and no despair. As I’ve said before; if love comes along, then it will. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I just want to have a fun life!

Also, I obviously don’t earn as much as Carrie per word because I’m too busy making a living to keep having lunch with my friends, sitting in cafés, go shopping or visit galleries in the middle of the day, or attend restaurant and club openings mid-week. It would also never occur to me to spend 350 pounds on a single pair of shoes and I don’t think I’ll ever manage to persuade anyone to pay for a huge poster with my face on it on the city buses.

No, I’m real. One of the obvious signs of that is my ex-lovers who have suddenly decided to make contact again, to see how I’m doing, telling me how much they enjoy my blog and then, with a nervous chuckle, ask: ‘It’s not all true is it? I mean, you’re making all this stuff up, right? You write fiction, right? It’s not like you’re gonna mention that thing that happened with me...y’know, that weekend when we were at the cottage...?’

The Last Ever One Night Stand

And another month has gone by.
Well, after finally fully recovering from the flu, it was time for packing. Have spent the last two weeks cleaning, painting and unpacking. Not done yet, but getting there.

Anyway, also started chatting online a bit more with this guy I know vaguely, Tom, a friend of a friend. He lives quite a bit away, moved for his job and is often bored at night. He’s very funny and we’ve often exchanged awkward stories about our dealings with the opposite sex. But sometimes we’ve become rather intimate, in the way that we’ve confided in each other about well, private matters. I just found it amusing and relieving to share these things with Tom, not ever expecting to see him in person. I’ve told him horror stories about awful lovers I’ve had and we’ve asked each other very personal questions. Somehow, it felt all right to answer honestly questions like: 'What’s your favourite position?' or 'What’s the one thing that always turns you on?' – so I actually told him about the secret spot on my body where if I’m kissed there, I completely lose might and would collapse on the floor if the one kissing me wouldn’t be holding my upright. And other things, intimate things. For me this was just talk, in order to kill time or something and I had no intention of seeing this guy at all.

But a few nights ago, I received a phone call. It was Tom. He was in town and in the area and would it be OK to drop by for a cup of tea and have a look at the new flat? I knew I’d feel guilty if I’d said no, after all our weird, intimate talks, so I just said 'Yes' and made us tea. He sat for hours and we had a nice chat ‘n all but it was getting late and so I started to sigh and badly hide a yawn, to imply he was just about to overdo my hospitality. That’s when he announced that he hadn’t really sorted out a place to stay overnight and since it was well after hours, well...?

I’m so terribly co-dependent that I felt rude not to allow him to stay but, having just moved and not bought a sofa bed yet, I could only offer him the other side of my Queen sized bed. I made him promise to behave though. A promise which he of course didn’t keep and for some reason, I decided to go along with it, who can refuse one night of passionate, casual sex with a handsome, trustworthy guy?

However, Tom's moves in the bedroom were anything but passionate, or enticing, or surprising for that matter. He never seemed to act on impulse but rather came across as mechanic and meticulous. Everything he did was as if he was following a recipe and I realized he had cautiously studied everything I had ever said to him in our chats, memorized it all and was doing it all to me, in the order I had told him. But I didn’t feel as if we were having passionate sex; I felt as if I was a prop he needed to be able to follow a script. There was no impulse, no giving and receiving, just Tom putting on a performance to try and please me and impress. I didn’t like it at all.

It bothered me that he had actually ‘studied’ me like a possible opponent in a football match. He never asked me what I wanted to do or whether I enjoyed what he was doing; just assumed he knew exactly what I liked.

So I faked it, for the first time in years, turned away and went to sleep. Got up early to shower, before Tom would get any ideas and told him I had some work to finish at the office (it was Sunday) and had him drop me off there. Haven’t seen him or heard since. Mind you, I blocked him.

It's Not All About Looks

I got the flu!

Horrible, horrible flu. And I had no one to look after me so I experienced those rare moments where I cursed myself for being single. A boyfriend might actually be useful at times like these – to go to the pharmacist‘s for me, make me some tea, bring me more tissues and stroke my forehead gently. Then again, would a boyfriend actually do all that?
I remember a friend of mine being more than a little unimpressed when her boyfriend refused to visit her while she was sick, as he didn‘t want to catch the bug himself.

Anyways, I looked in the mirror this morning and was glad again about the fact that I live alone, I don‘t want anyone to see me in this state. Give me a couple of days, allow me to expose myself to some daylight...and have a shower, and I‘ll be fabulous again.

Talking about being fabulous, there‘s one thing about the notion about looks that makes me absolutely furious. And this time I‘m not talking about the demand for us all to be on the verge of being anorexic, having at least C cups boobs, glowing of fake tan and blinding people with our shiny, white teeth. No, I’m talking about the notion that any woman is grateful for any attention and compliment she gets for her looks.

As if we don’t know it ourselves when we look good and when not. As if other people’s opinion is the only way we can know for sure if we’re hot or not.

