The last guy I dated (and he knows who he is) practically begged me not to include him in my blog - wait for it... when he dumped me! Naturally I reassured him at the time that he wouldn't but a few weeks later and I've re-considered.
It's not that I want to slag him off particularly but it strikes me as amusing that he would even be concerned. To cover my ass I did point out that I rarely use their real names, preferring instead to give them an interesting moniker derived from some curious aspect of their behaviour or personality. Besides, if he dumped me, he's hardly going to be reading my blog again, right?!
It's got me thinking though. Precisely what does a man have to do to not make it into my blog? Part of me thinks like Beyoncé - if you like it then you'd better put a ring on it - but if what I remember of marriage is correct I'd need to have some outlet to complain about my husband once the initial warm glow had worn off.
There have been one or two notable occasions that haven't made it into my blog this year, mainly the most exciting, outlandish and outrageous things that I have got up to. I'd love to write about them but even I consider some things to be 'too much information' to be out there on the web.
I've also wondered what a potential date would think about my blog, in a 'oh dear I'd best keep it quiet, it would probably put him off' kind-of-way. Maybe one day there'll be a man that comes along that's impressed by my writing, who enjoys my humour and does some of the outrageous things that mean he'll never end up in here. I look forward to meeting that guy...
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Bored of online dating
Oh I'm so terribly bored of online dating. I have my second datingdirect wedding to go to this month and I've also witnessed two datingdirect babies but my own online dating results have been limited to a few not-so-interesting shags and, at best, dinner and a musical in the West End.
Maybe it's just me. Perhaps it's my profile that attracts only the ugly men. Or the men from Belgium. Or the men that I have already repeatedly ignored who don't seem to be able to take a fucking hint. I've had more than 4000 visits to my profile and over 2100 winks but ask me when it was that I last went out on a date?
The good looking ones are boring, the interesting ones are ugly. The ones wearing caps are all bald, the short ones have a chip on their shoulder and the vast majority of them are completely deluded as to their own attractiveness. I remind myself to run from any that are near to 40 and don't appear to have managed to either have a child or have had a serious relationship.
I think my profile is only still active because I can't be bothered to raise the energy to de-activate it. That or I still get some entertainment from the sheer ugliness of some of the men on there who clearly have never had sex, at least not with any living woman. I'm not that desperate. Not yet.
Maybe it's just me. Perhaps it's my profile that attracts only the ugly men. Or the men from Belgium. Or the men that I have already repeatedly ignored who don't seem to be able to take a fucking hint. I've had more than 4000 visits to my profile and over 2100 winks but ask me when it was that I last went out on a date?
The good looking ones are boring, the interesting ones are ugly. The ones wearing caps are all bald, the short ones have a chip on their shoulder and the vast majority of them are completely deluded as to their own attractiveness. I remind myself to run from any that are near to 40 and don't appear to have managed to either have a child or have had a serious relationship.
I think my profile is only still active because I can't be bothered to raise the energy to de-activate it. That or I still get some entertainment from the sheer ugliness of some of the men on there who clearly have never had sex, at least not with any living woman. I'm not that desperate. Not yet.
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
Smug Marrieds
Before I rant I will offer the caveat that of course I am not referring to all married people. I hang out with married people all of the time and most of them I even like. I'm even happy for most of them to rub at least some of their smug togetherness in my face from time to time.
That said, I'm going to depart from the Bridget Jones way of thinking. Bridget, bless her red penguin pyjamas, couldn't wait to join the hooked-up brigade. As I feel right now not only do I feel the opposite of desperate to be tied down again (my Mum is desperate enough for the both of us) I'm convinced I'd rather be on my own.
It takes a night out with a bunch of smug marrieds to make me feel this way admittedly. There's only so much discussion of 'what your partner needs' that I can stomach before I'd like to throw up. Worse, I see no reason why a request from me that a married woman share a filthy text that she's received from her husband be met with blank stares and horror that I would consider breaching the sacred bond that is husband and wife. Is it really only single girls that swap dirty details and cock pictures?
Having said that it was a newly engaged girl that was so upset by my suggestion. I wouldn't mind but said 'girl' is now the wrong side of 4o and engaged to what will be her second husband - surely she should be obliged to retain a little healthy cynicism that allows for oversharing with her girlfriends?
My aunt in the meantime refuses to consider that my life is no way resembles the life of anybody's 'Mrs'. Despite the fact that I retained my own name when I was married, that I had a heated discussion with her while married about how I had retained my own name (and don't you start asking me why - it's my name for fucks sake!) she continues to send cards to me as Mrs (my initial) (his surname).
