The male of the species

There have been a few run-ins with men over the past few days. Perhaps I'd better run them in chronological order...

I was on my way to training on Thursday morning when the first one happened. I know. It's strange. Me, heading to training. Not only that, me being out of the house before 7:30 in order to exercise. But it's true. I've been going ever since the second major incident of the back, and so far it seems to be helping. Except when it's making it worse, but that's a whole other story.

I wandered past a couple of workmen by their truck on the way there. They were the forerunners of a whole crew of workmen who would spend at least 20 minutes trying to work out the logistics of closing off part of a street in a one-way system of roads, that included a train station car park with one entrance before the closure and one after. It was apparently baffling, and had them standing in the middle of the road and scratching their heads as cars were forced to reverse into driveways to get back on track. When the rubbish truck arrived to empty the bins of the houses along the street, things got more confusing still.

But the intelligence or otherwise of these, ahem, fine physical specimens is not why I'm mentioning them. No doubt there were road crews across the city who were facing similar mentally taxing challenges. No, I'm mentioning them because of what was happening as I was walking past the first two of them to arrive. The older of the two was wandering, looking a little aimless, and fishing through his pockets for a cigarette. So far, so normal. The younger, however, was standing close to the side of the truck with his head down. As I got closer, I realised. He wasn't just standing there. He was peeing. On the side of the road. On his work truck. At 7:30 on a Thursday, right next door to a busy suburban train station. He didn't even have the grace to look shamefaced as I walked by him, even though I was smirking fit to burst.

My other run-in happened on Saturday night. I got a last minute request to play wing-man for a friend who, after much backwards and forwards, had lined up an outing with a dating prospect. The catch was, he had been spending the day with a friend and would only go out if the friend could come along. So I would be there to distract the friend, keep him occupied and entertained. I never realised I could be such a good friend. If I'd known going in just how good a friend I was going to be by agreeing, I would have said no.

I should have known when the tag along friend was at the bar and the date described him as "just like Alan from The Hangover". I should have known again when he was being encouraged to trot out his knowledge of geography in a Rainman like display of regurgitated facts. Or perhaps when we were encouraged to subtly get him onto the subject of Spain, only to see his bored expression vanish and his head fly up, to hear him speaking random Spanish phrases to demonstrate his fluency. But I didn't know, and neither did the friend I was accompanying.

I really started to pick up on it at the second venue, when I was dragged up to dance. And I mean dragged. I finally agreed to go, because it would have seemed churlish not to, and it gave my friend some alone time with the date. His dance style could best be described as original; if I'd seen other people pulling his moves, I would have thought they were joking. He wasn't. When he pulled me in closer to dance, alarms started going off. They should have gone off earlier, when he'd had his leg brushing mine quite a bit, but I'd just put it down to him being drunk. But there was no escaping his meaning on the dance floor.

He should have known I wasn't interested. I pulled away at every possible opportunity after the dancing. In fact, not even after the dancing. During. I walked a fine line between good friend (keeping him occupied) and self-preservation (keeping him at a distance). It was a knife edge balancing act, and I must have toppled off the wrong side, because when we went back to the friend's place to escape the noise of the bar (ie, for friend and date to come up with excuses for alone time), he still hadn't realised that I wasn't interested.

The date engineered a flimsy excuse for me to show him something about the house - he was a tradie, and my friend had been talking about a maintenance issue, so even if everybody else in the room failed to spot it for what it was, I picked up on the hint and took him upstairs to show him the problem. I should have seen it coming. The part where he turned around and launched himself at me for a kiss. His mouth was half open, his bloodshot eyes half closed as he put his hands on my shoulders and tried to pull me in. I should have seen it coming, but really, I didn't. Or at least I did, but only in time to turn him aside and tell him, "Ah, no," rather than in time to stop his lunge and grab. It was the first hint of actual humanity in him all night, as he got all embarrassed and pretended he was just looking at my necklace.

It was an awkward hour or so that we were left with. The happy couple disappeared not long after we got back into the room and left us perched uncomfortably at opposite ends of the couch, too embarrassed to speak. Rainman disappeared to the loo and I texted my friend.

"You have no idea how much you owe me."

Her phone was still downstairs in her handbag.

He returned from the loo and I went. I didn't know it at the time, but he called the date's phone while I was out of the room.

After half an hour or so of increasingly stilted conversation, he called the date again.

"You about ready? Yeah, it's Awkwardsville down here."

There was some relief at hand, finally.

"He said four minutes. I'm timing him."

With the end in sight, I began packing up, content in the knowledge that my run-ins with men could only improve. At least, after public pee-ing and unwanted kiss attacks, I certainly hope so, or I may be at risk of losing my faith in men all together. Not that there was much to start with...

