Wednesday 24 June 2009

Life is Swede

Around the world there’s a concept that the British a terrible lovers. We’re all backwards drunks, they trill, whilst quaffing their fancy soup. The men are boorish at worst and bumbling idiots at best (Hugh Grant did a great disservice to British men by making it seem not only acceptable but somehow desirable to act like the stammering, awkward, cripplingly shy agriculturalist that you are - note to all other British men who aren‘t Hugh Grant, you are not Hugh Grant), nothing much there to set the pulse racing. And, those foreign types quip, the women are all dogs. Well, two out of three ain’t bad (by that I mean we’re all drunks and British men are graceless hammers - sorry ladies, you are, without exception, hideous. I mean, seriously, have you not see The OC? WHY DON‘T YOU ALL LOOK LIKE THAT? ANSWER ME).

An American friend recently asked me why a British guy she was interested in (and was pretty sure was interested in her) was not actively pursuing her, as an American man might have done. That’s just British guys, I said, we’re not that forward. Oh, she said, so he does like me then? Yes, I said, he probably does. Oh, she said, right.

A week later she was dating an American. Right, I said.

With all this firmly in mind (especially the graceless hammers bit) I went on a date with a Scandinavian.


FOURTH DATE REPORT - 20/06/09

I believe we’re calling this one Mel.

Met Mel at the tube station where I once again managed to greet a date with all the suaveness and sophistication of a sexually aggressive Mr Bean. Look, give me a break here, I am already making progress from Date One. We managed to successfully negotiate ourselves into a very relaxed semi-hug kiss on the cheek kind of thing (which I hate so much it makes me physically nauseous). Fine. But the whole etiquette of the kissing on the cheek debacle still eludes me. Do you actually kiss them? I feel that landing a smacker, or even a gentle little peck, on the cheek of someone you have never met is a bit much (sorry, physically nauseous? How could you be mentally nauseous? Or spiritually nauseous? What am I, an NVQ student?). But missing their face entirely and making little kissy noises is something propagated by the French and people who live in Dalston even though they can palpably afford to live somewhere else. Seriously, don’t swan around Dalston as if you’re Vincent van fucking Gogh or something with a £75 haircut and £90 jeans. Cut both your ears off, and your nose for good measure, and fuck off back to Kent. So. Kissy noises are out. That leaves you with the option of slowly pushing your emotionless face against their cheek, lips un-pursed, as if you were falling asleep against a car window or checking the temperature of some freshly baked bread.

My main point, however, is that all three options above are a better bet than getting confused and kissing the other person RIGHT in their ear. It gets you off on the wrong foot.

Now, before I get to the internal pain you’re waiting for, let me say this. Mel was beautiful and we clicked.

So this is blog over, yeah?

Nyaah. I’m not nearly so flighty. I know, I know I know I know, I’ve got on well with Geri and Emma but this was an actual, natural bit of chemistry.

Or I just fancied her.

Yeah, probably that. I mean, come on, she’s from the Baltic coast. They’re basically genetically perfect out there.

So, I started out intimidated by the fact that I assume all Europeans are dazzling cosmopolitan urbanites and went on by being intimidated at how attractive she was. God, I’m a catch. On top of being beautiful she had a very wry sense of humour that allowed us to openly mock some live performance art together, she mispronounced words in a heart-melting manner and she described Professor Stephen Hawking as a ‘randy spasmo’. HAH.

But.

But but but.

But but but but but but but but.

Apparently we, us ‘umans, accentuate the negatives far more easily then the positives. When asked how are day was we reel off a list of things that upset or angered us and leave out all the moments that made our lives better, happier, fitter, stronger. Oprah Winfrey encourages her audience to go through a common counseling exercise - listing three things at the end of each day that made us happy. I’ve tried doing this. And fuck you, Oprah. I’d have a list the size of your arse if I had your bank balance. Three things? Are you serious? Ah, no, apparently you’re meant to include all the ‘little things’. Like the sun shining, seeing ducklings on the canal, an old woman smiling at you on the bus, someone unexpectedly bringing you coffee at work. But all this does is make you realise that these stupid little things don’t actually make you happy. They are tiny and inconsequential. They are the icing on a cake you‘ve already wolfed down too quickly. You can put icing on a piece of shit but it’s still a piece of shit.

