Ramblings.

I didn’t want to go.

I already knew we didn’t have a lot in common, but he was a nice guy and I thought I needed to give it a shot. Who knows, maybe that’s what I needed, someone who was so very different from me to bring out the best in each other.

But I still didn’t want to go.

I turned up and parked across the road from the cafe we were supposed to meet at. He’d suggested it, he’d found it on the net, it was halfway between both our houses. It said it was going to be open late. It was closed.

I sat and watched a minute, waiting for him to show up. I got his text before i saw him, informing me the cafe was closed and asking where I was.

I got out of my car and walked over. A peck on the cheek and a quick hello and we decided to wander the rundown strip of shops to see what else was there.

We talked about football. We talked about how he liked football. We talked about how I didn’t. We talked about how he liked football. I didn’t talk.

Finally, after fifteen minutes of awkward wondering, we spotted a McDonalds. It seemed the only option.

We walked in, ordered lattes and sat outside.

Over our coffees we talked about his love of bike riding, my work, what countries we enjoyed and our hobbies. It was strained.

He was clearly a nice guy, but not at all what I was looking for, there was no spark and no common ground.

After fifty minutes (yes, just fifty minutes… fifty long minutes… 3000 long, long, long seconds), we wrapped it up.

We walked back toward our cars, mine down one street, his down the other.

The time for the Goodbye was imminent, my least favourite part of every date.

Again - it was a brilliant display from me.

Here is the playback:

I leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek, and at the last second, forgetting I didn’t know him, went in for the quick squeeze as well. He mistook my second move in for the squeeze as moving in for a pash. Post-first kiss, mid-squeeze, he turned his head toward me as I realised what he was doing. I jerked my head to the left as he accidentally planted a nose/half a lip on my right nostril/upper lip. Surprised and awkard, I stupidly continued in for my squeeze, making it a kiss/squeeze/facepash/squeeze…

I then responded a’la Round Two and walked away talking with my back to him.

He suggested we do it again, I said ‘okay, bye’ as I waved him away on the way to my car.

Awkward.

Not ten minutes later I received a text from him suggesting a second date.

I felt like a bitch. No ones fault, but being the person who has to reject someone is always shit.

I informed him that while it was nice to meet him, we just didn’t have enough in common to see each other again.

No response.

On to Round Five… there is no round five yet. I’m out tonight, let’s see what I can find.

Nobody has made it to The Finals yet. It’s going to be a boring Grand Final this year!

We’ve all met him, we’ve all known him, we’ve all told him to go to bed.

He seems normal on a day to day basis. He is friendly, well-spoken, polite, respectful, works his eight hours a day and can hold a decent conversation. But come night time, all Hell done broke loose.

He sits in the corner of the beer garden, his Carlton Draught spilling over the top of his pot glass as he animatedly gossips and talks of all things juvenile.

He is in The Zone of the Man Child.

As the night progresses he makes silly, degrading remarks about his friends missus’, commenting on the size of areolas and what sexual desires they may indulge in. He admits it’s all lies, but enjoys saying it anyway because it’s funny and all in ‘good fun’ (despite shaking his head profusely with eyes wide when asked if his friend is aware of this ‘fun’).

He asks personal questions about other people in the group that are of no concern to him, that do not affect him in any way, shape or form. He then pretends his is not judging those people based on the responses he gets from third parties, feeling comfortable putting in his ‘two cents’ on why those people may or may not be suited for their partners, whether they’re happy in their relationships and whether they’re doing the right thing by anybody else in the group (as if someone’s personal choices have anything to with anyone else).

He is reluctant to talk about his own life and what is going on, clearly deflecting. The double standard of gossip mongering and rumours are obvious but nobody says anything for fear of antagonising the Man Child.

He finds joy in finding a friend of his passed out on the couch. He pulls his jeans down, revealing his backside, then pulls his underwear up to his ribs, creating what could only be imagined as a severe and excruciating wedgie. His friend does not move, too far into a drunken REM to be able to comprehend what is happening. Surely, that is going to chaff by morning. When told to rectify the situation, the Man Child, incapable of using cognitive abilty to pull up his poor victims jeans, instead chooses to place a throw pillow over his friend’s backside, temporarily blocking the view, until of course his friend rolls over, the pillow falling to the  ground and the newly formed gstring being further pulled into the crack of the unknown.

Later, after several more spilt pots, the Man Child is in his element. He knocks over tables and chairs, falls over stairs into walls and says offensive things to anyone within ear shot. It’s lucky his thick slurs make it impossible for most people to understand what he says. He demands and insists on sharing a bed with a male friend, despite the male friend’s clear reluctance and open disdain for the Man Child and his night time escapades. Another offers his bed to share, but the Man Child is too far gone to acknowledge and listen, missing out on the opportunity for a warm bed and more than likely ending up sleeping on the cold, hard wooden floor in a drunken stupor.

Eventually after many hours the Man Child begins to tire himself out. He places himself on a chair and mumbles from beneath his dark hood into his lonely beer. People have tuned him out and are letting him talk to himself, occasionally paying him enough attention to ask him what the fuck he is talking about.

