God's Little Way of Giving You a KUTA

Or even - a Kick Up The Arse. In the last blog, you may recall, The Guy Up Top bestowed the fleeting gift of self-confidence and love for all humankind upon me; birds sang, butterflies hovered above flowers, the sun shone, and I had no need of Spanx. In fact, nearly all was Disney. Two days later what I'm about to report happened. 

Some of you who manage to get through these blogs without falling asleep greedily devour these blogs are also internet daters, and I’d like your opinion because I'm truly baffled and feeling out of sync with the rest of the planet.

Let’s call him Andy.

Setting: The Website Inbox

We've exchanged a couple of messages each; they were business-like-ish, but friendly with a bit of mild banter. Very mild.  He seems like a reasonable person. I venture this: 

Me: Hi Andy, I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to be really honest here. I try to keep the messages on the website to about four each way, otherwise it can become very time-consuming and intrusive, and can lead to all kinds of disappointments. And there's no better way to get to know someone than to actually make a date and meet. I hope that's OK with you? 

Him: Why the aggressive tone? This isn’t like your first message at all. Why do you feel the need to do that? Isn’t it better that we get to know each other on here first? Don’t you think that’s rather quick? You appear very angry. I’m a bit of an internet virgin, so I maybe I’ve got a lot to learn.

Me: Hi Andy, I don’t mean to be aggressive – I’m very sorry if it seems that way. My approach is based on experience. I’ve been on here for about five months in total. I've met some very nice people, made some marvelous friends, but also come across some jerks. I've chosen to take you at face value – you seem like a genuine and decent person. I don’t know what it’s like on the male side of the website, but for a woman it can sometimes get a little bit unpleasant, so my preference is to just nip in and out. It’s partly a question of staying safe, partly a question of staying sane. I don't plan to come on the website for a while, but if you want to contact me at my hotmail address, here it is.

MY dear FFFs - friends, followers and family - how lovely of me was that? Wasn’t it lovely? I mean really, really lovely, given my usual level of misanthropy caution. So far, only eight people have managed to squeeze into that little window of opportunity; three of them are still there being good mates. You mightn't have heard of them: not everybody is blog fair game. But I meander - let's get back to it: 

Him: I don't understand you at all. What do you want from me? You send me your email address, but if I contact you then you'll obviously know mine. Why would I want that? And you’ve just mentioned staying safe. I don’t know the first thing about you either. You could be anyone. Why should I tell you anything? 

So now I’m getting somewhat pissed off and regretting having given him the bloody email address. But hey! Person-centred counselling hat back on! I wouldn’t want to be a male on the receiving end of a female stalker. In the meantime, four more unsolicited messages in the inbox. It’s worse than writing bloody Christmas cards… (Oh yeah, FFFs, sorry if you didn’t get one last year. Or the year before. I’m getting round to it. ;) Honest!)  

Me: Andy, Quite right! You don’t need to give me your usual address. I wouldn’t dream of handing mine out to all and sundry. But there is nothing easier than setting up an anonymous hotmail account if you want to. It would just give us the opportunity to exchange a few messages without the hassle associated with the site. Anyway, I’m sorry but I really must go now. I’ll leave it up to you - if you want to contact me, super. If not, then not. All the best to you whatever you decide, CB x

I thought that was fair enough. Or maybe it wasn’t? That little x nonsense on the end is supposed to signify some level of warmth, isn’t it? Sufficient encouragement? No hard feelings? Apparently not! 

Him: You are a very strange and unpleasant woman. I have no idea why you are even on this website if you don’t want to talk to people. Isn’t that the whole point of it? Your tone is really aggressive and you sound very bitter and twisted. Is there anything about your profile that's true? You say you have friends but I can’t imagine you having any friends at all if this is the way you deal with people. Perhaps you need to sort that out before starting dating. You are not somebody I would want to get to know at all. Most unpleasant. Hard and vile. Thanks very much but I think I’ll pass. 

Whoaaah! Eh? Yer wa? (And for the non-English, non-northern readers – roughly translated ‘yer wa?’ is 'I respectfully beg your pardon?') 

Was the whole thing a wind-up on his part from the very beginning? Just so he could get to the punch line? Did I really sound so aggressive? I thought I just sounded grown up and matter of fact. Ooer, I mean - how ‘fluffy’ do you have to be? 

Perhaps I shouldn’t be asking the girls. Are there any men reading this? What exactly did I do wrong? Tell me gently; I’m having a minor sort of crisis. Clearly, I'm not bothered about the Andy guy - meh! But just wondering whether the woman who was asked for a kiss from a (visually challenged) complete stranger is the same one as the bitter and twisted, hard and vile person described above and the same one that's writing this blog. 