You wouldn’t talk someone down off a window ledge by encouraging them to appreciate the view.

So, I’m going to dwell on the negatives, ifthat’salrightwithyouthankyouverymuch.

We talked liked old friends. That’s not bad is it? Nope. Unless you’re me. The conversation was natural, flowing, mutually beneficial. But, partly because (I guess) she’s not British, and partly because we went to an exciting fairground/circus/festival/thing instead of to the pub or to dinner, the conversation didn’t take the normal question/answer/question format of most first dates. We barely talked about ourselves at all. There was no ‘getting to know you, what do you do for a living?’ business. Great. You’d think.

I couldn’t handle it. It was like an itch I had to scratch. The more free-flowing our conversation, the more I craved to bring it onto more traditional ground. I was resolutely convinced this would not impress her at all and, in fact, would be a conversation killer but I. Could. Not. Help. It. Eventually I started to develop crap-conversation tourettes, randomly blurting out pointless questions and dull remarks, sometimes cutting her off mid-sentence to do so. Feeling the pressure to fill a void in the conversation that didn’t exist I started crow-barring questions into the proceedings like a drunk hairdresser.

She didn’t like it. She swatted most of these questions out of the air (with visible displeasure) and continued on her own track. Every time I upended our conversation with a stupid question she would give me a look so withering you’d think that I’d just admitted to accidentally unplugging the sea or losing Spain or something.

At one point my brain became so utterly fixated on a certain question (which she wouldn’t answer - it was something utterly banal) that I found myself turning into an unkempt Jeremy Paxman, hounding her over and over until finally demanding she ‘just answer the question’. Curse you, you relaxed Europeans. Look what you’ve done to me.

The other major problem was our location. As we were somewhere ‘fun’ I felt pressure to be ‘fun’. Walking about a funfair, even if you are the kind of person who is happiest re-writing code for Spectrum ZX games, you feel an unnatural desire to impress the person you’re with by acting like some kind of free-spirited, fun-loving gadabout.

Even though we were trotting about very happily it still felt as if we could have been having more fun, and I could come across as a more cool and relaxed person, if we had been shying coconuts, or testing our weight in an ironic way, and then laughing as we eat candyfloss (which would inevitably get all over our faces), guffawing on the dodgems, tittering on the teacups, winning giant cuddly toys (conveniently ignoring the fact that it’s sewn by minuscule Burmese fingers, even though we‘d rather jump on a spike than not recycle our Independent on Sunday) at duck shoots and then running freely across a field with the sun going down and slowing down into each other’s arms as the sun goes down. All to the latest release by Jack cockguts Penate.

Listen. Just because I don’t spend my life playing blackjack with tramps or dancing on tables or conversing with Peruvian octogenarians does not mean I am boring. So tit off, Mrs Lonely Planet (emphasis on the lonely).

Hah.

I would seriously recommend you all start a blog where you can air your insecurities. It’s as refreshing as it is embarrassing.

I’d like to see Mel again. We’ll see. If anything, I need to make amends for how relentlessly uptight I was on this date.


So. 4 dates in 9 days. Fun diddly fun fun. More to come. Eyes peeled and all that.

It’s been 6 weeks and already my Match.com standards have plummeted violently. All I want now is to meet a woman who doesn’t list her favourite book as The Kite Runner or The Time Traveller’s Wife.

It's not much to ask. It certainly ain't love. More on that later.

Friday 19 June 2009

Love in the key of C

Third time lucky?


THIRD DATE REPORT - 16/06/09

Third date down. How many more to go? The answer seems to lie mainly in the hands of Fate and the ovaries of women in their early 30s.

Or, you know, Love. Speaking of which, I’m still attempting to find out what love really is, by hook or flippin’ crook. H.L. Mencken chirped that love is to mistake an ordinary young woman for a goddess. Gee, thanks, Mencks. To be honest, I’ve never had this problem. The mere fact that someone is the object of my rather feeble desires seems to render them pathetically human and irredeemably mortal. Oh to meet a goddess.