According to this confusing BMI thingie, I‘m apparently on the wrong side of my ideal weight margin, quite a bit far from it actually. And I don‘t need padded bras. But I try to keep fit so that I at least can run for the bus without fainting and walk up a few flights of stairs without being sweaty and out of breath when I reach my destination. Yet, when I look in the mirror I see a good looking, healthy woman. And when I dress up and put on make-up, to bring out my beautiful, blue eyes or to make my kissable lips even more kissable, I see a beautiful woman in the mirror, I can see it for myself. I know how to dress so that my curvaceous body looks its best and so, when I go out after having spent abundant time on my hair, make-up and outfit, I simply know that I’m drop-dead-gorgeous and sexy-as-hell. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gone through all that trouble!

Therefore, a compliment from some drunk, drooling stranger in a bar doesn’t do anything for me, I don’t need a verification from the likes of him to know I’m a knock-out.

And, as I’ve stated before, men can never hide their interest, we sense the looks as soon as we walk into a room, even though we appear to be completely oblivious. We know when guys want nothing more than get their hands on us because we look gorgeous, and sometimes we even let them, if we’re in the mood.
But when I’m getting to know a guy, really trying to get to know him to see if there’s any potential there for us, in other areas than just the bedroom, I don't need to hear compliments about my looks, there's plenty of time for those later. If I meet a man in a bar or a party and within ten minutes he says something positive about my looks, he’s lost his chance. Of course I already know that he likes what he sees (or he wouldn’t be having this conversation) but if he really thinks I’ll be flattered if he pays me a compliment based on my appearances, he probably thinks I’m either very shallow or have a really low self-esteem.

Am I really supposed to think more of him and be grateful if he likes my hair? Well, he’d better because I spent ages getting it just right! Does his opinion matter all that much? Is he some sort of an expert or a stylist? No.

Some of my friends and family members also often bring my attention to the fact that some guy thinks I’m cute. ‘You know, Steve’s friend, Charlie, saw you at that meeting the other day and says you’re really cute. Do you want me to give him your number?’ Why on Earth would I want that? Do Charlie and I have anything in common at all? You have no idea? Oh, you don’t know him that well? I see. Sure, send me on a date with someone who could be an alcoholic, a gambler, a drug dealer, dangerous or a total loser...just because he thinks I’m cute. Why not?!

Lines such as ‘You’ve got the craziest eyes I’ve ever seen’ or ‘Damn, you’re hot!’ don’t actually do anything for me. If, however, after a short conversation I get compliments for being smart, witty, clever, funny, intelligent, interesting, articulate...well, then we’re on the same page! That’s when I get flattered and give the guy a little bit more of my time and attention, that is if I find him intelligent, funny and interesting too.

The Unpopular Girls

I hope you don’t think I’ve met Mr Wonderful and been busy canoodling instead of blogging. Far from it.

But what with the Christmas season I’ve been going out on the town a little bit more than usual. Although I haven’t given up on the dating site, I got a little fed up reading all those messages from pervs and invitations to dildo-clubs, threesomes or offers to become playmates for married men. So I decided to give the bar scene a little more chance.

However, charming drunk men are indeed a rare sight.

I enjoy socialising and talking to people though, both men and women, without any agenda. But if I happen to engage in a fascinating conversation with some guy, a wife or a girlfriend usually appears by his side and drags him away while attempting to kill me with her stare.

My friend has a similar story to tell. She’s living with someone but he’s not keen on going out much so I often go out with her and we have a good night on the town together – two women without a ring on their finger.

When we enter a place, we do notice the attention we get from the men in there, but it quickly drowns in the antipathy we sense from the women in there.

The single women see us as an unwelcomed competition and the others certainly have no intention of befriending us! I often feel like the unpopular contestant in The Bachelor in these circumstances. Yet, usually all we want to do is have some fun - as my friend isn’t single anyway - and not looking for men at all, especially not those who are already taken!

But it’s a strange feeling, sitting by a table in a bar or a club feeling as if you’ve got leprosy. The women totally ignore us except when they ‘accidentally’ bump quite firmly into us as they squeeze past us in the crowd, the non-single men glance at us nervously and at the most dare to give us a completely-non-flirtatious smile for a nano second, just to cheer us up a bit, before looking panicky around for the ‘supervisor’.

The single men however usually sit together in groups. A single man sitting on his own in a bar doesn’t stand a chance except perhaps, occasionally, with drunk, female versions of themselves.

But those who go around in small flocks often make sure they sit at the next table from us but are so busy being all macho and funny to their friends that they sit for way too long drinking and mustering up the courage to approach us. Still, they keep peeking at us, but look away as soon as we return their look, trying so hard to be subtle even though it’s always obvious that they've noticed us.

Men are simply hopeless at hiding their interest, just so you know.

I and my friend hardly ever have enough patience to wait for them to come over to talk to us so we stand up to leave for the next place. Then they suddenly look up with an expression of fright and regret and ask loudly ‘Oi, leavin’ already?’.

We just give them an icy smile and sail by. On our way to the door we pass a few women who can’t hide their relief when they see we’ve put our coats on and appear to be leaving on our own, just the two of us. Then they suddenly become ever so friendly, patting our shoulders and backs as they push us towards the door.

Yup, that’s usually what going out on the town means for us single girls.