And I do have friends... Erm, some... Well, at least one, perhaps? Don't I? Stellaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa - you aren't just a figment of my imagination, are you? 

She's Got It! Yeah, Baby, She's Got It!

There are some days when you just feel tremendously alive; I had one of those yesterday. From the minute I woke up, through to the journey to work and then all day long, resulting in plenty of fun, banter and cheekiness with my colleagues.

After work I nipped in to the local hostelry for a drink where, it just so happened, there was a wake - one of those enjoyable wakes where the deceased has given the opportunity to family and friends for another good old shindig since the last wedding, christening or funeral. I had to walk through the cheery throng to get to the loo; then I had to walk back.

Well, you'll never guess what! I was spotted! As I strolled by a group of chatty, laughing men and women comfortably sprawled at a large round table, one of the party grabbed me by the hand.

“Do you speak English?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Great! My brothers have all just bet me five pounds that you won’t give me a kiss. But if I give you the five pounds, will you do it?” All this with a grin on his face and in extremely good-natured fashion. 

What’s in a kiss, right? “Sure,” I said, “But you don’t have to pay me. I’ll be happy to do it for nothing,” I said and planted a very loud smacker on his cheek.

His family giggled, marvelled at his chutzpah and teased him that he’d struck gold. So OK – they were all near, at or well beyond pensionable age. But who cares!? I’m fifty! He could have done the same to a 40 year old or a 30 year old, but no! He chose me! Woop, woop!

I suspect that when you are buzzing, your pheromones travel far and wide like dandelion spores carried by the breeze; mine must have landed on him. Hehe! Sharon Stone, pay attention! On the right day I can still wup yo’ skinny ass!

Wonder if that would have happened if I still had the wart, the grey hair, the broken capillaries, the moustache?? ;) Thanks, Stella! 

Now, if only I could manufacture that feeling on daily basis, I'd never need that sodding, bloody, pain-in-the-arse website! 


PS Guffaw! 'like dandelion spores carried by the breeze' - uncharacteristically lyrical... almost, erm... Keats. Them there pheromones affect so many things! 

What a jolly good wheeze!

You may have noticed that I haven't posted for a couple of days. You've missed me, right? I know, I know - I didn't phone, I didn't email, I didn't blog - what kind of a correspondent am I? But followers, forgive me! It's because I've been busy lining up dates and going out on them.


Sadly, so far nothing to show for it. However, in the interests of world peace and global  harmony, I have come up with a magnificent scheme. Taraa! 

Recycling!

I went on a date with a guy yesterday - he was nice, but not my type - not that I have any idea what my type is - as you may have already surmised. How can I put it? He was quite presentable, but it was like spending an hour and a half chatting to unobtrusive wallpaper. This doesn't necessarily mean he was unexciting, and I mean that most sincerely; maybe I just didn't bring out the best in him. Is it me? Anyhow, we both recognized it was a no go. 


Afterwards I had a natter with one of my friends who is on the same website as I am and discovered my former potential paramour does, in fact, have at least one attribute my girlfriend is gagging for looking for, something she finds tremendously sexy. (And no, it's nothing rude! Oh, the sewer minds this blog attracts!) Anyway, such serendipity! So I checked it out with her and checked it out with him, and they were both amenable to 'preliminary enquiries'. Marvellous! I could, after all, vouch for his courteousness, his cleanliness, his punctuality, his ability to combine consonants and vowels - goodness, so much going for him! They are now aware of each other's pseudonym, so who knows -this may be me by the end of the year.

(Somebody should have told the poor misguided girl about that concoction.) 


I  cannot say any more on this topic at present, lest it ends up being true love, but I expect she'll divulge all the horrific minutiae if it all goes belly up.  (Bette claps hands in gleeful anticipation - might be a good story ;) Hehe!)


But I don't think this radical new enterprise can work in isolation, so I'm considering starting a collective. We can pass them onto each other - the dating version of a charity shop! It makes so much sense, don't you think?


Update on The Frenchman - absolutely bloody nothing! A flurry of texts (for which, incidentally, dear followers, I went to the MASSIVE TROUBLE of turning English predictive text off - yes, I did) and then... zip.  Silence.  


Oh and by the way, a propos of the above also - I met Stella for coffee today, and we discussed the Beaver Frenchman. "What's his pseudonym?" she asked me. I told her. "Oh yeah, him," she said. "I chatted to him for ages. Total bloody waste of time and effort.'


Tomorrow I'm going to W.H.Smith where I'll buy four notebooks to distribute among my website girlies. They can inscribe all the names of tossers they come across. I was thinking of A6 initially, but maybe A4 might be a better option. 