My aunt is old enough to have forgotten our heated 'but WHY should a woman change her name' conversation, that I will grant her. However I'm convinced she does not have dementia when it comes to my having got divorced. My uniquely alone presence at our annual family christmas party is enough of a reminder and I'm sure, knowing our family gossip tree, that she has recently been availed of the information that my ex is prepared to marry (yet another) woman.
My mother insists that it is a simple matter of having not crossed off my married name from her address book. But when one considers that I never even had a married name I wonder how such a wantonly incorrect entry ever made it into the address book, how it didn't get crossed out when I insisted that my birth name had never and would never change, and why my aunt persists in calling me something that now, 5 years after I first left my ex-husband, is not only a reminder of a failed relationship that I don't need and an insult to my independence.
That said, I'm going to depart from the Bridget Jones way of thinking. Bridget, bless her red penguin pyjamas, couldn't wait to join the hooked-up brigade. As I feel right now not only do I feel the opposite of desperate to be tied down again (my Mum is desperate enough for the both of us) I'm convinced I'd rather be on my own.
It takes a night out with a bunch of smug marrieds to make me feel this way admittedly. There's only so much discussion of 'what your partner needs' that I can stomach before I'd like to throw up. Worse, I see no reason why a request from me that a married woman share a filthy text that she's received from her husband be met with blank stares and horror that I would consider breaching the sacred bond that is husband and wife. Is it really only single girls that swap dirty details and cock pictures?
Having said that it was a newly engaged girl that was so upset by my suggestion. I wouldn't mind but said 'girl' is now the wrong side of 4o and engaged to what will be her second husband - surely she should be obliged to retain a little healthy cynicism that allows for oversharing with her girlfriends?
My aunt in the meantime refuses to consider that my life is no way resembles the life of anybody's 'Mrs'. Despite the fact that I retained my own name when I was married, that I had a heated discussion with her while married about how I had retained my own name (and don't you start asking me why - it's my name for fucks sake!) she continues to send cards to me as Mrs (my initial) (his surname).
My aunt is old enough to have forgotten our heated 'but WHY should a woman change her name' conversation, that I will grant her. However I'm convinced she does not have dementia when it comes to my having got divorced. My uniquely alone presence at our annual family christmas party is enough of a reminder and I'm sure, knowing our family gossip tree, that she has recently been availed of the information that my ex is prepared to marry (yet another) woman.
My mother insists that it is a simple matter of having not crossed off my married name from her address book. But when one considers that I never even had a married name I wonder how such a wantonly incorrect entry ever made it into the address book, how it didn't get crossed out when I insisted that my birth name had never and would never change, and why my aunt persists in calling me something that now, 5 years after I first left my ex-husband, is not only a reminder of a failed relationship that I don't need and an insult to my independence.
Thursday, 20 November 2008
Will I never learn?
Despite having dated online on and off for more than four years now I fell into the classic online dating trap last week. Yes, in the same week as Mr Scotland; how unlucky can one girl be?
I met Mark online two weeks ago and was so impressed by his ability to correctly spell the word 'definitely' (you'd be amazed how bad spelling will dampen even my overactive sex-drive) that I agreed to a Saturday night date.
The texts were funny, the emails varied between sexy and sweet and his photo, while not necessary my immediate 'usual' type was attractive. I was just beginning to get excited; we'd even had the pre-date phone call and he didn't sound thick or common (limitation of character that have a similar effect on me as bad spelling, see above).
Fast forward to another pre-date phone call and we got on to discussing our photographs. My photo tactic is to have relatively average photographs of myself on my profile in the hope that a man is pleasantly surprised when we meet, rather than horrified that he hadn't received what he had ordered.
Unfortunately it seemed that Mark didn't have a similar philosophy. "Oh," he said. "I think that photo of me is quite an old one, I'm not sure I look much like that anymore."
I should have got rid of him immediately. Instead I wasted an hour of my life while he faffed about emailing me a more recent photograph. Mark wasn't sure he looked much like his profile photograph anymore but I was; it was practically a different man! Fatter, older, much less hair. I knew instantly there was no way I would ever be attracted to this version of the man but when he offered to cancel the date I felt too bad to agree.
Of course I had to cancel in the end, his low self-esteem and lack of confidence were as off-putting to me as the photograph and it was clear he was about ready to fall in love with me which would have been a very sticky situation to extricate myself from.
He seemed quite understanding when I let him know but then in his final text to me he offered to have oral sex with me if I wanted. Clawing back a little dignity for himself after being dumped maybe? I don't know but I'm not in the habit of having oral sex with men that I categorically am not attracted to. Come to think of it I don't, unfortunately, have oral sex often enough to even consider it a habit, but call up Mr My-Looks-Have-Gone-Downhill in recent times for it? I don't think so.