Love is the gross exaggeration of the difference between one person and everyone else. Ah, that’s more like, Bertrand Russell. Cheers, boyo. But still not quite on the money. Yes, to some degree we elevate our chosen beyond their bounds but we are always, always (sadly) and irretrievably aware of their flaws. And how.

Ok, I’m no Alain de Botton. But then A de B claimed that ‘whilst Kant and Hegel are interesting thinkers, they are also terrible writers,’ Either Alain has a tremendous sense of irony or he hasn’t read any of his own novels recently.

Francois de La Rochefoucauld has the last word today - ‘love is like seeing ghosts; we all talk of it, but few of us have seen one.’ How true. But, hey, we all know how to stick a sheet over our heads and go ‘woooooo’.

I met Geri at a popular central London bar. She was, uniquely and delightfully, more attractive than her pictures suggested. Or maybe she wasn’t. She was, in any case, different.

Ah, whatever, I just fancied her.

I too, she said, was more attractive in person. Right. Hmm. Thanks. Not sure how to take this. Ok, I guess it’s a good thing. I was under the impression that I, like everyone else, had put up overly flattering photographs of myself. Apparently not. According to Geri my photos made me look like I had a ‘really, really round head’. But. ‘But no, it’s fine, because you don’t’. Right. Hmm.

Which is odd. Why on earth did she want to date this round-headed chap in the first place? Why go for a drink with someone who, in your own words, reminded you a bit of ‘Wilf from the Bash Street Kids’?

Unless life has desensitized you to the point of idiocy then you’ll have appreciated by now that this was a good date. Or at least that I fancied her. There was plenty of banter (god, I hate that word), flirtation and all that. There were, however, two problems.

Firstly, whilst the conversation flowed, it probably flowed far too much. Certainly from my direction. Not that anything said was out of place. It’s just we (mainly I) talked too much. I was suddenly thrust into a position where I needed, and wanted, to impress someone I was actually attracted to. I was vulnerable. I was the underdog. So I waffled on and on. Nerves took hold and I let my tongue just blabble on. She did the same. We jabbered over each other, barely letting the other start a new sentence, let alone finish one. It was an exercise in pointlessness. Rival grime MCs have more respect for what each other are saying. I frequently found myself saying ‘I’m sorry, I don’t where that was going’. But I did know. I was just trying to shut her up.

The other problem. Ah, ok. During the night some bloke we were sharing a table with, who’d been guffawing loudly all evening and generally attempting to make the entire bar look right at his face all the time, decided to accost us in conversation. Momentarily left alone he clearly decided he had the options of sputtering gobbets of stupidity onto his own lap or turning his desperation-tainted pronouncements towards us.

‘So, sorry to butt in, but’ he began, he wasn’t sorry, he was a cock, ‘sorry, but, how do you guys know each other? Brother and sister? Lovers? Or what?’

Nice. So. Only two options for us. Either siblings or we were fucking. Anyhow, I decided to throw him a doosra (googly, curve ball, dummy - pick your own metaphor, what am I, your mother?). He played it with remarkable grace. Geri, on the other hand, didn’t.

‘No’ I said, my mind boggling a little from what I was doing, ‘No, we’re on our first date. We met through an internet dating site.’

Never in my life have I uttered one single sentence that has made one person so delighted whilst making another person look so, so profoundly dejected.

She wasn’t angry. She was just disappointed. Everyone says that’s worse. But it isn’t. If they’re disappointed they’ll just take it out on themselves, rather than you. Which is fine. Right? To be fair, she dug deep within herself and saw the funny side. Which was annoying, as it just made me like her more.

Aah, yeah, so overall it went well. She left me at the tube station with the words ‘Yeah, thanks, I had a terrible time. Don’t call me.’ Which impressed me terribly. I think the phrase ‘treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen’ was invented as a short handbook on how to manipulate me. I’ll call her. In fact, I already have.

But. Where does she fit in the great scheme of Love? Is she woman of my dreams? I don’t think she is. But she’s top of the sapling at the moment. I’m only three dates in and already I’m beginning to appreciate that Love is far more about choice than people (those naughty people) will lead us to believe.

Yeah, it’s a tough one. We all say we want to meet the original Leonard Cohen, when in reality we always end up going for Jeff Buckley’s cover version whilst secretly holding a candle for Alexandra Burke’s cheapness and immediacy. Halle-fucking-lujah.