The new kid in town

I've been a bit absent from blogging lately. I'd love to say that there was a good reason for this, but really, there's not. In fact, there's a few reasons that I should have been blogging, but the sad fact is that I've been lazy. So, to continue with the laziness, I've decided to roll what could have been several detailed, and no doubt hugely amusing posts, into one. Because it's 11:45 on a school night, and that's how I roll. Or rather, that's how I lie in bed typing. Whatever.

The first thing is by way of general announcement. I am an aunty again, this time to a nephew. His parents had the wisdom to name him H, which is moderately unfortunate given that our surname also starts with H. HH. He's going to get teased at school, I can see it now. The argument over his second name is still ongoing, I think. I'm guessing my brother is making a case for something region specific, given that he asked me about the origins of our surname, and was very disappointed to discover that our family are only from England, not the wilder parts of Scotland or Wales. He cheered up a little when I explained that it was the wilder parts of England - although perhaps not by the current standard.

Either way, the little man has the look of an old soul. The first photo I saw of him, he looks like he's already aware of his surroundings, taking things in. He did not look like a baby less than an hour old. The follow-up snap shots look equally old. I'm curious to see how he grows up, what sort of person he is. Is he going to be as stubborn and strong willed as his big sister? Or will he be completely different to each of his parents, and take on some of his grand parents' traits? One thing's for sure, though, his aunt is planning on teaching him a few things about how to be a decent guy, right now.

I had a date last Friday night. The guy had seemed reasonable enough, quite intelligent, not bad looking. But I was having a terrible wardrobe day, and nothing looked right on me when I raced home from work to get ready. Which meant that I wore a dress I probably wouldn't have otherwise worn. Girls love this dress, a home made number, but guys just don't seem to have the same appreciation for it. I knew there wasn't going to be a follow up date from the moment that I took my coat off and saw the guy run an appraising eye over me in the most obvious way. I don't think he was impressed with what he saw, and I most certainly wasn't happy with being sized up like a piece of meat. My nephew is going to learn that while it's fine to check someone out, it is not so fine to judge them solely by looks. And it's not cool at all to be so obvious about it.

I'll say this for the guy, he didn't have one drink and leave, but the drinks did drag on a little. A 7 o'clock meeting usually signals dinner to go with the drinks, assuming things are going well, but 10:30 came around and we were still in the bar, on our third drink each. Almost as soon as he finished, he was getting out of there, it was obvious. It was not a terrible date, for me at least, but it was definitely not a great date. So little H is going to be taught how to gracefully extract himself from uncomfortable situations, because his aunt feels that this skill is something that would have stood her in good stead sometimes.

Have to admit I was disappointed with first viewing of the guy as well, but I like to think I hid it better. That's the other thing H is going to learn - how to avoid the necessity of internet dating. Because it is a necessity when you aren't going out anywhere to meet people, but still want to stand a chance of dating. As my sister-in-law says, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince. All well and good for those who have found their prince, I'm sure. I'm still trawling through the frogs. And H, well, he may look a little froggy now, with his lose gummy mouth, but he's not going to grow up to be one, even if it means taking him aside regularly for instruction.

You'd think he was my kid the way I'm talking about him, the lofty ambitions for the sort of person he'll grow up to be. But I'm a childless aunt. It's my job to look out for nieces and nephews. And if he's anything like his sister, he'll have a will of iron to stand up to anyone who tries to bend him anyway he doesn't want to go. The old soul already looking out of his eyes is hopefully the soul of a gentleman, that way we both get our way.

So welcome, H. I look forward to spending a whole lot of time with you. And eyeballing-date-man? I look forward to not spending any more time with you.

Philanthropic romance

It was lunchtime and, for a change, I was working in the city. I decided to brave the gale force winds blowing up Collins St and headed out to buy my lunch. I'm on a sushi binge at the moment, so that meant heading to the Purple Peanut, near Spencer St. It's a tiny little cafe that is always crammed come lunchtime thanks to their fantastic authentic Japanese fare. Heading over the bridge across Wurrundjeri Way, I noticed a man standing unobtrusively off the side of the pavement and holding out a cup for money.

"Spare change, miss?" he asked. I looked at him as I shook my head, and saw that he wasn't that old. He had startling blue green eyes and a plaintive facial expression. I genuinely didn't have any change but felt bad about following my usual rule of not giving cash to beggars. But it also reminded me of a couple of things. The last time I gave money to a beggar was on the first date with the Talker. We both delved deep and the Talker engaged him in conversation. Based on what I later learnt about him, I'd say this was not his usual practice. I think it was done to impress me, to show how compassionate and giving he was, and that he had enough cash to be able to splash out and help the homeless pay for a night in a hostel somewhere. A guy I went out with in London tried the same trick.