Come day, the Man Child emerges from his Man Cave, squinting through the daylight with a dry mouth, new bruises and a sore head. Dr. Jekyll has awoken, completely unaware of Mister Hyde and the events of the night before.

He smiles with his eyes on the ground as people fill him in on what Hyde had done. He has never met Hyde, only heard of him through friends over fast food and hangovers the next day.

For Jekyll, the Myth of The Man Child continues.

I just looked at Round Four’s profile again to see if there was anything in particular I could talk about tonight (as I’m at a bit of a loss) and then noticed he was a smoker.

Shit.

While I have no issue with smokers whatsoever, and even indulge in a cigarette or cigar from time to time, I do loathe the smell and have no desire to date someone who tastes of cigarettes. It is just a dealbreaker for me.

This guy seems polite, friendly and nice. I haven’t thought much past that. He hasn’t made me laugh yet, but he hasn’t infuriated me either.

If you haven’t worked it out yet, I don’t seem particularly nervous or anxious about this date. I feel disillusioned about the whole ‘online dating’ thing at the minute, and agreeing to a date was probably a bad idea.

I will be polite, friendly, and smiling - but I also intend to be home by 9pm.

Also, I haven’t shaved my underarms or legs and am wearing a pair of silver cat earings despite several people telling me never to wear them on a date because I always want to talk about them. Can anyone say self-sabotage?

Shit.

ohmuffins:

Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a job where you have an audience for 7 hours a day. 

So, when particularly tired, if I pour myself a lovely, thick, heavy glass of red and place myself upon the couch, within a couple of sips my legs feel particularly heavy. Just my legs.

Am I having a stroke? Or does this happen to everyone?

Even if it’s a stroke, I’m finishing the bottle before going to hospital.

It’s been a long day, after all.

Last night my friend Wubs and I decided to go for a wander through Doncaster Shoppingtown for a browse and a giggle.

Our favourite stores to wander, Myer and David Jones were on offer, so starting at David Jones we walked through the near empty make-up floor toward the Yves Saint Laurent counter looking for a Touche Eclat sample to decide what shade we’d be.

Next to YSL stood the Dior counter where two young women, both with far too much make-up plastered all over what should be their youthful faces, stood chatting.

There we stood for a good ten to fifteen minutes, talking loudly about wanting to look at products as these women stood not one metre away, completely oblivious to the customers that were desiring their attention.

Finally, we decided to leave, it was then that one of the women, now alone, approached us and asked if we needed help.

Irritated I responded:

“We’ve been standing around for fifteen minutes waiting for someone to give us service…”

“Oh, I’m sorry - yeah, it’s pretty quiet on a Friday so most of the counters are unattended. Sorry there was nobody here to help you, can I help you?”

Clearly unaware that she was the lack of service I was referring to, I began to explain that I’d prefer to shop elsewhere when I spotted Wubs behind me, still keen to talk about the product.

We followed the youth back to the counter, hoping for a sample.

After a few minutes of just reading the sign about the product out loud to us (clearly something we couldn’t do for ourselves), we asked for a sample and she began hunting around cluelessly. It was here I noticed she was wearing a skirt two sizes too small - meaning the back zipper was halfway down and her underwear was clearly on show.

‘Jesus Christ’, I thought to myself, I thought David Jones was supposed to provide great service and professionalism? Here we were, at one of the most expensive counters with a girl who had no clue about the products, how to apply make-up or how to dress for work.

We left, annoyed and disappointed, and made our way to Myer instead.

Although the YSL counter here was also unattended, we found within ten seconds of approaching a perfume counter, we were being well looked after by an employee named Carole. Over the next twenty minutes she took us through several perfumes each after asking what we liked (and she was spot on each and every time) and provided us with several samples. She was polite but not pushy, knowledgable but not arrogant, passionate but not intense.

We left Myer feeling excited about all the potential new fragrances we had found, and pleased that customer service did still exist in some places.

It’s amazing how some staff in department stores are so reluctant to give out samples of products and make the potential customer feel like a tight-arse for wanting to sample a product for a few days prior to making a decision.

Considering the stores don’t have to pay for the samples, and they increase the chances of sales, surely they should be offering them up when people ask questions, rather than forcing the customer to have to awkwardly ask for a sample of a perfume or make-up item.

Without a friendly and passionate Myer employee in Ringwood two weeks ago, I would never have discovered how great YSL Touche Eclat was, and I wouldn’t have purchased it or recommended it to my friends.

Good customer service goes a long way, not just in regards to good business but in making other people feel appreciated, connected and educated.

Remember that.

I really wish I was joking when writing this, but I just had a guy I’ve been chatting to online for a week now try to pass me onto a friend of his when he found out I was a size 14. Apparently his ‘black friend’ appreciates curvy girls if I’m interested…
I informed him that I am not the kind of girl who is desperate and requires some small minded dickhead who cant appreciate a womanly figure to find me a sexual partner.

Jesus Christ. Online dating, you are not helping my intimacy issues and insecurities…

This morning I suggested to another guy I’ve been chatting to for a week (which has been going well with lots of laughs and silliness) if he wanted to meet for a drink and he deleted me from his contacts! WHAT?

If this is what is on offer in the dating world, it would appear there are no men on earth suited to me, which is sad, because I’m awesome.