The French Connection

The format of this particular blog is specifically designed for a non-English friend who says she’d be awfully grateful if I put myself out and wrote in the Queen’s English once in a blue moon. So, Svetlana, my dear priatelka, I've done this for you. Click on the words for idiom explanations, you lazy krava. 

I’ve just come back from a coffee date that I really didn’t want to go on. Earlier in the week, I almost kicked the guy into touch  because I was sick of the ping pong two liners (four each way and I’m guaranteed to be bored witless), but he was persistent in a (relatively) charming fashion, and in the end, against my better judgement, I agreed to a meeting. To be honest, the photo didn’t inspire me much either; he had the look of a beaver about him. 

We'd messaged very little information to one another, and I knew nothing about him other than his name which indicated somebody foreign. So, totting up the potential issues:

1. The one/two liners - possibly shy and I’d have to adopt my person-centred-counselling persona - you know how much I love that!
2. Perhaps English not first language - I might have to do all the talking.
3. Not drop dead gorgeous - I probably won’t fancy him. 

All in all, not a lot going for this encounter really.

With me so far?  Bear all that in mind and I’ll tell you I just about managed to smear a bit of slap on and give myself two squirts of deodorant, so keen was I. Pushed the boat out, like. Not. 

We’d already decided where we were going to have this rendezvous, so when I got a text from him asking me where we'd meet I thought it a bit strange. It’s something I have to learn to understand. There are some women who are uncomfortable going into a place alone, and there are some gentlemanly men who know this and make it easier for the woman by meeting her outside. I used to think it was peculiar, as if the latter part of the 20^th century hadn’t happened, as if men thought there was something wrong with women who went into places alone; now I realise not every female is as independent as I am, so I’ve stopped being snotty about it.

Anyway, the person who turned up was pretty much like his picture, but animation adds so much warmth and lips do occasionally stretch over teeth during plosive consonants (such a blessing!); plus, he was very comfortable in his own skin. We decided to begin at the beginning, having agreed there'd been nothing but mindless drivel in the messages on the website.

Well! Let me tell you I really must listen to Stella more often! I shouldn’t be so picky. Nice guy! Well, you know, since it's mainly just us gals in here, I mean 'nice guy' given that all men have their minor vast limitations… (I might have just lost a few followers... Come back, lads! I was only teasing!) And the best bit of all – he had lived most of his life in France, so we had a good old chinwag en francais. As to another date – if he asked me (which I don’t think he will – there really was none of the elusive spark between us), I’d probably say oui just for opportunity (to) bavarder in the mother tongue for a couple of hours. But a proper romance – no, I don’t think so.  Sorry to disappoint.

If I haven’t completed Stella's (formerly known as Lyn) shag-project by the end of the year, I shall be re-entering the convent, or selling up and buying log cabin in a forest by a lake. I’ll buy a shotgun, install the internet and write blogs on a million and one things to do with a wild mushroom and deer dung. I should have got the hang of it by then. 

So, yeah, anyway - next!

Oops. PS While I've been writing this, I’ve received two texts from him - wants to see me again. Shall I go for the craic, or is that leading him on? And don't forget he's Gallic - might necessitate a second-date snog - brrrrrr! 

Stella’s Adventures in Market Research Land

Usually Stella doesn’t Instant Message, but this time she got caught unawares in a moment of carpet-gnawing boredom and insomnia.

He: (All the usual message blah, blah for the first five minutes.)

She: (All the usual message blah, blah for the first five minutes.)

He: I’ve just reread your profile and I see you’ve been involved in education in the past.

She: Yes, I have.

He: So you’d be interested in research.

She (wondering where this is going): Sometimes. Depends on the research.

He: I’ve got a question to ask you.

She: Ask away.

He: I just wanted to ask you what your feelings are about big girthy cocks, visually I mean.

She (gasps): WHAT?

He: I’m not talking about myself. I mean just generally.

She (pulling herself together):  In my experience, men who rely solely on size are generally not up to much in any other way.

He: M-hmm. You see, I’m in partnership with someone in the States and we want to test a new product here in the UK to see if there’s a market. I’m sure you’d be begging for it after five minutes.

She(unconvinced): Really. 

He: We’ve designed a new vibrator with a girth of ten inches, several width settings if you want a bit of stretch (I swear to God that Stella said he actually said that!), either black or white, which is modelled on America’s most famous porn actor, and I wondered if you’d be interested sampling it.

At this point she spluttered the contents of her mouth –cocoa and Hobnob - over the kitchen table and down her winceyette nightie  - sorry,  must resist that urge to embellish! She wouldn’t be seen in the Chapel of Rest in winceyette.  Anyway…

She: What makes you think I’d be interested? What is it that my photo and profile say about me that led to you to think you should contact me?