And it worked. Each time I've seen this done, I've respected the guy a little more than I otherwise might have. Something about seeing a philanthropic side to my dates makes me weak kneed. I like a man with a social conscience. Or maybe I just like the idea that he can empathise, but still has spare cash. So why is it that, while I admire this trait in my men, I never actually follow through with the donations myself, unless I'm also on a date? I'm sure I'm trying to show exactly the same things as the men are, but I'm always that half a step behind because I don't normally give. Perhaps what I'm really seeing in these men is the hope that he'll take me under his wing and give me everything I want - obviously, alcohol plays a part in the delusion that this will ever happen. And in the end, if it's a false act, what do you really achieve?

In the case of the Talker, it was another two dates before I woke up to myself and realised that he was not really the gentlemanly empathetic philanthropist, but was instead a misogynist who would quite happily chain me to either the kitchen sink or the bedpost, depending upon his mood. So perhaps it's time I reversed things. I might have to start donating to beggars when I'm walking alone, and keep my coin to myself when I'm on a date. Given the way things have worked out in the past in this respect, it might be the safer course.

Only the Lonely

The universe is conspiring against me at the moment. My study reading has me looking into the concept of emotional intelligence, the pressures to conform to societal norms. I'm tired, I'm emotional. And I'm listening to 'Gotta be Somebody' by Nickelback and feeling the urge to hit the repeat button and get a little teary at the thought that perhaps there may not be somebody out there for me. All of this follows a conversation with a friend on the way home from my birthday drinks about what would happen if I never found 'The One'. What if I stay single? What if Nana was right when she was telling my mother - at my birthday dinner with my family, no less; now I remember why I usually spend them overseas - that the four years I spent overseas had ruined my life. I was going to be just like a woman she had known when she was younger, who had left behind a fiance to go travelling for two years on the grand tour, only to return and find her fiance had found someone else, and she would remain a spinster for the rest of her life.

I never set much store by that story. I've heard it before, and it's only ever made me angry, that Nana was so narrow minded she thought it would be better to be married to a man who was obviously not in love with her enough to wait than to have had the wonderful, amazing, enriching experiences Mabel had while she was travelling. Nana never mentions if Mabel regrets missing 'her chance'. For all I know she led a perfectly happy and fulfilling life. The only part of it that I ever hear about is that she never married and ruined her life by travelling for so long. Just like I have done. Mind you, earlier that same night, she had only just held back from insulting me to my face. "You don't eat much, do you. You shouldn't be so --" Happy birthday to me.

And to top off the emotional fiesta that is my night, I had an email from the Talker today, just wanting clarification on what I meant by saying we should 'cool things' and offering to be friends in whatever way I was up for, whether that was just hanging out, or dating or whatever. And the mood I'm in right now, I'm tempted by it. Because even Chatty McStepford seems more appealing than spending another day, week, year, eternity sitting on this bloody couch alone.

The lesser of two evils

I've just let the Talker know that it's unlikely that there'll be any more dates. And I feel like a complete heel for doing it. Because on the whole, he's a pretty decent guy, it's just there were too many niggling doubts in my mind for me to continue with it. I spent too much of the time during our dates (the parts before alcohol befuddled my mind, anyway) trying to convince myself that he was right for me. I'm not generally into self-delusion, so I've decided that it was best for everyone if I just ended it.

Maybe part of the reason I'm sensing a distinct odour coming from my own behaviour is that I did it by text. At 10pm. In response to a text from him saying that he was feeling really good all day on Saturday after our Friday night date. And I used a slightly more wordy version of "it's not you, it's me". Yep. World-class shit, sitting right here at the keyboard.

But why is that? Sure, my timing sucked, but isn't it better that I told him up front than going the ignore route that I would have taken had he not been such a decent guy? Or that I took the time and trouble to come up with an explanation for my reasoning, that gave him some clarity for why it was happening, and an idea that it wasn't because he was a crap date? Yes, my method of delivery was cowardly and pathetic, but we'd been on three dates. It's not like we were living together or anything. And this was they guy who told me he wasn't looking for anything serious (I may have used that against him in the "we have to talk" text...but it's kind of true). So what did I really owe him? I've been on the receiving end of the fade out after a third date, and it wasn't hurtful. I did consider doing that with this one, but thought it required a more definite response. So for being a responsible adult, I get to feel like crap.

I swear, if dating doesn't get easier, I'm asking my parents to take over and arrange a marriage for me...At least then they'd have to handle the break-up.