I met Mark online two weeks ago and was so impressed by his ability to correctly spell the word 'definitely' (you'd be amazed how bad spelling will dampen even my overactive sex-drive) that I agreed to a Saturday night date.
The texts were funny, the emails varied between sexy and sweet and his photo, while not necessary my immediate 'usual' type was attractive. I was just beginning to get excited; we'd even had the pre-date phone call and he didn't sound thick or common (limitation of character that have a similar effect on me as bad spelling, see above).
Fast forward to another pre-date phone call and we got on to discussing our photographs. My photo tactic is to have relatively average photographs of myself on my profile in the hope that a man is pleasantly surprised when we meet, rather than horrified that he hadn't received what he had ordered.
Unfortunately it seemed that Mark didn't have a similar philosophy. "Oh," he said. "I think that photo of me is quite an old one, I'm not sure I look much like that anymore."
I should have got rid of him immediately. Instead I wasted an hour of my life while he faffed about emailing me a more recent photograph. Mark wasn't sure he looked much like his profile photograph anymore but I was; it was practically a different man! Fatter, older, much less hair. I knew instantly there was no way I would ever be attracted to this version of the man but when he offered to cancel the date I felt too bad to agree.
Of course I had to cancel in the end, his low self-esteem and lack of confidence were as off-putting to me as the photograph and it was clear he was about ready to fall in love with me which would have been a very sticky situation to extricate myself from.
He seemed quite understanding when I let him know but then in his final text to me he offered to have oral sex with me if I wanted. Clawing back a little dignity for himself after being dumped maybe? I don't know but I'm not in the habit of having oral sex with men that I categorically am not attracted to. Come to think of it I don't, unfortunately, have oral sex often enough to even consider it a habit, but call up Mr My-Looks-Have-Gone-Downhill in recent times for it? I don't think so.
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Mr Scotland
A man's capacity for self-delusion in terms of his own attractiveness never ceases to amaze me. I realise that I can't sweep all men into the same category with a few sharp words typed on my laptop and that is my caveat over. However I find it very much worth commenting upon how men are such a contrast to we women and how complex the interaction is that we have between our actual physical self and our self esteem.
Perhaps I ask for it dating on the internet; but my theory is that the problems in the dating game lie with exactly how many wankers there are out there, not in how one finds them. Admittedly I would have ignored this one had I seen him in a bar - at 5ft 8" he stood too short for my hypocritical tastes (I'm 5ft 1") but I subscribe to my ex-mother-in-law's view that I can't help being attracted to tall men. She used to say that it was an inner biological urging in order that I would have 'normal sized children'. She always did have a special way of putting things.
Simply put, even most totally gorgeous and slim women think they are ugly and fat and if they don't then they at least pretend to in the polite company of other people. Perhaps they prounce around at home stroking their flat stomachs and patting their slim aquiline noses - who knows - but what I do know is that if they do it is because their self esteem is utterly in proportion with the way that they look.
Men, on the other hand, or at least the self-loving Mr Scotland with whom I spent my Tuesday evening struggling not to give him additional reason to further love himself, have no equal sense of appropriate balance between their actual attractiveness and how stunning they believe themselves to be. They think they are studs when their penises are barely more than adequate. They think their bodies are in great shape when they could use to lose a stone or two and spend some time in the gym. They think their faces are attractive when they are an individual call for men to begin to use face products and cosmetics.
I probably should have told him that his jeans ripped at the knee were a pre-turn of the Millennium fashion that he should leave behind with his almost 20 year old body building accolade but I was too busy trying to tune out his obvious pleasure at still occasionally shagging his ex-wife, not being able to count the number of women he claims to have slept with during his life and his much-too-honest admission that he'd had sex two days before our date.
I love a confident man but there's a line between confidence and out-of-proportion to the truth arrogance and this guy crossed the line sometime in the late 80s never to return. My brain was so active trying to extricate myself from the date that when he told me I was gorgeous and he'd an erection all night that I had to do something with before three mins were up that I was too busy to remember to throw up all over him.
On reflection I recall his five minute defence that body builders don't have small penises, it is simply a matter of perspective. Their bodies are so large it makes it look small apparently. I also have to wonder if his 3 min 'touch my penis' deadline was indicative of his usual timescale in such matters. I will however take his point that it's not true that ex body builders muscle will turn to fat because they are two completely different things. However, that does then beg the question of exactly where does the extra 3 stone he is carrying come from?
