The Unexplained

There are some mysteries in life that I will never understand. Why some women have perfect hair. Why Collingwood Football team is universally hated by all other clubs. Why exactly chocolate tastes so good - although that's one I'm happy to just accept at face value. My six months or so away from blogging has thrown up some of these questions, so I thought I'd explore them here as a way of getting back into the swing of things after so long away. So here it is. My top five things that I will never be able to adequately explain. 1. Why I attract fickle men. And then I don't. Sounds straight forward, yes? I'm quite capable of getting the attention of a certain type of man, it seems. And then I lose it. Abruptly. For instance, I've been messaging a seemingly nice guy for most of this month. He's a teacher, seems to have his head screwed on the right way and gave all the indications of being almost uncomfortably keen, given that we have never been on a date. We had things all locked in for last Saturday. Friday morning, afternoon and evening texts were being exchanged. He'd caught a cold and wasn't sure he was going to be able to make it for Saturday but said he'd let me know. And he did, Cancelling our date with a very cutesy text. And he hasn't been heard from since. So either it's a terrible case of man flu that he's suffering with - not impossible, I guess - or something else is going on. It's sounding eerily familiar. One of the first guys I dated, Army Boy, suggested that we organize a holiday, and hinted that he'd like it if I took the initiative a little more in our long distance relationship (we met in Melbourne when he was on leave, then he had to go back to Townesville) and call him myself more often. And then we never spoke again. In fact, even his mother and grand mother, who both knew my mother well, took a long time get back in touch. All ties severed, and I still have no idea why. Then in London there was the talker. All systems go, him very keen, then he went out for work drinks on a Friday night. It wasn't quite as abrupt here, because we spent a very awkward Saturday together, mostly with him either lugging my stuff - I was moving house - or sleeping off his hang over. The first warning was that he no longer wanted to hold hands. Then he changed the planned Thursday night dinner to drinks and dumped me. I have ideas about what went wrong there, a certain colleague of his perhaps being involved, but no confirmation. And all the warning I had was a reluctance to hold hands. What is about me that can inspire almost stalkerish attention one minute, then have men running away the next? Anyone with clues, please, feel free to enlighten me. 2. There is apparently something about writing a blog that is great for my mental health. I've noticed it myself, and there have been other comments from various people who don't know that I blog, that the past six months have seen a definite slide in my attitude to various things. I've noticed myself that my temper, always a doubtful property when I'm in the comfort of my own home, has been much more easily triggered. That's part of the motivation for getting back here. But it's a chicken or the egg scenario, as I'm not sure if the mood is caused by a lack of blogging, or if the lack of blogging causes the mood. I'm guessing this little experiment will test the theory. All I know for sure is that I've spent parts of the past six months in a fairly dark place. Here's hoping for a little more sunshine. 3. Why is the grass always greener? Of late I've been thinking back pretty fondly on my time in London. I know that the rose tinted glasses are firmly in place, but I'm missing mucky old England. Much the same way that I missed Oz when I was over in London. I seem to have created a conundrum for myself, where both are home, and at the same time neither one is. I don't think I could move away from my family again, but I miss the lifestyle over there. Even as I realize that it wouldn't be the same if I went back again. People have moved on, the mood has shifted, and things are not as they were. But then again, they're not ideal here either. And I can't work out if it's genuinely a yen for the Old Dart or if I'm just having an anywhere-but-here/now thing due to the dark place I mentioned in point 2. And it's not just locatnal. Whatever work I'm doing, I wish I was doing something else, as well. Right now, I'm daydreaming about heading over to the UK to study. Nothing that could be generally useful in life, but rather something that I think would fascinate me, at least on some levels. Something that I may actually be passionate about (yes, that reared its ugly head again today, when I was told in my performance review at work that I was lacking passion. Instant flashback to uni tutor telling me he'd never seen anyone less passionate than me...) sure, the literary thing fired the mental synapses. I still love it, but can't see myself in a career. Can't see myself in this other career either. But I still find the idea fascinating. I want to study the history of clothing, and perhaps even tie it in with museum and curatorial studies. I'm realist enough to know its not going to happen, but it's the daydream of choice at the moment. When I'm not figuring out how on earth to get my fledging company a little higher off the ground. 4. Nope, that's it. Why is it that as soon as you say you're going to be using a particular number of things, you fall short of the stated figure? I could always go back and adjust the original number, of cours...but no. Much more fun tis way!

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.

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...

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.