In my home town

At the risk of seeming self centred (hello, I've been blogging about my life for almost five years now, and still stamp my foot a little when I realise just how few people have come back more than once in that time. What, my ramblings aren't worthy? But I digress. Hmm, perhaps that's the problem?), I'm about to blog my personal life again. Yes, that's right, folks, welcome to another world of the completely insecure embarking on a dating exercise.

The boy I've now seen twice - let's dub him the Talker, for his ability to talk the leg off a table - has suggested meeting up this weekend. But he hasn't suggested any locations, obviously assuming that with my many years living in Melbourne I'll be able to suggest somewhere suitable. I knew it was a mistake to come across all "oh yeah, you have to try this place" on the first date. So I've just spent almost an hour googling ideas. And you know what I've come up with? A sleazy, vile pool hall; ten pin bowling. Then I hit the joys of suburb-based streets; Brunswick St, Fitzroy; Fitzroy St, St Kilda. Really? I lived in this city for most of my life, and that's the best I can come up with as suggestions for what to do? Where are the cosy venues with great food and cheap drinks? Where is the quirky back-alley basement bar? Because the truth is, when planning a night out in my home town, I'm a dead loss.

Meanwhile, you guessed it, it's coming to the end of semester. I'm in full procrastination mode. And that might be why I'm planning on doing a whole lot of research into suitable date venues over the next few days. Procrastination task at the ready? Students, stop your engines...

The Dating Game

It was a second date. The first had gone well, really only ending because we both knew we had to work the next day, finishing up with a walk to the tram stop and a polite kiss on the cheek. I'd put it down to him being a gentleman in the old-fashioned sense. On the way home he'd texted to say that he'd had fun, and that we should do it again soon.

So there we were, a little over a week later, meeting up once more. Somehow he brings out other sides of me. I'm normally pretty punctual to anything afternoon or evening (the morning is a whole other story); two dates, two late arrivals. We wended our way to a little Italian restaurant down a lane way, over a bar, and, in light that I later realised was entirely too harsh for anyone trying to impress but feeling a little insecure, we proceeded to discuss the joys of old-fashioned comfort food, the mysteries of public transport, exactly what constituted a hipster and why we would never be one (I disagree, I think he does have a little of the hipster about him, but nothing full-blown, or I never would have agreed to a second date), and various other topics before agreeing to move on to drinks.

Our second venue was the polar opposite of the restaurant we'd eaten in. The restaurant hasn't changed since 1978 when diners were held hostage at gunpoint - maybe earlier, I'm not sure. It was cheap and cheerful at its best. The bar - sorry, cocktail lounge - was an entirely different story. We climbed the stairs in hopes of a table with a view but found ourselves instead with a view only of a canoodling couple, and an epic drinks list. So we talked on, getting through, somehow, a bit of philosophy, gender roles, cultural reinforcement of tradition and suddenly I was on the receiving end of a completely unexpected question.

"So, I'm not sure how to say this," as alarm bells began to ding in my head, "but what are you hoping to get out of this?" Talk about a question without notice. I was left scrambling, trying to assemble an answer that wouldn't scare either of us, something suitably non-committal either way. To buy myself a little more time, I asked for clarification. Out of what? "The whole RSVP process, I guess."

That was a little easier, gave me a little more wriggle room at least. I still wasn't sure how to answer it, but I felt comfortably able to come up with something nice and evasive. "That all depends what I find," I told him, a bit of a giggle attached to break any ice that might have been forming. Time for revenge. "What about you?" I asked, watching him squirm. And squirm he did, attempting to duck and weave, and finally acknowledging that it was a ridiculously awkward question to have asked. But not before dropping something on me that I can't shift from my mind. My evasion was obvious. His was not so much evasion as partial truth, I think, although the lack of certainty has left me over-thinking things ever since.

Because he's not looking for anything serious, he was careful to make clear to me. To the point where he implied that he was just looking for friendship. I wasn't pleased, but I was OK with that. We get along well, I don't have many male friends, and we venture to places that I've never made it to before, by virtue of his touristing (he's not from Melbourne originally.) Sure, there are a few things about him that I'm not sure of (his take on gender roles, for a start, followed closely by his inherent snobbery) but it's nothing that I haven't been exposed to before from friends, and certainly not deal breakers. So although things paused and struggled awkwardly after his question, we stayed put and worked through it. It probably helped that we moved onto another bar soon after.

Several hours later, we were saying our goodbyes. Bearing in mind what he'd said earlier in the night, I wasn't expecting much. My tram was coming and it was close to the last tram of the night, as far as I knew, so a long goodbye was far from my mind. Yet the kiss goodnight was not the friendly, polite kiss on the cheek that I'd half been expecting. It was a little different. The look on his face, and the goodbye as I ran off to board my tram (rather, bus replacement service, but that's a whole other story), suggested that he was surprised I was leaving so quickly. I snuggled down into my seat as the bus pulled out, and, ipod in place, settled in for half an hour of reliving and examining. I still couldn't get to an answer that suited me.