Followers  -  I believe I have already mentioned that in most of Stella’s profile pics she looks like Nanook of the North. No feline poses on kitchen tables, no bosom-baring corsetry, no straddling motorbikes adorned by nothing but a gold lamé thong. She’s in thermal underwear, covered in another layer of polar fleece, covered in a giant anorak and wearing hiking boots. In the one photo where she doesn’t look like this...

..., she’s wearing a short sleeved, high necked evening dress.

He: You have a great smile and look like you are up for a laugh.

She (with more than a hint of sarcasm): Gee, thanks. So I look like some cheap tart good-time girl then.

He: No, not at all - it’s just that you get a hunch about people.  We could meet up in London – I’ll reimburse your travelling expenses.  I’ll take you out for a nice meal and then you can come back to my place and I can try it out on you.

At this point she clicked him out.

“Bette,” she said, “who the hell needs a ten inch girth? It’d be like a gynie examination. Even pushing Josh out didn’t stretch me that far.” (Her youngest son, currently six foot six and 18 stone.)  

She went on. “Do you know how big that is? A ten inch girth?”

“No,” I said.

“A litre bottle of Bacardi!”

Hehe! So, she checked it out just in case, eh?

Stella, you dark horse, I never knew you .....

Look What I've Just Done!

Meh! So much fannying around against such a short life span. Stella gave me a good talking to this morning and also regaled me with another one of her spectacular disgusting adventures, more of which later. I'm sure the talking to was totally unnecessary. She seems to think

• I am too picky (and why shouldn't I be?) 
• I'm dragging my heels (OK, perhaps.)
• I should be more pro-active. (Must I? Must I really?) 

Imagine! I do have a date lined up for next week, as it happens, but who knows if it will materialize. In the meantime, I've come up with this and sent it to a number of people who keep messaging me for God knows what reason.  


Title of Message: Culling! 
Dear Insert Appropriate Name,  

I'm being ruthless and cleaning the inbox... So here you are... ;) Please cut and paste as applicable.

Dear Cousin Bette,

1. I think you are a truly fabulous wonderful woman whom I'd be an idiot not to meet, so let's make a date.

2. I'm rather bored by the whole business of this website and only come on here to wind people up when there's nothing better to do in the dead of night.

3. I'd probably quite like you as a person, but nothing is going to come of it for a variety of reasons either which I can't go into here, or won't go into here because I don't want to hurt your feelings. 

4. I'm only messaging you out of politeness, having decided ages ago this has no potential for anything. You are, in fact, a bit of a mare. May I suggest you find alternative stabling?

5. I'm really rather too lazy to actually go to the trouble of meeting anyone because, when push comes to shove, I'm not that bothered and like my life exactly the way it is. No extra hassle required.

Regards,

Another one who bit the dust.

Possibly the man of your dreams.

A potential buddy.

I really don't mind which answer you respond with - this is merely a time-saving application designed for our mutual convenience. 

Thank you for your time and attention,

Cousin Bette

So what do you think? Pro-active enough? Anyone who hasn't replied by the end of tomorrow gets blocked. Good job I have a mild flirtation going on elsewhere. ;) 

The Cruelty of Youth

The pair of them walked in the front door together and started giggling fit to bust the minute they saw me. 

"What?" I said, thinking I'd got something smeared on my face, or they'd spotted a fresh whisker. "What?"

"Nothing" said my eldest son. "You're just funny." Then they started laughing again. For no reason, just like that. Is this any way to greet your dearest Maman when you haven't seen her for three days? Must have been discussing me in the car. 

"Funny? Funny how?" I asked. 

"Just funny." 

Hmm. Just funny. What can that possibly mean? 

"Funny, like Peter Kay?" I said hopefully. 

"No," he said. 

"Funny like Phyllis Diller perhaps?"

"Who's Phyllis Diller?" he said. 

"OK. Say.... funny like Victoria Wood? "

"No," he said. "More funny... like... ... ... ... Grandma."

LIKE GRANDMA?
LIKE GRANDMA?!? 
WELL! 
THE CHEEK!

Funny like Grandma means - long-term dozy baggage who forgets stuff; has a million little irritating foibles and idiosyncrasies; totally freaks you out if you get in the car while she's in the driver's seat; can't remember if she switched the iron off, or even switched it on in the first place, or indeed if she ever got it out at all; and finally, regularly burns the dinner because she's found something better to do than stand over a hot stove, something pressing like hoovering the lawn because it's got three leaves on it. Added to this, each time I see her I have to search the joint for precision implements - tweezers to pluck her beard and scalpel to pare her corns. Plus, she wears giant knickers, all a fetching shade of washed-out grey. Bras to match. 

Followers! What on earth do I have in common avec cette vieille femme who is my mother? Rien!  

But soft, what light through yonder light bulb breaks? 

Quel branleur!

