When You're Deaf, Keep It Buttoned

I knew it. I knew it! I shouldn’t have accepted the second date with Mike.

For fff’s sake. It’s awful, even nightmarish, I tell you. But, you know, I just can’t stop laughing about it – really I can't - eternal gratitude to Le bon Dieu and Monsieur Ionesco for a sense of the absurd. My latest episode may very well haunt me until my dying day - on a par with one of the other colossal faux pas in the Life and Times of a Utter Twerp. Lisez et pleurez. 

The previous one went a little like this. I was straight out of l’universite and attending an all day interview for the job of my dreams. It was one of those graduate milk-round situations where they invited the 25 short-listed candidates for the third stage. The idea was that each person would be grilled by members of various departments – a bit like a conveyor belt. I was the fifth from the end to go through the process. By the time I’d arrived back at the conference room, twenty of the others were already sitting at a table eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. I came in rather smug chuffed with how things had gone, sat down ready to stuff ma bouche, and caught the tail end of the conversation.

Oh the folly and the (moronic) confidence of youth! It must have been those giant shoulder pads that did it; Alexis Carrington has a lot to answer for. Was there anything I didn’t know about in those days? No. Was there anything I wasn’t prepared to share my opinion about? No. I’m clenching my buttocks at the recollection. Is my face bright purple? Oy vay iz mir. Mega vay. 

Come on, CB, tell ‘em. Be authentic. Share and reveal your mind-boggling pratitude.

For some inexplicable reason, the crowd seemed to be having a go at the works of Picasso. I thought they were all Philistines and launched in to defend him, saying the man was an unparalleled genius  - oh family, friends and followers, I can barely go on –  my throat’s constricting; that he was perhaps misunderstood, that… oh well, never mind. I’m feeling a tad nauseous again. I went on. And on. In all this time, I only used pronouns i.e. he, him, his. What I hadn’t noticed was that everyone, candidates and interviewers alike, were gawping at me as if I’d been released from Bedlam way before the medication had kicked in. Blithely I spewed forth, convinced they’d all be staggered by my knowledge and reasoning. And of course, I’d be the one to get the job.  Of course!

Well, I’ll tell you that I didn’t get the job. And I’ll tell you pourquoi, but before I do so, this is the lesson that I learnt. KEEP YOUR TRAP SHUT WHEN YOU HAVEN’T GOT THE VAGUEST IDEA OF WHAT’S GOING ON! AND LISTEN! Oh - and always make sure you’ve made good use of the Q tips before you leave the house. (Actually, let’s face it – I never did learn any of those lessons. Not in their entirety, like.)  

It was only beaucoup plus tard, when my brain caught up with my gallivanting gob, that it finally dawned on me they hadn’t been discussing Picasso at all. No, it was someone completely different. I had, in fact, spent ten minutes championing and extolling the virtues of Jean-Bedel Bokassa, head of the Central African Republic from about 1966 to 1979, a dictator who massacred men, women and children. Yes, a mass murderer and apparently, ooh -  doncha just lerve him -  my hero.

Ground. Take my feet first and suck the rest in quick.

You can read about my sweetheart here.

Anyway, when Mike asked whether I wanted that second date for dinner a deux, I said that I’d love to... anytime next week. “Next week?” he said, as if I’d just cancelled the next ten year's worth of Grand Prix. “Can’t you make it any sooner?” Well I could, in theory, but I didn’t want to. Do you remember the teensie weensie microscopic white lie I told here? Well, it was another of those situations.

This time, however, I thought I’d come clean. After all, look where the last one got me, bloody nowhere. I told him I’d rather not because I was having a temporary crown fitted and wouldn't be at my usual spectacularly pulchritudinous best. The man’s a grown-up (have I already mentioned that?); he said “Not to worry. You can order semolina and drink it through a straw. Come anyway. Please.”

I noticed his profile didn’t use the oft quoted knicker-wettingly hilarious line ‘I have all my own teeth’, so I guess he understood. 

Anyway, put like that, dear followers, how could I refuse?  

Meanwhile Back at the Ranch...

I've made a date with one of the other three. We spoke on the phone for about an hour. He's really entertaining and a good conversationalist. And let me tell you why I shall be going on a date with him.  


Never in a million years would I ever entertain a relationship with him: he is just not my type. Hence, I am not being remotely 'unfaithful'. I'm so glad. So very, very glad. I shan't be visiting the convent for a quick confession after all.  


But wait, er, um, oh no! There's something wrong with this too! Is it morally right to go on a date anyway, thereby giving someone else a moment of hope and also wasting their time, even if you know absolutely nothing is going to come of it? 


