Love is Not a Spectator Sport

"Kind of like an alcoholic Cagney and Lacey" - @MartynKelly

A few months ago @Oh_Merde (who is pictured above) inquired about how I cope with this "single and dating thing". Fairly fresh faced when it comes to singledom, she was hoping to obtain some insightful relief from let's be honest, a veteran. However at the time I was hardly feeling particularly wise. I had been applying hair removal cream on my upper lip and decided that a little dab of it on my sideburns wouldn't hurt. When I received the What'sApp message from her I was mortified and peering at what looked like the remains of a vacant patch of carpet next to my ear. So I absent-mindedly replied with, "I don't. This is why I've given up and am spending my Friday evening essentially shaving my face." (For the record, I now spend every second Saturday afternoon at House of Fraser, where a woman named Vera threads my face).

But I was reminded of her question today, while shackled to my desk during one of my wistful daydreams over unrequited situations of the past. And it led me to the realisation that I have a coping mechanism which I implement these days without even thinking about it. Pessimism. Or is it realism? I'm torn at the moment and a little worried that my past experiences of rejection have caused this irrevocably jaded outlook on my romantic life. Because the result is total and utter ambivalence towards relationships and men in general. Don't get me wrong, I go out on dates and spend a lot of time (OK all of my time) drinking raucously with friends at various watering holes. What I'm trying to assert here is that I could have sex (and more importantly a life outside of hair removal) if I desired it. 

But it's not that I don't have the opportunity for romantic endeavours to flourish, I just don't have the inclination to capitalise on them. Some people are starving for emotion, I on the other hand am fasting. All this time I thought I'd been dusting myself off, moving on and being better for it. But I appear to be simply repeating the same mistakes with different people. I don't cope, I just put distance between myself and whatever it is that has hurt me. Evidently this method of pushing negative emotions to the back of my mind and letting them quietly fester as a mental illness have manifested as a somber cloud over my love life. 

I've cast my mind back over the last twelve months and the highlights are more than a little comedic. There was the one-date wonder who revealed he had just being diagnosed with clinical depression, a guy who proceeded to have sex with a girl immediately after me while I remained a prisoner in his house, a younger one who commented that I hadn't taught him anything despite being an older woman and a wholly dysfunctional infatuation with someone I've never actually met. But what's really enlightened me is my reaction to these failed scenarios. Or the lack of a reaction more like. Except of course to derive humour from them. 

Which is my ultimate coping mechanism, otherwise known as my armour. If in doubt I go on the offensive with a joke. But I'm getting increasingly weary of the one-woman show and now I'm not so sure that it's been good for me. I've been of the opinion that it's detrimental to get upset and laughing through the pain of being unwanted was surely the best remedy. Some people are too frightened to experience new relationships because past pain acts as a deterrent. I've been too frightened to experience the pain at all. Which is exactly the problem. I've been under the false impression that I'm immune to being hurt. But just because germs are invisible doesn't mean they're not there. And ignoring them has led me to a bedridden state of romantic apathy. 

But there's a glimmer of hopeful light on the horizon. Last weekend I succumbed to revealing my feelings to someone. Well sort of, in my own little flirty digital way. It totally backfired on me however and I was thrown the ultimate curve ball: the revelation that he now has a girlfriend. Who is apparently completely perfect for him. And it hurt. But it's good. Because it affected me and I'm OK. The clarity of the situation is a relief actually. Uncertainty is acutely treacherous and the real detriment here, not pain. In fact, the experience has awakened a flicker of desire for intimacy with someone and I know that eventually someone will set it alight. Taking solace from that knowledge is keeping me warm and for the time being that's really all I need.

The Art of the Double Park

 Subtly does it

Living a single lifestyle can be very much like a constant flurry of traffic; brief encounters containing varying degrees of intimacy with people who flit in and out of your life purely by chance. The possibilities are seemingly limitless but it can often feel as though all you're doing is going around in circles, much like that of a perpetual revolving door. It's a perfectly practical solution in reaching your desired destination, but has a tendency to leave you feeling dazed and unsure of where you are. But as a single girl who enjoys an active and healthy sex life, I've grown rather accustomed to the headiness of it all.

And as with most single women, having been confronted by a veritable array of men has also led me to become very adept at developing a nonplussed attitude towards their appalling behaviour. Of course I'm aware that gaining respect from people who you behave promiscuously with is a tentative and unlikely endeavour. Nevertheless I still expect an element of moral decency or at the very least a well thought out lie. Neither of which I was treated to recently, when I bumped into someone who I had engaged with on a casual and drunken basis from time to time. We'll call him Nolan.

Everyone has had a Nolan at some point in their dating life. A person who falls mid-way between a one-night stand and someone who you'd like to spend time with on a regular basis. They're reasonably intelligent, enjoy the same comedy television programmes as you and the sex isn't half bad. In theory they seem to be someone who you could have an intimate relationship with which could continue for a duration not uncommon of your average summer romance.