You might need some help - click here - voila!

I went on the website and received a message from a guy somewhat younger than me – OK, ten years younger than me. There was the usual rubbish about ‘Age is just a number’ from his side, and the usual response from me. Nevertheless, he was amusing and witty, very nice really, a gentleman, so I accepted his IM when it pinged up in front of me. That went well too -- the sort of conversation you might have with a new colleague. We got beyond the idea of a ‘date’ as such, but he was new to the area and would just like to have the odd coffee, meal, drink with someone who is good fun. (Alright, Stella, stop laughing. I am good fun sometimes.)

I gave him my mobile number so we could arrange this petit rendez-vous. On Saturday I was trotting round Marks and Spencer when I got a text message from him.  A bit of harmless chitchat ensued with a query as to how far I was from the lingerie section… As it happens, I was right slap bang right in the middle of it because I need something to keep the blubber at bay, something – ahem - large. (You've seen the general state of affairs.)  Of course, he was not to know the prevailing abdominal catastrophe, and I wasn’t going to tell him, so I played along with some of the banter. A bit of it. Some. Not a lot. After a few minutes I said I had to go because I was at the checkout, bye.

On Sunday morning, he texted me asking if I’d managed to get my shopping done, if I’d had a pleasant evening etc. I replied politely, normal fashion.

Then he said that since he was all alone, he had to find some way of keeping himself amused for the rest of the day.

Then he said he'd just go ahead solo.

Then he said he had pulled up my photo from the website.

Then he said he had enlarged the photo from the website.

Anyway, why didn’t the nuns warn me? What didn’t Stella warn me? I actually thought he was joking – I really, really did.  What's more I thought the very notion was hilariously absurd, so I quipped back ‘Haha! Very funny. My kids would be so proud – must send a newsletter round the school… ;)’

Then he phoned me, and I answered - don't ask me why. I still have no idea.  

We seemed back to normal. Following from some of the conversation we’d had on the website, he asked what I had planned for the day, whether I was going to be doing any gardening, or whether I was going out with my mates? I said I was going to do some gardening. He reiterated that he still had my picture in front of him, and I laughed and said perhaps my arch nemesis, Sharon Stone (spit!), might be a better option.

He made a weird noise. “Are you OK? I said.

More of the peculiar noise. He sounded as if he was having a heart attack: moaning, groaning, deep breathing.  “Yes, thanks,” he murmured. “I’m having a great time.”

What?

Next!

I mean -- for goodness sake -- on Sunday of all days?! You never know, somebody might have been watching.

Plucked Off

OK. So, it’s a week later and I’m paying the price.

Do you remember when Stella booked me in for the Brazilian? We argued all the way to the salon, but I still had it done. What really cheesed me off was the embryo that performed the procedure. I don’t know why I don’t like children fiddling with my pubes, but I just don’t. Well, OK, I might be exaggerating (Who? Me?); she was probably 20-ish. I could feel her pity for an old woman who is supposed to be fifty-is-the-new thirty; it might be, but not where grey is concerned, as Bella thoughtfully pointed out here.

After the beautician snipped off the Rasta locks with a pair of scissors (he wouldn't have approved!), she started the precision surgery. Only it wasn't so precise - one movement too many and the result was wonky. She therefore had to tidy up the other side. What with one thing and another, the Brazilian turned into a Hollywood. 

Yyyyyyyeeeeeeeeoooooowwwww! 

Stella often has them she’s told me. But, I just don’t get it. At first, every time I went to the loo, I looked down there to try and understand the aesthetics of it, but, no, no, no, it just doesn’t work for me. As a grown woman, that is. Fine for a six year old. And frankly, dare I say it -- well, I might as well because I can't be the only person on the planet to whom this has occurred -- isn't there something mildly dodgy about a man who prefers this sort of thing on his woman?  

Over the week, however, the plucked floofie took on a new dimension. No longer the prepubescent mons pubis, more plucked chicken.

And don't tell me you can't see the similarity! I know you can. Erm? You can, can't you? Or, is it just me? Anyway, never, ever again! 


Oh, and by the way, to those of you who either do this regularly or are considering having it done, look what look what I found. I like this Sarah Hughes woman!  

Baffled By My Own Sex

Do you remember NVQ? The guy I really wanted to talk to unencumbered by all the other people who were sending me messages? Well, we did communicate further, or that is to say, he did. I’d given him an opportunity -- by sending him my hotmail address -- to continue the semi-meaningful exchange we’d begun on the dating website.

Why did I bother? What a tosser! The next three messages from him remained on the website, and guess what he sent me? Links to other female members to show me what "horrors" he had found roughly in my age group.

Two things strike me about this.

1. Exactly what pleasure did this bring him? 
2. Why do the women feel the need to exhibit themselves in such an overtly sexual manner?    