Remember school? Remember how there was a small and limited pool of people to choose from? How much easier was that? If you don’t hear from me again, it’s because I’ll have buggered off to Ohio to join an Amish community.

But I won’t. Because I date a Swede tomorrow. Wild. Horses.

Monday 15 June 2009

Love sleeps with the fishes

15th June -

Let’s dive straight in.


VICTORIA’S SECOND DATE - 12/06/09

Ok. So. Right. Second date etiquette? What does a second date mean? What are the second date rules? If a second date falls in a forest and no one’s around, does it still sound like sadness ramming its fist down the throat of loneliness?

I’ve got to admit, having been on a date the night before and having two more lined up this week, I was pretty complacent about this. I mean, she wanted to see me again. Boom. I was a man in demand. She’s going to have to do all the running here. Honestly, my attitude was shocking. Once again I didn’t have any clean clothes but this time I didn’t care. HAH. I think at this juncture it may be becoming obvious why I am single. Anyway, I didn’t care about the lack of clean clothes. Until, that is, I remembered that it was a second date. So. Who knows what might happen? It doesn’t matter on the first date if your pants are a bit skiddy because she’s not going to see them. But. On a second date. She might. I sat on the tube and looked at the man next to me. He met my eye. He understood. He nodded sadly. Yep, he seemed to say, you should have at least changed your pants.

But I hadn’t.

Victoria (remember her? Kids, 2010, fear) suggested we go to a restaurant near her house. How more obvious did she want to make it? Casanova's got nothing on this guy. I considered buying some prophylactics at a newsagents on the way. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t think anything was going to happen, I didn’t want anything to happen. But. These thoughts pass through your mind. I only had £2 on me. I bought some chewing gum and a Lucozade orange instead. I mean, safe sex is one thing. Physical and mental stimulation with minty fresh breath is QUITE ANOTHER. Plus they last longer. Hah. Sex joke.

The evening got off to a good start. I was revelling in the fact that I was blasé to the point of being insulting about the whole situation and she, I imagined smugly, was not. Oh no no, she wanted her a piece of this. And why shouldn't she? Go on then, dear, but you're going to have to do all the running. I didn’t care what happened. If she wanted to see me again she was going to have to really impress. I mean, she’s nice and all that but a third date is a bridge too far. If that was to be on the cards she was going to have to charm my skiddy pants off.

The meal went brilliantly. For me. I sat there oozing charming indifference (well, indifference). Her eyes gave her away. Why isn’t he wooing me? Where’s the romance? I thought he liked me? The more I showed her that I couldn’t give a toss even if she spontaneously combusted over her halloumi, the harder she tried. Not only did I hold all the cards but I was also in possession of pick-up sticks, some marbles and a half complete set of Kerplunk. She flirted like a sailor on shore leave. I did not bite. I would not bite. I was unwilling to take even the smallest of nibbles. Victoria’s attempts to impress me was like watching a clown trying to placate a weeping child. The more she tried the less I cared.

We then went for a drink. It was to be one drink. Then home. Then bye bye, Victoria. Nice to know ya.

And then at that moment, she pulled off the most audacious trick.

I came back from the bar with drinks. And I sat down next to a completely different woman (not literally, keep up). This Victoria did not flirt. Didn’t even smile. She seemed to have no interest in me whatsoever. In fact, she looked bored. I was keeping her from a far more pressing and exciting engagement, that much was certain. This woman certainly did not find me attractive, you could tell. And, my god, she had suddenly become roughly 4000% more attractive. In fact, I thought I loved her. I had to have her. I felt a desperate urge to impress. If I could only make her smile, make her laugh, make her want me somehow. It seemed unnaturally urgent.

Top marks to her, she worked me out pretty quickly. If she carries this on for a couple more weeks I may be forced to propose.

The power shifted so quickly and so violently that I was utterly lost and I run like a monkey gland-enhanced stallion to make up all the ground I had taken from her in the first place.

I think the evening ended in a score draw. She invited me back to hers (2-1). However, soon as we were there she made me feel like not only had I broken into her house but that she had caught me feverishly rifling through her underwear draw and was pocketing my faves. I was soon forced to suggest that I should leave. Yes. She said. You probably should (2-2).