Mon Dieu, c'est vraiment trop difficile! 

Au secours! TK Maxx Syndrome Revisited

Oh, bugger! Oh, sod it! It's a calamity, I tell you.


Now what the hell am I going to do?


You know when I told you about my lovely evening gown... I wasn't exactly telling you the whole truth; I was being a bit of an, ahem, unreliable narrator... Qui? Moi? Yes, me. You may have noticed that I sometimes embellish just a weansie bit; well, this time I pared. 


It would appear that decent, pleasant men are like buses - you stand there for ages getting wet, cold, windblown, with your mascara dribbling down your face as you stare hopelessly into the distance, and then, lo and behold, several all at the same time.


Or, indeed, men are not only like buses - also very much like TK Maxx garments. The evening dress was part of a collection. For the first time ever in my entire life, what I dropped in the trolley actually fitted and looked good. Some of it was a tad too young for me, but it appears I can get away with it, still, even at my advanced age in my decrepitude. Tight white jeans? Sure! Why not? From the back they look fantastic. Summer floral frock - a bit too girlie for me - but I can manage it if I fake-tan my legs. 


So. What am I now expected to do with this?


The nice date I mentioned last week turned out to be a very nice date. Let's call him Mike. Lovely. I laid my cards on the table - told him about the Warts, the Rasta pubes, the Chicken pubes, the Whiskers, the Lower Abdominal Disaster, the Saggy Boobs (which perhaps he had clocked anyway - the man's not picky. Thank you, God!), and how often the fire alarm goes off in my house because I AM NOT INTERESTED IN COOKING (have I perhaps mentioned that before? Let me reiterate - I DO NOT WANT TO BE A HOSTESS!)


Erm, what else -  oh yes, the fact that I'm like a self-inflating dinghy - one minute everything around me looks neat and tidy, the next minute me and all my rubbish appear to have filled the room to the cornices. If you're wondering why I feel the need to divulge this minor peccadillo of mine, it's because as far as ex forces people are concerned, their reaction to this news is an extremely accurate measure of the calibre of their interest and devotion. When they've spent 20 odd years cramming their life into a kitbag, the thought of a 5'6'' exploding puffball is enough to give most of them a nervous breakdown and a debilitating outbreak of hives.


I gave him a gazillion chances to wiggle out of that second date, but no - he was having none of it. He's already pulled his profile. Gulp! He thinks I am the bee's knees and the cat's pyjamas. Which, of course, I am. But only to those people who have loved me since childhood and have learned to live with my 'little disgusting endearing ways'. I wish us both luck, but principally him. But you know, looking on the bright side, if he's coped with the horrors of war and chucking himself out of aeroplanes, he'll probably cope with me. Maybe. Perhaps. For a second date at least.


But ha! Meanwhile back at the ranch...What did I do last week thinking that probably (as usual) nothing would come of this? Yes, I booked in a few more, just in case. Because I'm not getting any younger and Stella was right about the bloody moustache - it grows back with a vengeance and spreads. Fortunately, Mike did say that he'd had his eyes lasered 15 years ago, and they now needed some correction. So, phew - a reprieve - safe there for a while, visually if not physically! Hmm... I'll have to remember what 'coy' looks like if, ahem, the need arises before the next threading.


Anyway, now I've got several moral dilemmas. I've always hated choice; it makes me giddy. There are three other gentlemen in my trolley. (Mike wasn't among them - he'd already been hanging in my wardrobe for over two weeks before I met him.) And so far, they are all extremely gorgealicious, in very different ways, and dates were lined up, and actually I'd really like to meet them all, if only because they sound like fab, groovy people. But Mike has pulled his profile - he's a strictly one at a time kind of person. And that is what I am too, really, fundamentally, deep down, at the core, beneath the several layers of wanting to meet the other people anyway...


And morally, it seems to me, I am obliged to go and meet them all - don't you think? To quote Mammy from Gone with the Wind  "It ain't fittin'. It just ain't fittin'" to make and agreement and renege on it.


And here is the bizarre thing that I am almost absolutely positively certain that I'm not sure that I'm wrong about: Mike is seriously solid, safe and capable, one day, of cherishing a misanthropic flake like me.


Oh, sod it. Bugger! Sod it! Poo poo!


PS Something is going horrendously askew here. I thought the purpose of writing this blog was to chronicle the journey of my getting a shag to improve my complexion. What's with all this 'cherishing' nonsense? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! Somebody help me. I need advice or a slap or something. 