My confusion grew when I was walking into my flat and my phone buzzed with a text. "How is it I didn't kiss you sooner? And why rush off so quickly? Would have quite liked if you'd stayed a little longer." OK, I thought to myself. Nothing serious, but a little bit of fun, potentially to be had. I can see how that might happen, without thinking too much yet about whether I wanted that for myself. Closer consideration would have me saying no, I think. Confusion grew more this afternoon. I somehow found myself in my messages archive on RSVP. His profile has become inactive. I'm pretty sure it was active when I looked in the same place the other day. So somewhere along the line, he's decided to go another way. I just have no idea which way that is, or whether I would want to go the same way.

Why does it all have to be such a muddle? It was all so much more simple before he blurted out that question, when it was just a question of liking each other. Now, with the element of potential commitment also introduced, I'm a long way out of my comfort zone and not entirely sure of the rules of the game. But then, I never really knew the rules of dating in the first place...

The Dating Game

I might have mentioned before that I've been putting a tentative toe back into the murky waters of internet dating. There hasn't been much success. Admittedly, I haven't been pursuing it too hard, but there are a few reasons why. Two glaringly large ones, to tell the truth.

The first is pretty straight forward. Although I've been checking out other people's profiles, I haven't really been up for attempting to contact the ones who were interesting, as a general rule. No good reason why, I just tend to click away before letting them know I'm interested. On the rare occasion that I do click the 'wink' button, there's generally no response. Seems my profile isn't attractive to them. Which leads me to the second reason for my dating fails.

My profile is, I think, fairly straight forward, slightly amusing, and on the whole, better crafted than most of my blog posts. It sets out my criteria as far as age, distance from a set point in Melbourne for them to be living, all the usual things. Yet somehow, this all gets ignored. So far, the contacts from this profile have ranged from the aging locals to the age-appropriate Swiss.

Now call me nuts, but there is something a teensy bit wrong about a 57 year old man winking at a 30 year old, even if it's only electronically. It's old-fashioned and potentially age-ist, I know, but there you have it. If you're old enough to be my father, chances are that I'm not going to be interested in you, whatever you might see in magazines about young women and their billionaire sugar daddies.

Also, if you live across the other side of the country, chances of a healthy long term relationship, not good. Even worse if you're on the other side of the world. And for those who are both twice my age AND on and entirely different continent - perhaps even planet - take the comments above and double them. Triple them. And add in sound effects of me dying laughing at the thought that you meet the criteria of having a bit of a brain.

Yeah, I know, it's harsh. And given, as a friend observed today, that there are no single men left in our age group who aren't single for a good reason, or broken beyond saving by the load of baggage they're carrying, perhaps I shouldn't be so choosy. But dear god, there has to be a better way to meet someone. If anyone knows what it is, please let me know. Because there's no way in hell that the internet is going to work for me.

We've gotta stop meeting like this...

So I'm back in a settled existence, working, seeing friends, blogging, and it only seems fair that it was time one of my other stable occupations kicked in: I'm back on internet dating sites.

Yes, sad but true. And right now, I'm wrestling with levels of frustration that I should be familiar with, but somehow always strike me as something out of the blue when they come.

First there was the guy who messages regularly, seems interested enough, but never quite gets to the next level. He seems happy enough with just chatting via the keyboard, which I can see will get old fast. I've dropped all sorts of subtle hints, from the usual what's going on this weekend, to asking questions about cooking, where he goes, what he gets up to. Nothing shakes him loose. But without fail, every time I log on, he's there with a hello, however much he makes me work for anything more than that.

Then there is the guy who seems to have dropped me since I wouldn't add him as a Facebook friend. We've chatted a couple of times, and he seems nice enough, but I don't want to friend him, and have to explain to Dad, my aunt, my sister-in-law, my cousins, and various others, who it is that I've just added. It gets awkward. And that's without considering howmuch of my life he would have had access to. But he hasn't messaged me since I told him I hardly use Facebook. A little lie, but nothing too serious. His loss.

But I've saved the best for last, because he's such a cliche. The guy who opens with the line "I think you're hot" and doesn't appreciate it when the "compliment" is brushed aside with a flip comment. Apparently, I'm supposed to reply "Thanks, I think you are too". Catch is, I don't think he's hot. He might be interesting, he might be intelligent, but usually, guys like this, they aren't hot. If they were, I doubt they'd be scouring the internet looking for a girlfriend. Luckily, I have a handy blocking button I can push, and he has now been consigned to the interweb dating scrapheap.