God, she’s good.

But this isn’t love, is it? This isn’t even going to be love. This can’t blossom into something nice and clean and healthy and wholesome and probiotoc. This is just wanting what you can’t have. Is that it then? Is that the sum total of love? It’s hardly not worth all those songs and poems and stuff. Pffft.

The older I get the more it seems to me that love is nothing more than an ark for the coming flood.

No. This isn’t love. I must keep looking.

But I must also see Victoria again because she hasn’t texted for nearly two days and, my word, I can’t resist that.


Date Three tomorrow night. This one’s already given me some abuse during our email exchange. THAT’S how you do it, Vic. Get it in early, get it in first.

Saturday 13 June 2009

The drummer from Def Leppard's only got one arm

Fact.

He just drums twice as hard (and does some stuff with his foot). I think he’s a got a special drum kit.

Word of advice. Interesting as the musical ability of disabled percussionist Rick Allen may be to you, don’t bring it up on a date. Doesn’t go down well. The other person starts to wonder why you’ve brought it up at all. But I had my reasons. Oh I had my reasons.

I have written up my date from Thursday below. Date report from Friday night will follow on Sunday, as I’m sure you can’t be bothered to read about two dates in one sitting. And, to be honest, I still need some time to digest last night. It was tricky, to say the least. Very tricky. But that’s for tomorrow.


DATE NUMBER TWO - 13/06/09

Aha, so the lovely Emma.

Blue-loving, laughs-out-loud-a-lot, all photos taken from a worryingly long distance, Emma.

Turned out to be a perfectly normal and pleasant human being.

WHAT ARE ALL THESE NORMAL PEOPLE DOING ON MATCH.COM?

I’ll tell you what they're doing there - these are burned women. They seem normal at first but as soon as you scratch below their pathetically wafer-thin surface of togetherness, you realise that all that’s left of them is a tiny, barely beating heart and a pair of eyes that scream ‘oh god, please love me but, for the love of great gurning god, please don’t hurt me.’

Ok. So, we met in a pub in North London. A quite nice one. Barely had the first sip of my cool, refreshing, crisp pint of Kronenbourg (I’m not beyond product placement) tickled my tonsils when I found myself hearing all about Billy, let’s call him, her ex. Who had cheated on her. Quite recently.

Emma, very kindly, informed she would never cheat on me. PHEW. Weight off my mind. She also described herself as ‘the perfect girlfriend.’ Well, Billy might have a different take on that. Mightn‘t he, sweetcheeks? Does part of being the ‘perfect girlfriend’ entail endless nights sitting up staring at your mobile trying, with utter futility, to make it ring as if you were fucking Matilda or something, whilst the man you love is utterly incapable of picking up his own phone to call you as his arms are wrapped firmly round someone who actually makes him feel alive, when in fact she could be just about anyone, as long as she wasn’t you, as the sight of your pleading face now makes him feel slightly sick but he just hasn’t got the guts to dump you because he knows just how much it’ll crush you and he can’t face the idea that the rest of your life will simply be a succession of utterly humiliating yet frantically hopeful first dates where you bore the other person arseless talking about your fucking ex. IS THAT WHAT THE ‘PERFECT GIRLFRIEND’ DOES?

She also told me how amazing she was at her job. How great her social life is. And so on. It was one long big-up session.

But before you admonish her… I thought back about all the burblings that had come out of my mouth that evening. In mildly awkward social circumstances you tend to just let your mouth flap up and down with the filter turned down to ‘minimal’, blocking only racist jokes and outright insults, for fear of being drowned in silence. Silence is the killer. Silence means THINGS AREN’T GOING WELL. And it’s all your fault. Oh yeah. It’s because you’re a boring, slack-jawed playground botherer. So you talk and talk and talk. And it very quickly and easily becomes a mutual self-congratulation society.