Of course after a few haphazard online conversations with them you discover that they're just using you to fulfill a fantasy from the stunted adolescence that is their life. Being the recipient of text messages which simply read "I have a penis, you have a vagina. Shall we?"  isn't how I wish to be spoken to by anyone, not even a casual enounter. I have more respect for myself than that. (Really I do). So I ceased contact with Nolan, something which he did bring to my attention but I feigned ignorance and was content in the knowledge that we'd just gradually drift out of each others lives.

Foolishly however I made a drunken decision to re-stamp Nolan for February use - with disastrous results. And I say that with much joviality intended, because he's not a bad guy at all. Just an incredibly stupid one.

After a debaucherous evening out with friends, at 2am I found myself accompanying Nolan home in a taxi (naturally it was his parents home who were away at the time) and as we drew increasingly near I became all the more regretful. I've never felt inclined to be with someone in order to feel validated so I questioned why I'd made the decision in the first place. The simple answer being that I'd recently been through an incredibly dry stint and was feeling insatiable. It happens. Although I still had an uneasy feeling that I wasn't going to be satisfied, which turned out to be an incredibly accurate premonition.

It always amazes me how people can assume that they've covertly contained their deceitfulness despite clearly displaying their glee in every mannerism. Or in Nolan's case via his iPhone. Though my memory of the events is somewhat hazy, I clearly remember lounging in the living room sipping white wine which I suspect was South African (figures) and being in full view of his drunken texting efforts.

Ordinarily I'd be peeved that someone was being so rude when I was in their company, but it was only Nolan so it was of little consequence to me. He claimed to be texting a male friend who he named, but by glancing at his phone (which was near impossible not to do given our seating position) I quickly discovered that the names didn't correlate. It was a name of indiscriminate gender, but I could have cared less if it was a girl or not. Fidelity wasn't what I required from him.

Suffice to say it didn't take long for the activity to descend into what we both required from each other, but I remember his phone constantly making irritating alert tones throughout and finally I demanded that he answer it for goodness sake. Also I was beginning to tire of the incessant whispering in my ear, "how can we take this to the next level?" Christ, I'm not having a threesome Nolan. Not with you. Not tonight. I silently cursed myself for being there and tried not to laugh at the sight of him squinting at his ergonomic oblong piece of crap with his erection.

At this point I'd resigned myself to scrambling around in pursuit of my earrings and am unsure as to his exact activity, however he declared that he had received either a text message or a phone call from a friend who had gotten into a fight and it was his intention to go to his aid. I was skeptical but unphased and started to ready myself to leave. Nolan however was insistent that I stay, as he assured me the endeavour wouldn't exceed an hour at the most.

I found the notion of my waiting for him pretty humourous given that he meant so little to me, but I was forced to consider the logistics of my situation. It was past 3am, I had no idea where my friends were, much less if any of them would even answer a phone call and effectively had no where else guaranteed in which to reside that night. I was indignant but reluctantly agreed to stay. I had no intention of resuming any activity upon his return and was already planning on leaving ridiculously early the following morning so as to avoid any further contact with the imbecile.

His behaviour became increasingly erratic with the conversation littered with assurances and apologies. All of which I mentally rolled my eyes at. He escorted me to bed, tucked me in and continued to explain the situation further, none of which made any semblance of sense. I attempted to query it but he provided answers which were so unsatisfying that I didn't have the strength to argue. Why bother? He'd made up his mind to go and I was too concerned with my silent urges for him to just leave already so I could have a furtive rummage around his house. I didn't even enquire as to how he planned to get back into town. Now of course I can only presume he constructed a set of make-shift wings from the web of foolish lies spilling out of his silly little mouth.

As soon as he hastily sped out of the front door I sprang out of bed (again his parents) and padded downstairs to finish off the wine. I wandered around the modest three-bedroom property in my underwear examining various items of unnecessary clutter and bric-a-brac. It was all rather uninspiring so I attempted to contact my friends in an effort to make an early exit, only to be greeted by consecutive voicemails - just as I'd anticipated. Terrific. So the only thing left on the agenda was to pilfer around his bedroom. I sauntered back upstairs and entered a room of unholy destruction. Here was his disordered mentality personified: disorganised, sloppy and utterly revolting.

Repulsed I tentatively fought my way to the desktop computer. Predictably he'd left his Facebook signed in - the boob. I logged out of it however as I was utterly uninterested in the mundane trivialities of his life. It was at this point, while positioned with my knees to my chest on his puny little swivel chair (glass of wine in one hand, mouse in the other) that I received a text message from Nolan simply saying that he was going to wait for his friend as he'd been arrested, accompanied by a sad emoticon. This blatant idiocy proved too much for me. I already knew exactly what was going on and refused to let him get away with having me believe that he was essentially going to sleep in the front desk of this fictitious Police Station. I expected something a little more imaginative than that, even from a Computer Forensics graduate.

It took a second phone call before it was answered, the first was diverted mid-ring.  At the time I didn't think anything of it but now I envision him to be utterly panic stricken thus doing the first thing that any coward about to be caught out would do: abort the call. Yes, hello I'm Nolan and I'm going to buy some time before I come to the decision of committing the cowardly, foolish and not to mention callous act which is about to follow: letting the girl answer.