Men. Honestly. Even through a keyboard, they still seem to have no clues. Of course, I'm so much better, given that I'm sitting on the other end of the keyboard, just waiting for a message. Because a girl can't be forward, she can't initiate anything. Lord, the hypocrisy.

More than a tweet, less than a blog

I'm just jumping on to distract myself from what I ought to be doing, which is finishing various writing tasks. Just to give some idea of what I'm up to, here's a couple of stats for you...

Word count on 5000 word essay due in about an hour's time that I've been working on for the last two weeks: 1931
Word count on day one NaNoWriMo novel-in-a-month-insanity: 1862
Phone calls from guy on Match that I swapped numbers with on Thursday: 2, plus a couple of texts.
Face to face meetings with guy from Match that I swapped numbers with on Thursday: 0, although that is likely to change on Wednesday
Level of worry that he may in fact turn out to be less the nice guy he seemed when he first called, more like annoyingly clingy stalker type: Excessively high
Hours of sleep last week, not counting this morning's accidental forget-to-set-alarm debacle: Approximately 14
Statistics I have left to offer: 0
Amount of life I've wasted playing Spider Solitaire instead of writing 5000 word essay due in about an hour: 1879354 hours. Or at least it seems that way when I look at how much work I still have to do.

So, what with the novel-writing insane plan I have running at the moment, and the fact that my life is about to shift into overdrive (yes, I'm allowed out of the house without feeling guilty next week AND I've just been paid...double whammy), I'm thinking the posts might be easing up over the next month. Maybe. Fair warning!

Crush and burn

I'm doing it again. My expectations are getting far ahead of anything there's evidence to support. Somewhere, Hope careered wildly off its leash and ran off into the distance, taking me along for the journey. I can't complain about it too hard now. but what about when the wild ride ends, as it inevitably does, in a crash and burn situation? Well, I reserve the right to bitch and moan then.

But for now, all is sunshine and light. I've been messaging a guy online for about a week. The emails have been flying back and forth, and from the emails I was getting the impression that he was a nice enough guy. But I can usually keep myself in check when it's just emails; I know from bitter experience that a good writer of emails does not necessarily translate into a perfect fit for me. But this guy - let's call him Q - has a good enough writing style, and enough similar interest to me that we haven't struggled with emails.

The bit we have struggled with is finding a time to meet up in person. We're both studying, and both very busy with it right now. So one way or another we're not getting a face to face meeting for a week or two. And for one reason or another, I think he might be thinking along similar lines tome here, because we've exchanged phone numbers - earlier today, no less - and he called me tonight. And, over the phone at least, he seems like a nice normal guy. I know you're not supposed to do this, but he checks boxes. Intelligent enough, bit of a laugh, voice not an irritating whine, likes to read quality books, a bit of a handy-man. The boxes that can be checked without meeting someone have been ticked. And here's the thing. Once again, the anticipation is building. The delay in the face to face bit means that there's more pressure on this than there would otherwise have been. I have more time to create expectations of what he'll be like. And if he doesn't measure up to them, I'll be once again shattered. Or worse. What if I don't measure up to his expectations?

And what happens when my visa is up, if there's no great collapse of one or both of our hopes? Because he's close to his family, has a tight network of friends, from the sound of things. And he's already asked me how I handle being so far from my family. So even if things do go well in the short term, there's longer considerations.

And I'm so far ahead of myself, it's getting ridiculous. I haven't quite booked the church and named the first born, but give me a week or so and I'll be there, I'm sure. I love the buzz it gives you, the complete inability to stop smiling. The sense of crush. But I hate coming down off it and landing back in reality. Here's hoping that this time, there's more crush than crash. The details can sort themselves out.

Channelling my mother

Time, they say, waits for no man. No woman, either, if I'm any judge, because it seems I must be getting old. It's been a busy week since my last attack of blogging. Not en eventful week, really, but one that has kept me busy enough that I've barely had a moment to think about what I'd writer here. Bite sized chunks of the day just disappear into nothingness where I have no idea what I've done. I look at the clock and there's half an hour of my life gone, on what I don't know, because I have no memory of anything other than the last time I looked at the clock.

That's not entirely true. This whole time-weariness mood has come out of a few things. Last weekend was a busy Saturday. A date in the afternoon, a leaving party at night, and somewhere in there study, too. The date was unremarkable except for one event, which I'll get to later. the party was fun, in spite of my budgetary constraints, because there were good friends in a nice bar, and everyone was there to have fun. But more about that later too. Back to the date.