So, I too talked about how great I am in relationships (I’m not - I’ve been reliably informed that it’s like dating ‘a less eloquent Ted Bundy’ - I don’t meet a lot of parents, put it that way), how perfect my job is, how cool my friends are (you’re not). Because you’re selling a lifestyle, yeah? Why have a relationship with someone? Because, apart from liking how they look, you like what they do. What they’ve done. How they conduct themselves. How they think. How they dress. How they vote. You like their lifestyle. It’s a good one. This person has succeeded, this person is a winner and, hey, they WANT YOU. No one else. You. So we want to hear about how every other aspect of their life is awesome. And you reciprocate. You sell your life to them.

Anyway, Emma was fine. But it got quite boring quite quickly. I tried to think of ways to liven the evening up. A while ago I read an interview with mildly-amusing gross-out frat boy rockers, The Bloodhound Gang. One of their songs contains the refrain ‘The drummer from Def Leppard’s only got one arm’, repeated over and over, for no apparent reason. When asked by the interviewer why they had done this, the lead singer replied - ‘We wanted to write the stupidest line ever written in music history. This line seemed like the stupidest, most pointless thing we could say.’

So, taking my lead from a band who mainly write songs about wanking, shit and wanking I decided I would try and interject into the conversation the stupidest, most pointless thing I could say. I soon realised that The Bloodhound Gang had pretty much got it sewn up. So.

‘And, yeah, so I don’t speak to Billy anymore.’

‘Right, right, yeah.’

‘But I’m totally over it now.’

‘Yeah, totally, yeah… Hey, did you know that the drummer from Def Leppard has only got one arm?’

‘What?’

‘You know Def Leppard?’

‘Er, yeah.’

‘Yeah, their drummer, Rick Allen. Only one arm.’

‘Right.’

‘Still drums though. Just twice as hard. And he does some stuff with his foot. I think he’s got a special drum kit.’

‘Are you a big Def Leppard fan?’

‘No. No, I don’t even think I could name a single song.’

‘Oh ok.’

‘Could you?’

‘What, name one of their songs or drum with one arm?’

‘Either.’

‘No.’

SILENCE. I had done something wrong. But what?


So I started talking about how great I am at my job instead.

Will I see her again? Well, I don’t really have any inclination to but seeing as most of my previous relationships lasted for as long as they did simply because I forgot to tell the other person that I had left them and they just KEPT TURNING UP AT MY HOUSE, yeah, I probably will see her again.

Eyes peeled for my second date with Victoria report.

Until then, keep the love ALIVE.

Thursday 11 June 2009

I am genuinely very sorry for not posting anything for so long. This has been due to a mixture of illness, cancelled dates and a reluctance to write anything when I have no news.

But. You’ve all put your support behind this so well that I am slightly ashamed to have left you hanging.

BUT NO MORE. It’s dates a flippin’ go-go.

By diary now reads like the last days of Rome (you know, when it got all saucy - think Up Pompeii)…

Thursday June 11th - Emma, 1st date
Friday June 12th - Victoria, 2nd date
Tuesday June 16th - Geri, 1st date
Saturday June 20th - Mel, 1st date

9 days, 4 dates, 1 love (for the mother’s pride).

I’ll tell you more about Geri and Mel before the dates themselves. All you need to know is that one of them is Swedish. Finally. 26 years on this earth and I finally get me a Swede.

Tonight, though. Oh tonight. Tonight is Emma. A friend of mine recently looked through my potential Match.com ladies and commented ‘Wouldn’t your blog be more interesting if you were to date someone you don’t actually want to date?’.

Yes it would. So. Meet Emma…

All of Emma’s photos on her profile are taken from a looooooooooong way away. So, she’s a trog. Fine. But in my pursuit of love I understand that beauty is only skin deep. Emma may have a sparkling personality and a kind heart. Emma likes Blue and is delighted they have reunited. Emma is a trog. She also punctuates her emails with the popular acronym LOL (which stands for ‘Laugh Out Loud‘, Mum). If you were to read out Emma’s emails, using the LOL’s as stage directions, they would read like the frantic, incoherent ramblings of a particularly traumatised crackwhore. And. Who’s. To. Say. She’s. Not.

Suffice to say, I am not looking forward to this. I do this for you, dear reader. Report will be posted tomorrow.

In the meantime, chaplets, I have been trawling the millions on Match.com to find more potential victims/dates. And I have found a CORKER.