Perhaps I ask for it dating on the internet; but my theory is that the problems in the dating game lie with exactly how many wankers there are out there, not in how one finds them. Admittedly I would have ignored this one had I seen him in a bar - at 5ft 8" he stood too short for my hypocritical tastes (I'm 5ft 1") but I subscribe to my ex-mother-in-law's view that I can't help being attracted to tall men. She used to say that it was an inner biological urging in order that I would have 'normal sized children'. She always did have a special way of putting things.
Simply put, even most totally gorgeous and slim women think they are ugly and fat and if they don't then they at least pretend to in the polite company of other people. Perhaps they prounce around at home stroking their flat stomachs and patting their slim aquiline noses - who knows - but what I do know is that if they do it is because their self esteem is utterly in proportion with the way that they look.
Men, on the other hand, or at least the self-loving Mr Scotland with whom I spent my Tuesday evening struggling not to give him additional reason to further love himself, have no equal sense of appropriate balance between their actual attractiveness and how stunning they believe themselves to be. They think they are studs when their penises are barely more than adequate. They think their bodies are in great shape when they could use to lose a stone or two and spend some time in the gym. They think their faces are attractive when they are an individual call for men to begin to use face products and cosmetics.
I probably should have told him that his jeans ripped at the knee were a pre-turn of the Millennium fashion that he should leave behind with his almost 20 year old body building accolade but I was too busy trying to tune out his obvious pleasure at still occasionally shagging his ex-wife, not being able to count the number of women he claims to have slept with during his life and his much-too-honest admission that he'd had sex two days before our date.
I love a confident man but there's a line between confidence and out-of-proportion to the truth arrogance and this guy crossed the line sometime in the late 80s never to return. My brain was so active trying to extricate myself from the date that when he told me I was gorgeous and he'd an erection all night that I had to do something with before three mins were up that I was too busy to remember to throw up all over him.
On reflection I recall his five minute defence that body builders don't have small penises, it is simply a matter of perspective. Their bodies are so large it makes it look small apparently. I also have to wonder if his 3 min 'touch my penis' deadline was indicative of his usual timescale in such matters. I will however take his point that it's not true that ex body builders muscle will turn to fat because they are two completely different things. However, that does then beg the question of exactly where does the extra 3 stone he is carrying come from?
Saturday, 19 May 2007
Becoming a Mummy
Yesterday was the 11th anniversary of when I became a mother but nobody noticed other than me. It wasn't anybody's birthday yesterday. I wasn't remembering being in labour or bringing my baby home or wetting the baby's head with a glass of champagne. I remembered instead the day that I brought home my six year old stepson Ben to live with his Dad and me.
I was 22 and he was 6. We're now 33 and 17 and he hasn't lived with me for nearly two years. It doesn't matter; I still consider myself mother, or at least, one of his mothers.
I know in my heart I became a mother that day that my ex-husband and I brought my stepson home. I may not have given birth or breastfed and I may have even missed out on the first five years of this little boy's life, but from that day forward, other than the title, I was a mother. My life revolved around school runs, packed lunches, babysitters, homework, discipline, affection and putting the child of the house first, just as any other mother would do.
The lack of recognition is hard. People look at me with my six year old daughter and assume that she is the entirety of my maternal experience. They don't know that I've been through it all before. My pregnancy left me with stretch marks as proof of my experience, my marriage left me with the label 'divorced' and needing to overlook September 24th as normal day but not my anniversary. However my experience as a full-time stepmother leaves no reminders behind, other than the huge chunk of my heart that will always belong to a little boy who wasn't supposed to belong to me, but does.
My daughter Kiera's birthday is only two days later than that of her elder half-brother Ben so on my anniversary of becoming his mother she is, 11 years on, exactly the same age that he was when he moved in with me. The similarities between them are as noticeable to me as their differences; the contrast as striking as between my experience as a stepmother and as a biological mother.
In the end I had to mention it to someone and so I sent my almost-grown boy Ben a text to remind him of what day it was and to tell him I love him. He texted back that he loves me too and 'thanks for everything'. I cried; it was the recognition that I needed.
I was 22 and he was 6. We're now 33 and 17 and he hasn't lived with me for nearly two years. It doesn't matter; I still consider myself mother, or at least, one of his mothers.
I know in my heart I became a mother that day that my ex-husband and I brought my stepson home. I may not have given birth or breastfed and I may have even missed out on the first five years of this little boy's life, but from that day forward, other than the title, I was a mother. My life revolved around school runs, packed lunches, babysitters, homework, discipline, affection and putting the child of the house first, just as any other mother would do.