One lady, whose boobs must be at least a size 48 ZZ, displays her wares almost to the full, braless, just a bit of fabric covering her nipples, which means that technically she can’t be removed off the site for nudity. The next wears a low cut leopard skin dress and, in a feline stretch forwards on what looks like her kitchen table, is showing all her bounty and licking her lips. Another straddles a motor bike wearing nothing but a teeshirt and thong and drinking from a beer bottle.  

Judging by the main sections of their profiles, which are well written and witty, these are professional, intelligent women. In fact, I kind of like the sound of them! They could be my new best friends! And if they want to market themselves in this way, who the hell am I to judge?

However, HOWEVER, what the hell possessed them? Their concluding paragraphs, which demonstrate a -- to me -- incomprehensible level of outrage, invariably rant at all the men who pass lewd, suggestive and /or disgusting remarks. They finish their profile by saying time-wasters and players need not apply.

Eh? What? Ladies, what did you expect?

How on earth can you imagine that such photos won’t invite unfavourable comments? Have you lost all your faculties? A decent guy is unlikely to get in touch; the what-seemed-a nice guy (NVQ) will forward your pics to other women like me: the guy who is after one thing and one thing only or who just wants to take the piss might contact you with a “Great tits!” or “I’d like to get between those two puppies!”

I just don’t get it. Can any readers enlighten me, please? 

Orgasmic!

My friends kept nagging me to buy a new gadget to awaken my feminine juices to their full capacity. So I have done. It's keeping me very, very busy. Take a look at this. 

Cool, eh?

Own up! Who thought I'd bought an altogether different gadget?  

Fooled ya! Oh and by the way...

My juice cup doth truly runneth over. 

I Should Have Said No

The doorbell rang: I was still in my PJs. To answer or not to answer – that was the question. I peeked out from behind the dining room window curtain.  Stella. This was quarter to nine on a Saturday morning for God’s sake, and I was neither mentally nor physically prepared for such an untimely visitation.


"I can see you," she said, "Open the door."

She was in her running gear and strode straight past me into the kitchen; I closed the door and schlepped after her. She deposited the usual two hot cross buns in the toaster and switched the kettle on.

"I’ve been thinking. What you have to do," she said, “is change your attitude.” I saw her wince as she spotted me wiping away the Exxon Valdez-like oil slick that was formerly my mascara sliming down my face. Weeell, I don’t care - it’s my weekend, my face, I can do what I want in my own house. Neh, neh, neh, so there. Who invited her anyway?

 “What attitude is that then, Stella?” You’d have thought that by now, what with the coiffure, threading and lasering, she’d be satisfied, but no.

“You’re not going on enough dates, and I know the reason for that. If you were in a Constant State of Readiness (What is this? The D Day landings?) you’d feel better about yourself and be open to more flirtation and suggestion. You’d feel clean, fresh, fragrant, most importantly prepared." I wondered if she'd overdosed on this; she was displaying something of the rabid evangelist in her missionary proselytizing ; or horror of horrors,Tony Robbins.

I must reiterate - Is there anything more annoying than someone who imagines she has some deep insight into the depths of your psyche purely on the basis of having attended a course on shoving candles in people's ears? Perhaps she thinks with a little wax removal, she can slide through the tympanic membrane into the eustachian tube and peer into all my defence mechanisms.  

“So I’ve booked you in for a Brazilian. “ she said.

WHAT? I hadn't seen that coming. “Stella,” I said, “I don’t need a Brazilian. I am perfectly happy with all current depilatory arrangements in my nether regions, thanks ever so much."

“Yes, you do need one.  It’s very unattractive to have stragglers."

‘STRAGGLERS?! I BEG YOUR PARDON! I’ll have you know I’m very tidy when it comes to down there.” Well, I am - but in a sort of 1960s hippy meets post-modernist hommage-to-Haile Selassie-and-his-Rastafarian-acolytes kind of way. 

What can I tell you – sometimes I’m bored on those cold dark winter evenings, and it beats macramé by a long chalk.

"Bette" she said. "Come on – you’ve made so many positive steps in the right direction. It’s a challenge." She makes it sound like it’s one of those A Hundred Things To Do Before You Die lists. How anybody can compare witnessing the majesty of the Grand Canyon to having your pubes ripped out is a mystery to me. Oh merde – now I’m going to have this on my brain all day.

“Anyway, come on. Stop bibbling on," she said, “and get dressed. First the Brazilian, then the Ploughman’s.”

Eh? What’s one of those? I’ve never heard of one of those. Must google. Is it like those kids who have furrows shaved into their heads? Ooer, can you really do that on your floofie too? Well, I never.

She looked at me like this. 