This lovely lady has conveniently made a list of all the things she wants from a man and all the things she can offer. It first it seems like she’s joking. By about point 6 you realise she is as serious as Jeremy Paxman. It’s all below, for your delectation. Seriously, read it all. Then read it again. Let it sink in. THIS PERSON ACTUALLY EXISTS.

My personal favourites are 'you must not have any mental illnesses and must not sleep more than 8-1o hours a day'. She also describes herself as 'hilarious' and 'good with electronics'. It's a heady mix.

She is not, I repeat, not joking

Enjoy..........


You--

1)Must have a job
2)Must have a good credit score
3)Must not have any mental illnesses
4)Must be ambitious and driven
5)Must have a warm and loving family, but must be able to make decisions dependent from them
6)Actually have plans to separate from your family, live in a separate house(yes their are men who want to still live with their mothers and I have dated them), and have a family of your own some day
7)Must have a car
8)Must have a good social circle and actually be sociable
9)Must like going out of the house
10)Must be responsible
11)Must be organized
12)Must be trustworthy
13)Must have good teeth and go to the dentist regularly
14)Must be in shape and enjoy a healthy lifestyle
15)Must not sleep for more than 8-10 hours a day
16)Must not be in debt
17)Must have clean fingernails
18)Must not have any type of sordid past (including but not limited to pornography)
19)Must have a sense of humour that causes me to fall down, cry, and make my stomach muscles hurt
20)Must be outgoing and confident
21)Must be warm and able to express feelings easily and openly
22)Must be intelligent, witty, and emotionally intelligent
23)Must not be pretentious (i.e. talking for an excessive period of time about a wine's "oaky bouquet" or using 25 cent words when a five cent one will do fine
24)Must impress all people but only care about impressing me
25)Must love shows such as Family Guy, Jon Stewart, Colbert Report, and not make fun of me because I think Oprah is the second coming
26)Must like to talk about why people do what they do, why things are the way they are, etc... I am a psychologist and this is very much a part of me

Me:
Here is what I believe I have to offer:
1)Intelligent ( I have a doctoral degree and own two different start ups)
2)Ambitious, driven, and a self-starter
3)Not a girly girl, so you will rarely get the question "do I look fat in this?"
4)Hillarious, yes I am hillarious and I love to laugh all the time from my belly until I cry
5)Warm and caring
6)Responsible
7)Loyal and honest
8)Introverted until I warm up
9)Spontaneous
10) Open minded
11) candid and frank
12) has a healthy and loving family
13) wants a family of her own some day
14) gets along well with others (I feel like I am describing a breed of dog)
15) flexible, can go with the flow
16) not high maintenance by any means
17) independent, expect my partner to be my equal
18) sarcastic and dry wit
19) good with electronics (I have no idea why this just popped in my head
20) major dance skillz (I know the thriller song by heart)
21) I have had a very diverse and full life and believe that has shaped me to be a very interesting person
22) strong, raised by a single mom, who I watched carry in the christmas tree, light, and decorate on her own for many years
23) conscientious, believes in karma


AHAHAAH!!!!!! I LOVE THIS GIRL.

Inspired by her I have done my own list.

Me:
Here is what I believe I offer:
1)Handsome
2)Great sense of humour
3)Piercing intellect
4)Incredible understanding of women and their needs
5)Sensitive but dominant lover
6)Amazing dress sense
7)Rich and generous
8)Own two houses and 3 cars, as well as a villa in Spain
9)Athletic and sporty but not obsessed with sports
10)Caring and a great listener

You:
1)Big tits.


See you later guys! Gotta go wash my armpits, I'm going on a date!

Monday 1 June 2009

'I want to be married and have a kid by 2010'

THAT’S REALLY SOON.

Seriously, I have commitment problems to the level that I can no longer even finish a sentence properly. I get off the bus a couple of stops early in case it gets too attached to me. I still count the day I broke up with an ex-girlfriend as the single greatest moment of my life, a moment which filled me with such euphoria that I broke down in tears at the thought that I may never feel such happiness ever again. I nearly got back together with her just so I could do it again. If love’s a drug, it’s going to have to have one hell of a kick to beat that.

2010?! I mean, she knows it’s 2009, right?

This girl doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve, she wears it on her head as some kind of giant, inflatable hat complete with neon lights and a flashing sign that says ‘This is my heart, this. LOOK AT IT.’