The lack of recognition is hard. People look at me with my six year old daughter and assume that she is the entirety of my maternal experience. They don't know that I've been through it all before. My pregnancy left me with stretch marks as proof of my experience, my marriage left me with the label 'divorced' and needing to overlook September 24th as normal day but not my anniversary. However my experience as a full-time stepmother leaves no reminders behind, other than the huge chunk of my heart that will always belong to a little boy who wasn't supposed to belong to me, but does.
My daughter Kiera's birthday is only two days later than that of her elder half-brother Ben so on my anniversary of becoming his mother she is, 11 years on, exactly the same age that he was when he moved in with me. The similarities between them are as noticeable to me as their differences; the contrast as striking as between my experience as a stepmother and as a biological mother.
In the end I had to mention it to someone and so I sent my almost-grown boy Ben a text to remind him of what day it was and to tell him I love him. He texted back that he loves me too and 'thanks for everything'. I cried; it was the recognition that I needed.
Monday, 30 April 2007
Unusual conversations
I'm not quite sure why I never foresaw that I would have to have the following conversation with my daughter at some point, but I never did consider it.
Kiera: Mummy, what's it like in prison?
Me: Erm... well... did I ever tell you that Daddy was in prison once?
Kiera - with a look on her face equalling the 'expectant gossip' face of my friendly and chatty hairdresser when presented with some fascinating new snippet - NO! Really?!
Me: Yes, before I met him.
Kiera: Why did they put him in there?
Me: Erm.. well... he had some tablets on him that he shouldn't have done and he went into an office where he didn't work anymore (all true to a fashion)
Kiera: Oh. Right. Okay (returns to watching TV).
It's almost as cringeworthy as when she recently exited my en-suite bathroom with my vibrator in hand asking inquisitively, "What's this?"
I'm all for telling children the truth. I faced it recently when my ex-husband sent me a warning text that Kiera had asked him what men did when women had babies. Naturally, we both assumed the worst with this question, but after braving myself for it, I approached her and found out that she meant when the ladies were birthing the babies, not making them. I got off lightly that time.
I couldn't find anyway of dealing with the vibrator issue. Sex is one thing, but masturbation? She's only six! A mother can only take honesty so far. I told her that I couldn't tell her what that phallic object was right now and that I would tell her when she was old enough to understand. Naturally I took it off her at that point and swore under my breath to purchase a nice locked box to keep under my bed. I can only pray that she didn't then ask either her father or her stepmother what nice gadget Mummy had in her bedroom. I've not detected a knowing or pitying look on their face just yet so fingers crossed.
Today's question was, "Why are there people on the planet?" Easy philosophical meanderings followed, mutterings about God, the bible and Adam and Eve followed by much talk of fishes that walk on land and turn into apes then men and women. I finished by telling her that 'why are there people on the planet' is a question that everyone has to answer for themselves.
I can only imagine that all of the questions from here on in get more complicated to answer.
Kiera: Mummy, what's it like in prison?
Me: Erm... well... did I ever tell you that Daddy was in prison once?
Kiera - with a look on her face equalling the 'expectant gossip' face of my friendly and chatty hairdresser when presented with some fascinating new snippet - NO! Really?!
Me: Yes, before I met him.
Kiera: Why did they put him in there?
Me: Erm.. well... he had some tablets on him that he shouldn't have done and he went into an office where he didn't work anymore (all true to a fashion)
Kiera: Oh. Right. Okay (returns to watching TV).
It's almost as cringeworthy as when she recently exited my en-suite bathroom with my vibrator in hand asking inquisitively, "What's this?"
I'm all for telling children the truth. I faced it recently when my ex-husband sent me a warning text that Kiera had asked him what men did when women had babies. Naturally, we both assumed the worst with this question, but after braving myself for it, I approached her and found out that she meant when the ladies were birthing the babies, not making them. I got off lightly that time.
I couldn't find anyway of dealing with the vibrator issue. Sex is one thing, but masturbation? She's only six! A mother can only take honesty so far. I told her that I couldn't tell her what that phallic object was right now and that I would tell her when she was old enough to understand. Naturally I took it off her at that point and swore under my breath to purchase a nice locked box to keep under my bed. I can only pray that she didn't then ask either her father or her stepmother what nice gadget Mummy had in her bedroom. I've not detected a knowing or pitying look on their face just yet so fingers crossed.
Today's question was, "Why are there people on the planet?" Easy philosophical meanderings followed, mutterings about God, the bible and Adam and Eve followed by much talk of fishes that walk on land and turn into apes then men and women. I finished by telling her that 'why are there people on the planet' is a question that everyone has to answer for themselves.
I can only imagine that all of the questions from here on in get more complicated to answer.
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