‘The Ploughman’s, you knobhead. The Ploughman’s you promised me for letting you use my story.

Oh I seeeeee!

Such language though! From that I instantly deduced she’d been spending quality time with her children. Well, as you can imagine, I thought her name-calling quite unnecessary. After all, the juxtaposition of two adjectival nouns (or is that noun adjunct thingies?) in afore-described manner would allude to a similar taxonomic origin, donchya think? Or quelque chose comme ca. Is there an English teacher dans la maison?

Anyway, the upshot of all this, my dear followers, is that (foolishly) I succumbed. 

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman with an Airline Ticket

Look what I got in the mail in response to this, this, this, and this.

Dearest Cuz B, 

I fear that woman Stella is getting far too much attention on your blog. I think I too should have my day in the spotlight; after all, it's been a while. Who is this Stella to you? I've known you for nearly 50 years, and what have you done for me so far? Absolutely nothing. Where were you when I needed a second pair of hands to provide terminal pillow comfort for my mother? An ocean may divide us, but may I remind you that you would have spent the first five years of your life stark naked had you not had the good fortune of being on the receiving end of all my hand me downs. I bet Stella never gives you any clothes. (Actually, Dani - she does. I am almost fully clothed by the House of Stella, but anyway...)  

So, Cuz, (I do wish she wouldn't use these vulgar Canadian abbreviations) here's my story, and unless I see it print, you will not be getting free board and lodging next year. You have been warned. 

Mike and I started chatting on Compuserve – innocent at first, but over the weeks we both came to the realization that we enjoyed each others’ company and minds (isn’t that always the way it starts!) Like you, I looked forward to the evening and weekend rendezvous online, and in between realtime messaging, we emailed each other. As we ventured 
into our third month of online acquaintance (and up until that point it basically was that; like-minded folks enjoying each other’s company), Mike asked if he could phone and we could talk in realtime.

That became a weekly habit – he usually called me as I just couldn’t afford long-distance phone calls. We exchanged photos… he was nice-looking enough, single, a year or so older than me, never been married. He had moved back home to look after his aging mother (I know, I can hear you saying “whoa” – in 
hindsight, yes that should have rung warning bells) and lived just outside of London in a small town which sounded just like one of those 
little villages where Miss Marples would have prowled about, knitting and solving murders. 

After six months, Mike suggested we meet. We were at the 
‘declaring our love for each other’ stage; really, the mind does play 
bugger when you don’t have to see a person on a daily basis. He offered to pay for my ticket… I was flabbergasted! After all, we’d been talking weekly for 
several months now… he was eager to meet me, I was definitely feeling 
this was a go. He had a good job (I’d checked him out) and all was 
above board – he was who he said he was, he worked where he said he worked, he earned a good salary; I had photos of his home, his village, his friends, him. I booked the flight for a month from the day I said yes – he paid for 
it. 

I started dieting and did all the usual things a woman does, i.e., body lotions daily, getting sleep, highlights in my hair, trying out new makeup, just like you’ve 
mentioned.

We continued our daily online conversations – the excitement of meeting, planning, dreaming, cooing, anticipating. We were both whipping 
ourselves into a mini frenzy over the upcoming encounter!) 

I was flying out on a Tuesday morning…. so the week prior, our conversations became quite heated – the heavy breathing was almost intolerable. But from Thursday onwards, I didn't hear from him. He missed the Friday chat too, until I finally tried calling him on Saturday. I thought something terrible had happened to him. No answer. I thought of calling his Mum… but figured she would have 
called me if he’d been in an accident (she knew, after all, that a 
guest from Canada was visiting the following week).

Saturday nothing. Sunday nothing.

At this point I was a mess. I couldn’t think straight, I was puffed up 
like John Merrick… red faced, blotchy, eyes almost swollen shut from 
crying. I tried calling his mother, no answer, his best mate, no answer. I had to go into work that Monday morning as I had to transfer my work to another person who was subbing for me while I was on vacation. I 
arrived at work – a sombre, pathetic-looking ghost of my usual jolly self, and checked my email).

“Dear Dani, I met someone at the pub on Thursday – really like her and we ended up together. I’m in love. Sorry. If you still want to come over, fine… but you can’t stay here. Mum doesn’t think it’s 
appropriate for a single woman to be staying in the house. M”

He’d sent that email to my work address! Not only did he fuck me over by shagging the first skank he met at the pub… he didn’t even have the 
decency to call me or send that heart-felt email to my home address. 

I phoned him from work. The conversation was short… to the point. 
“Errr… uhm… oh, I didn’t notice I’d sent it to your work. Ooops, no 
wonder you kept sending me those emails. Paula is moving in – so, I 
won’t be able to spend much time with you when you come and I can’t 
pick you up from the airport either, Paula thinks…”

I hung up on him.