PPS And breathe... It's only a second date, you silly bint. Mike'll get instantly disillusioned and the other three won't turn up. Not long till I'm back in the comfort zone then. ;)

Whhooaahh! Hold your fondue set!

So, this person had been pursuing me for some time – I knew it was hopeless though - nothing in his profile had given me any cause to salivate - and I hadn’t given him any encouragement whatsoever. He was five years older, so within my age range, and sounded as if he wasn’t strapped for cash, possibly even a little plummy. Polite refusals hadn't worked - he’d got a bee in his bonnet (me) and wasn't going to give in. Finally, essentially to convince him, I agreed to a phone call.

Him: You sound quite intelligent from your profile.

Me: Thank you.

Him: Do you like cooking?

Me: No, my profile quite clearly states I do not like cooking. I dreamt up healthy, nourishing meals -- always from scratch -- for 25 years on a daily basis, and it no longer gives me any thrills. On the other hand, I enjoy eating. And I enjoy feeding.

Him: What does that mean?

Me: It means I enjoy people coming to my house to eat. I look in the cupboards and fridge, see what’s available, throw things together, put whatever emerges down in front of them and tell them to tuck in. I don’t like following recipes.

Him: Hmm. Well, maybe that won’t be a problem because I can cook.  But, you do cook, don’t you?

Me: Yes, I do. But I would always rather be the sous chef these days. 

Him: And you seem to have many interests, so presumably you can hold your own in most situations.

Me: On the whole, I don’t have many problems.

Him: Hmm. Yes, I suspect you are more intelligent than me.

Me: I really don’t know and can’t say.

Him: Yes, I think you are. Pauses as if in thought. I think you’d probably make a very good hostess. You’d be able to maintain conversations. And talk to people on any topic, I should think.

Eh? Poor deluded man – how the hell did he work that out? The older I get, I’ve discovered, the less I know about anything whatsoever. Huge wads of stuff completely passed me by while I was being a mother of young children; I expect there was the odd war or something. Did anything happen in the early 90s that didn't involve poo or Lego? Must google! On the plus side, I can quote Cat in the Hat verbatim - not sure that would be of any use to anyone these days, particularly in a dinner party setting.  

But – hey there! Wait a minute!

Whhhhhooooooaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

A very good hostess?

That nearly passed me by. A very good hostess?

So, the person he is looking for must be a very good hostess. For his dinner parties. For his friends, colleagues, acquaintances – whoever. Don your pinny and make sure everybody’s glass is full.

FFFs! This is not in my master plan! Do I want that to be on my Bucket List? And on my death bed, seconds away from the final croak, surrounded by my super family, friends and followers, do I want to look back and leave them with nothing but this to ponder for the rest of their lives, ‘Oh yes, my dears, je ne regrette rien. I was, after all, a very good hostess.’

I think not!

Is it an age thing I wonder? I later asked a very lovely friend who's forty and also single what his requirements were as far as a relationship was now concerned. It took him precisely two seconds to reply. "Fun," he said. From being a pleasant looking kind of guy he miraculously transformed himself into the most gorgeous male I'd ever laid eyes on.

Which makes me wonder... I am looking at the wrong age group altogether?

Is this really me? And where’s the flippin' gravy?!?

Next!

*wanders off mumbling and grumbling ‘A hostess... Meh! Ridiculous… Granny Clampett, maybe… Jessica Rabbit, maybe…* 

Shopping at TK Maxx

One of the drawbacks of internet dating websites is that it’s a bit like schlepping round TK Maxx; you have to have an eagle eye, plenty of time and oodles, bundles, bucketsful of stamina and massive renewable dollops of crazy optimism.  

In TK Maxx you're only allowed six items in the changing room. Unfortunately, because the garments are sourced from all over the world, the sizes are also all over the place. What can be a 12 in Marks and Spencer can just as easily be a size 20 or an 8 in TK Maxx. The shop also stocks some pretty outrageous styles (read – prototypes that never got as far as the production line because they were fundamentally flawed in the design), and you never know what may or may not work. Hence, you simply have to try on all those sodding bits of horrendous schmatta to find the jewel in the crown... Erm, OK, that doesn't quite work, but it is the middle of night, guys! Give me a break! 

So you take a trolley and meander through the aisles, dropping all manner of highly unlikely or dodgy stuff into it in the (deluded) hope that one measly thing might look tolerably OK, might fit and not have split hems or a broken zip, could co-ordinate with something you've already got; or that the ridiculous frill will, in fact, provide the unexpected WOW factor. (Does this sound familiar, dear fellow internet daters? Bear with me.)