Still. Better than the last date I went on, when the girl was already hammered by the time I turned up (that means YOU, Kinga).

So, you’re never going to see her again, yeah?

Oh, if only life were that simple…


DATE NUMBER ONE - 31/05/09

Names changed, locations vague.

First point is a general one. Might seem obvious but it hadn’t crossed my mind. I do not mean this in a positive or a negative way - she wasn’t the person I thought she was. We’d exchanged emails for a couple of weeks, I had a very firm idea of her in my head. And she turned out to be a different person. But oddly familiar.

It’s the same feeling you get when you go to New York for the first time (or so they say). You’ve seen it so many times in the movies that it seems at the same time very familiar yet weirdly alien. It’s both what you expected and not.

She, let’s call her Victoria, looked like the girl in the photo and had many of the personality traits that my imaginary Victoria had. But it wasn’t her. Neither for better nor worse, she was a different person. Seriously, even now I can’t quite think of her as being the same girl I was emailing. This is not necessarily a bad thing but it is very, very disconcerting.

So. You wanted it to be a disaster, didn’t you? You wanted her to be some kind of shrieking harridan that would send me feeling into the night. I know you. And I don’t blame you.

We met in a famous geographical area in glorious sunshine. And there’s the first problem. The Meeting. What to do upon the meet? A kiss on the cheek? Is that too much? A firm handshake, perhaps. No, no, that’s slightly mental. A high-five? Punch her in the face and throw her in the river? I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. So I stood there. And there we stood for what seemed like the best part of a lifetime. Just standing. Arms fixed firmly by our sides like two cowboys in a shootout, waiting for the other one to flinch first. A huge, embarrassing Mexican stand-off. So. I just stood their like a pilchard. Still, didn’t punch her in the face. Which is a massive bonus.

And then after that, sorry to disappoint, it went like a normal first date really. We had a drink, we had dinner, we had another drink, and then another. Oh and another. Then we missed a train. So had another drink and… To be honest, we got shitfaced.

But that’s fine. It’s ok as long as you get drunk at the same time (KINGA).

So, apart from getting hammered, it was fairly unremarkable. We can’t really dissect the evening, so let’s dissect her instead. Ooh, ooh, let’s play good points/bad points! I’ll stop short of giving her a mark out of ten (or will I? yeah, probably).


VICTORIA’S GOOD BITS

1) I’m trying not be a looks fascist BUT she is attractive and, you know, that helps.
2) She is very funny.
3) We got on like a house on fire (is that good? I think it is)
4) She quickly pointed out that my favourite word was a certain four-letter one beginning with ‘C’ (cunt).
5) It’s not very funny listing the good bits is it? She’s got more but you don’t want to hear this do you? Oh very well, we’ll skip to the bad bits. Honestly, you make me sick.


VICTORIA’S BAD BITS (this is what you’re here for, you sadists)

1) She wants to be married and have a child by 2010.
2) WHICH IS REALLY SOON.
3) So, you get the idea.
4) In many ways honesty and openness can be virtues. But. Perhaps it’s best to leave a little mystery. You know, at least until the second date.
5) This list thing is falling apart.
6) Let’s stop doing lists.


I am being hard on her. This was one thing she said over a long evening that just slipped out (plus we were firmly on our way to drunk). She told me some very personal things, some very hard things (which I will not divulge, you beasts). Part of me was freaked out by this pouring out of heart, part of me was impressed. As she told me these deeply personal and slightly harrowing things I listened intently and nodded and made noises. I was mainly thinking ‘God, I’m a good listener. I am great. What a great person I am. What did she just say? Doesn’t matter, just keep nodding. Maybe say ‘aaah’. Aaah. God, I’m brilliant.’

We got on well. There’ll be a second date. Sorry this wasn’t very funny. However, in terms of the emotional stakes, has she done too much too soon? Doesn’t take much to send me running for the hills.

You always want what you can’t have. But I don’t think it’s one of those scenarios.

Does that sound vain?

Yes.

Oh well.

So, she managed to trigger my fear of commitment on the first date. But. Hell. I like her.

But I like you guys even more. So. More dates soon, you devils.