I'm not going to dwell on this one. He was nice enough, if a little bland. The place we went to was very nice - must go back there sometime for afternoon tea with the girls. But the main reason I'm even mentioning this comes from something else. I've just passed the three year anniversary of my arrival in London. For that entire time I've lived a fifteen minute walk away from a cousin and never seen her. We don't move in the same circles, we never spoke in Melbourne. We each know the other is there, and that's about the limit of it. Until I saw her coming out of the restaurant as I went in. Three years, not a glimpse, and I see her when I'm on a date and desperately don't want to. The only consolation about this was that it was quite clear she didn't want to see me any more than I wanted to see her. We successfully ignored each other and life resumes its normal course. Ships passing in the night? Not really. She might not have even recognised me - I can't remember the last time we saw each other, but I'm fairly certain I was still a teenager, and a young one at that.

So I moved on, and the party was the perfect antidote to the awkwardness of a mediocre date and a potential glitch with a family member. We had a booth, in the grand tradition of the big party in a central London bar, and were perfectly positioned to watch all the comings and goings of everyone else. Which leads me to another reason why I think I must be getting old. There were plenty of young folk out and about, it being Saturday night. And I found myself turning into my mother. I couldn't believe the outfits the girls were wearing. Were they dresses, or tops that they'd forgotten to put something with? And how could they walk in those shoes, I asked myself. Surely they'd be doing irreparable damage to their feet. I gave a self-satisfied smirk at my knee-high brown biker boots with the sensible block heel, and thought to myself that they'd be sorry later. Then I almost cried at how much like my mother - or worse, my grandmother - that sounded. Yep, I'm getting old.

Which brings me to the other reason why I haven't posted lately. It seems that I can no longer match it with the kiddies in areas other than the ability to wear anything, no matter how uncomfortable or ridiculous, provided it's fashionable. I can't party all night without consequences. Sure, I'm a night owl, always have been. I do my best work by moonlight (which may explain why this post is a little disjointed, and the daytime date was a less than sparkling affair). And I've been burning the midnight oil of late, trying to get my last essay done. And it's hard work. Especially since I keep getting sidetracked by a minor addiction to Spider Solitaire that I seem to have developed. In fact, I've been burning the 3am oil, as well. I remember doing the same thing when I was finishing my architecture degree. Sure, it was tough, but I could cope. One good night of sleep and I was fine again. Now? Even people I work with have noticed that I look exhausted.

Perhaps it's the looming deadline of 30 - not that I'm freaked out about it. It's just that as a milestone, for women it does kind of mark the ending of many things. By the time you're 30, as was pointed out by a friend, you have to concede that you aren't going to suddenly discover a hidden sporting talent. Or almost any hidden talent, really. You're supposed to have reached the end of you carefree irresponsible ways, have settled down with a family; if you haven't, turning 30 starts the clock ticking the countdown to a time when it's no longer an option. 30. It's just a number. But it's a number perilously close to the age at which my mother had me, her third and of course, most perfect child. I look at her life then, settled with two children, on her way owning her home, and I compare it to mine: single, all but homeless, with only a head full of memories to show for all my time. But most of the time, I wouldn't trade it. Sure, there's nothing anyone outside of me can see, but who cares what anyone else thinks? And there lies the real difference between me and those girls in the bar. Because no matter how fashionable it is, I refuse to wear a belt as a skirt and to make myself into a ludicrously tall giant on spike-heeled instruments of torture, simply because some fashion bible tells me to. They'll learn. And by the time I'm in my sixties, where my mother is now? Well, I can already see where I'm heading. It's not a little bit scary, let me tell you. Those orthopedic shoes are just terrible.

Dateline

In the spirit of helpfulness, I've decided to take my, ahem, valuable experience in the world of internet dating and compile a list of handy hints for the beginner. So, here goes. And don't hold it against me if I've left any out. The list is neither endless nor accurate for everyone.

1. Never meet without a photo. Crucial. Also, find out height if possible, because photos can be misleading. I'm fairly tall, so the idea of turning up find a man who's 5'2, far from ideal. He might be the most lovely man on the face of the earth, but if he's eye level with my boobs, we're both going to be distracted - him for obvious reasons and me wanting to slap him, for the obvious reasons.

2. Always have an escape clause handy. Even if this is just a friend who can call with an "emergency". And double check that your friend understands the emergency smoke signal. You don't want to end up in a situation where you're trapped, and your emergency "Help, I''m about to pass out from sheer boredom, whilst bleeding from the ears because he hasn't stopped talking" message is misunderstood and you're left holding the phone a willing it to ring. If the wires are crossed, it won't.