On this occasion, I get to the fitting room, take out the permitted number of garments and begin the laborious (not to mention often depressing) process of choosing. In thirty minutes that seem like three hours, of the six items I’ve hoiked on and off, one is very, very fabulous. Almost (mildly) uberfabulous - mustn't get excited... Maybe not gorgeous in itself, but seems comfortable, makes me feel great, sends a frisson about toutes les possibilites, gives me a spring in my step and a little wiggle in my ample hips. Ooh, I’m younger already! Only problem - when will I ever wear it? There may be an event coming up shortly, but maybe not. It’s not of my usual world, considering my loathing of the stuff that goes with it i.e. high heeled shoes and standing up straight, but I’ve bought it anyway… What do you think? 

So it’s going to hang in the wardrobe where I’ll look at it from time to time. Of course, I’d like to wear it as soon as I possibly can, but for the moment I’ll have to content myself with all the other tired old rubbish in my drawers.  

Tu parles francais?

On verra.

;)

And what did Stella say? I'll tell you what she said. She said that I need look no further than directly above my head. Mon dieu! Qu'est-ce que c'est? C'est rose, c'est grand, c'est quelque chose qui grogne. Meh! She can be such a killjoy! I bet you didn't know she can speak French too, did you?  


A little something for Jody.

Scum And Other Animals

I really don’t want to tell you this story because I’d prefer to keep this blog light and frothy, tell you stories about my warts, Rasta pubes or musings on the benefits of burkhas. Fun and drivel. Sadly, however, sometimes it just can’t be. Those of you who have never had to endure some of the horrors of meeting people via the internet, probably can’t imagine that this stuff happens to ‘normal’ people, probably can’t imagine how you’d react.  

Stella turned up yesterday, hot-cross-bun-less and not wearing make-up. Something was clearly up. She dropped herself onto the conservatory sofa and grunted. Better make a cup of tea, I thought. I tiptoed about the kitchen waiting for her to speak. Nothing. I made the cup of tea and placed it in front of her. Nothing. Eventually, since the softly, softly approach was getting me nowhere, I ventured "What’s up?"

"Men," she said. "Bloody men."

Oh that! Why didn’t you say so in the first place? 

"What about them?"

"You’ll never believe what happened to me yesterday."

I thought "I expect I will". Best just to let her get it out of her system. 

"I mean – what is it about me?" she said. "What the hell am I doing wrong? I’m straight-forward, fun, relatively intelligent, honest, hard-working. I scrub up well, know how to behave in all walks of life. And yet..."

"And yet what?" I said. 

"Last night, I let somebody IM me again," she said. "Actually, I just wanted a chat, and I didn’t want to call you coz you said you were going to have an early night. I was wide awake, I’d been working on the computer and I was feeling sort of lonely."

Ah, I could see where this was going.

She went on. "I’m not saying I was entirely blameless; it does serve me right… a bit. But only because I should have learned my lesson from last time. But, you know, you keep thinking, hoping against hope that people are going to be OK. Oh anyway, the long and the short of it, Bette, is that the guy asked me if I wanted to see him in the pop up, I said no, but he still put his web cam on and there’s he was in front of me - wanking." 

There was a sadness and disappointment about her; probably as a result of that last fiasco with the Market Research Guy. It wasn’t that she was shocked or outraged by what he did. Who cares? People do it. But here was a Stella I hadn’t seen before; her optimism had somehow been raped. 

And I just wanted to smack the douchebag, arsehole, fuckwit. Sorry about the language - I’m feeling extraordinarily angry on her behalf. Because for all that I sometimes portray her as pushy and gobby and out-there in this blog, she’s got a heart of gold, is one of the most considerate people I know, is a super mum whose kids (despite my silly digs at them) are a real credit to her, and has so much life, stamina and adventure in her that any man should think himself bloody grateful to have her. 

"Sod it," she said after a couple of minutes of staring out into my garden. "Where's your Ipod? Stick it on." She scrolled down, picked up my orange highlighter, put it to her lips and began to sing to this. Irrepressible - thank God!  

I can’t say that I would be quite so bothered if this scenario had happened to me, well, not after my recent KUTA and the guy on the mobile. I’m learning too. I think I'm almost at the point of being able to treat it like any another David Attenborough documentary - a brief glimpse at an animal in its own habitat. 

Meanwhile, I do believe I have a rather lovely date coming up shortly; I don't quite know why but I feel really good about it. (Kiss of death?) Also, Stella has recycled one of her ex dates onto the same friend I recycled my ex date on. The system is working well. ;) 

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?