About a week later I got an email (at my home address this time)  asking if I could return the money he’d spend on my ticket. I sent him a terse reply (to his office address) saying I’d cashed in the ticket and was hiring a lawyer.

I never heard from him again. And he never came back onto Compuserve  either. I actually changed the destination and flew out to Miami, Florida… to  visit with a chap who I knew from online – and before you say anything, Cliff is gay, a dear friend (still is) – and he was the first person I called after this fiasco. He was the one who said, “Come to Miami, I’ll show you a great time!” I did! And he did! 

I saw the Florida Keys, went down to Key West…. drank margaritas like there was no tomorrow, met his friends (all of them wonderful and precious)…  did the Miami club circuit. I was the belle of the ball down there…  surrounded by 5 fabulous gay men  for a whole week who wined and dined  me. And the best part? They all chipped in and paid for a 5-star hotel room for the night for me, complete with a hunky cabana boy (paid escort for the night) who taught me a few new moves! So… there you have it! A pathetic dating story but with a happy ending! D

You've got to hand it to her, haven't you? She's got class. 

From now on I accept all IM requests from people living a thousand miles away; I've never had a cabana boy. 

The Unfathomable Mystery of the Disappearing Prophylactic

Here it is - the one you've been waiting for. It's not strictly an internet dating story, well it is, but it isn't - Stella met this guy on the internet, so by my reckoning it counts. Oh and by the way, she'd like me to make clear that this is someone she's been seeing for some considerable time, and the brief glimpse into the website last week was just to show me someone who'd sent her a weird message. Most pleased we got that straight.

On Friday afternoon, while I was gently snoozing on the sofa with the Royal Wedding on for background noise, she phoned me from the doctor's.

'Oh my God! I think I could be pregnant!'
'What? WHAT?'
'I'm at the surgery getting the morning after pill!'

It transpires that she and Monsieur Merveilleux, after a night of mattress mambo, fell asleep in post-coital bliss, having not bothered to dispose of the condom and mucky contents thereof. In the morning when they woke up, they tried to find it. Nowhere! The duvet and pillows were all examined and subsequently stripped; they got on their hands and knees and went through every inch of carpet, under all the furniture, into the wardrobe; they scrutinised the walls, ceiling and window panes to see if it had stuck to one of them (I know what you're thinking - so, was I! What is she like?!? What exactly were they doing to produce such a wide range of possibilities? Actually, I don't want to know.)

Finally, they gave up the search. The condom had vanished!

Well, clearly there was only one place it could be, and as soon as he left, croissants and cafe having been served, she probed within. Nope! Nothing!

Five hours after the first phone call, she contacted me again.

'I'm at the hospital. Something's wrong.'
'What's the matter?'
'I'm really not comfortable and there's a bit of a rubbery pong,' she said.

It's difficult to know what level of sympathy to display when faced with such a comment, so - you know - I burst out laughing.

'Not amused, Bette. I'm at the gum clinic, ' she said. Eh? What? Why would anybody go to the gum clinic to have a condom removed? Where does gingivitis come into this?

'Not the gum clinic, you moron,' she said. 'The GUM clinic - Gyno-Urinary Medicine. Bloody hell, Bette. Where've you been for the past 40 years?' Clearly not in the same places as you have, Stella!  More's the pity...

Stella explained she had already thoroughly inspected within, and that her investigation had proved fruitless. An extremely competent and diplomatic nurse asked whether Stella and partner had (perhaps) been drunk the night before, and had (perhaps) failed (perhaps) to make appropriate use of a johny in their frenzied rush for rumpy pumpy.

'Madam!' said Stella, prickly with justifiable indignation. 'Are you calling me a tramp and a lush?'  Sorry - no, she didn't - it's the story teller in me... I can just imagine her saying that though!

Anyway, the nurse made her drop her kecks and spread 'em. A three minute rummage later, during which Stella said she thought the nurse's digital (in the original sense of the word) attempts to chart a course to her liver nearly made her faint, the nurse exclaimed 'Bingo! Got ya! It's hooked right right behind your cervix. Nobody could have found that.'

Once the offending item was removed, the nurse then asked Stella whether she'd also like to be tested for STDs while she was there. Such serendipity! A BOGOF opportunity! Those of you who know Stella know that she is Freebie Queen; two minutes at the Clarin's counter and she's managed to bamboozle the assistant into giving her a carrier bag full of samples.  Stella unsurprisingly accepted.

My dear friends, family and followers, I am pleased to report that she is clean as Kim and Aggie's u-bend.

Oh, finally, a little aside - Stella, you really are a brilliant mate for letting me tell this story. Ta, you old trollop. I'll stretch to a Ploughman's.   xx :)