3. Don't assume that because a guy is great with words in an email that he will be the best conversationalist. Chances are pretty good that he won't, in my experience. Think about it. When writing an email, you can edit, you can take your time, you can have someone else read over it. Hell, you can do what one non-English-speaking girl I've heard about did, and get someone else to WRITE it for you (the translator turning up for the date as well was the giveaway). But in person? There's nowhere to hide when he starts rambling about how great his ex was, or mutters incoherently. Or, worst crime of all, is just plain boring.

4. Arrange to meet somewhere public. Several reasons, here. The most obvious is the safety issue, of course. As much as it might have been nice to get picked up from your parents' house by your date when you were younger - and your parents wanted to check out the reprobate you were spending your time with - it's much safer to meet publicly for most people in the age of stalking. You don't want to let them know where you live until you've had a chance to vet them. But always make sure someone knows where you are. Sometimes, you can even combine this with point 2; a friend coming by to pose as your current boyfriend/girlfriend and dragging you away is a surefire way of making sure the hideous horror across the table from you in the cafe knows never to contact you again. The other advantage of meeting publicly, if your date is either a slow starter or, in case of failure at point 2, never-ending, at least in areas with lots of people you've got something else to do. Eavesdropping, people watching, all valid entertainments. And if your date doesn't notice that they don't have your whole attention? You know they weren't worth the effort anyway.

5. Always have an escape route planned. And I'm not talking about your phone-a-friend or a phantom getaway - although that's another possible option in case point 2 fails and you really can't stand another minute in his or her company. Know your way home, or have the money for a cab to get you there. The last thing you want at the end of a bad date is to be forced into sharing a cab. Not only does that let the other person know where you live (see point 3), but it also means you're trapped in their company for that bit longer. Sure, if it's a good date, sharing a cab is fine - perfect, in fact - but at least prepare for any eventualities.

So there you have it. My 5 rules for internet dating when it comes time to meet up. There are other points out there, I'm sure. Tips and tricks during the email phase, phrasing for the profile, suggestions for venues, for outfits, hell, any step of the process can be analysed. But this is what I've got to offer. The other stuff? Well, I'm sure you can figure it out. I just wish I hadn't needed experience to put together this list. Because for all the good dates - and there have been some - there's been some shockers too. Hard won information above, people. Use it wisely!

Supersize me

I have been attempting to put together a reasonable outfit for a date tonight. In the process, I discovered an almost total lack of suitable clothes - the downside of the casual office/no life combo is a distinct absence of variety in the clothing choices made on a daily basis. So I went shopping last night. It was a successful trip, I'll say that at the outset. I have an outfit which I am proudly sporting at my desk today, ready for the make up to be applied and the saunter to the meeting place. But along the way, I made some discoveries.

I have moaned about my size and shape for as long as I can remember. I've always been at the upper reaches of the ranges sold in ordinary stores, by which I mean shops that aren't catering for a specific segment of society, whether it be, to borrow Flatmate L's unflattering descriptions, the short shop or fat fashion. For as long as I can remember I've been borderline. Sure, there was a period way back in the early 90s when I could easily trot along to Sportsgirl and load up on t-shirts with multi-coloured lettering, short brightly coloured shorts and all the trendy items of the moment, most of which I cringe to remember now. But the problem with that memory is that while I was getting about in small sized adult clothing, my friends were still shopping in the kiddy section. And that's before we even get started on my feet, which have barely been contained by the ladies shoe department since I was about 13. And hats? Forget it.

And even though shops are now carrying the next size up, it seems that I've grown right along with their sizes and am still forced to concede defeat on a regular basis when I realise that not only am I holding the biggest size they make (notice, not carry, stock, have on the rack...it's make. They don't come any bigger), but that it is made for someone who is decidedly not me.

Which leads me to my discovery. It has now become clear to me that, like a McDonalds meal deal, I have been supersized. It's not that I'm totally disproportionate, whatever the BMI police would have you think. I have a waist, I have some muscle definition in my arms and legs, parts of my are quite toned (not all, but hey, how many people ARE toned all over?). It's just that I was seemingly built on a bigger scale. How it's taken me this long to realise, I don't know. Maybe it was the wallowing in misery about body image for so long. But here it is. I am tall, I have an hour glass figure of sorts (hippy, busty, with a waist in between...figure that's close enough), I have big feet, big hair. I'm a scaled up version of the average 5'4 woman. OK, so the scaling isn't precise, but there it is.

Now all I have to do is get them to accurately scale up the clothes. They've started making boots for people with hockey-player legs. One day, they'll start selling clothes in mainstream shops for scaled up people too. One day, I will be able to walk into any shop and only my lack of cash will stop me from buying one of everything in the shop, in my size. Well, a girl's gotta dream, right?