Yes, you've guessed it. The friend who had been arrested was code for the girl I intend to have sex with shortly after you. He'd attempted to pull off the elusive yet doable double park: the art of coitus with two separate sexual conquests in one night. While I don't blame him for attempting it, I was still pretty outraged. Purely at his method. His blundering, flawed and utterly moronic method. It just wasn't good etiquette. You don't leave person # one in your house and insist that they stay. You're already being greedy as it is. Thinking that you can then go back and resume is just bad form. As with anything there are rules for double parking. And by allowing both parties to communicate with each other you've pretty much lost the concept of the whole endeavour: they're not meant to find out about each other Nolan. It's not rocket science or even forensic science.

So even though I was prepared for the prospect of him being in the company of another girl, I certainly didn't expect her to answer the phone. Whether he offered her the opportunity or she demanded to answer is unclear, neither would surprise me. I was a little surprised by her indignant tone, although I could barely hear her over Nolan's injudicious chortling in the background (which I must admit stung a little). Yes very funny, you've got me. Good one. Still I relaxed back into the chair, stretched my legs out onto the desk and calmly sipped my wine while I listened to her reel off a few insults. I then calmly proceeded to inform her that I had been having sex with Nolan a little over an hour prior on his living room floor no less and was just wondering if he was available to speak as I was still in his house. I paused and took another sip of my wine as I waited for her reaction.

Disappointingly it was clear she was taking Nolan's side in this hideous debacle. I believe she laughed and berated me a little, but I don't really remember. What I do remember is being astounded. Where was the sisterhood? I tried to put myself in her position and immediately felt sorry for her. Here was a guy who obviously liked her far more than he liked me, but he didn't even have the respect to save himself for her that night. Hell, he didn't even shower before he left and her reaction was to preserve her ego to me. Why did she care what I thought? I was hardly in a position to judge having just been jilted halfway through a sexual encounter. Perhaps a less self-assured person would doubt their prowess in that area, but really speaking Nolan's actions are a reflection of his personal inadequacies - not mine.

Relatively unperturbed I terminated the call and got dressed. Definitely time to leave. I couldn't help but chuckle to myself as I reached for the front door handle. Only to find that it refused to budge. I wrenched it a few more times before coming to the realisation that the hapless buffoon had locked me in. I immediately rushed to the back of the house, trying first the back door and finally the conservatory doors. Both locked. No sign of a key. I admit I was initially more than a little panicked, but soon discovered that the living room windows opened wide enough to allow me to escape in the event of an emergency. I wasn't feeling agile enough to hoist myself onto the high windowsill in my state of 4am intoxication however and decided to give Nolan a phone call again as this had quickly devolved into kidnap territory.

Unsurprisingly person # two or Nolita answered, "still ringing I see?" Seriously sweetheart I know I've essentially put a big cloud over your perfect 3am drunken rendezvous which you planned over a duration of six seconds while presumably falling out of a chavy establishment on Greyfriars Road, but give me a break here. Still, her abrasive attitude didn't rile me in the slightest but instead placated me. This was just too comical to be angered by. I was certain that Nolan had managed to wriggle out of my earlier depiction of the nights events to her like a slimy little worm slinking around in the earth blind and incapable of lateral thinking in any capacity. But was certain that the next card I had to play would be my winning hand. Surely by informing her of my hostage status she would throttle him to within an inch of his pathetic little life and march him back to the house to free me.

Sadly not all girls are as impetuous I am, for that is precisely what I would have done. And what was her reply to my telling her that I was imprisoned against my will after the boy who was still wrapped in my scent came knocking at her door? "Well, I'm sure you'll think of something." Yes, I have thought about something. I've thought about the fact that you've essentially had sex with me as well as Nolan. What do you think about that? Of course I didn't say that. I didn't even give her the satisfaction of replying or maybe I was too dumbfounded at her incredulous lack of sensitivity to my plight. I suppose she's the kind of girl who thinks that by getting the guy she's essentially one upped me in this scenario, but sadly in a scenario such as this there are no winners. There are prisoners. But no winners.

I distinctly remember wandering around the house with gritted teeth, running my fingers over various surfaces and eyeballing valuables which I could destroy or take ownership of at my own discretion. iPad, digital camera, widescreen television, a stamp collection (yes a guy who has two girls to choose from in one night collects stamps). Technically it wouldn't be burglarising, considering I hadn't broken in. I contemplated calling the police, but I didn't want to behave in a way which would lead Nolan to believe that I was hurt or upset by his foolish actions. Because I wasn't. I wasn't at all shocked at his lack of integrity. It's not like he'd ever displayed so much as a hint of it ever before.

What did shock me though was his flagrant disregard for not only his parents personal property but his own. Tactlessly rubbing a girl's misfortune in her face which was created by your premeditated actions is one thing. But then forcing her to spend the night unsupervised with all of your worldly possessions? I considered causing serious criminal damage and leaving the place in a chaotic whirlwind of spurned disarray. Not because I'd been scorned, but just to teach him a lesson in basic household security. I refrained from any such activity however, settling on the decision that no reaction at all trumped that of vengeful retribution. Suffice to say half an hour after hanging up on the bitch who was subjecting herself to any undiagnosed gynecological conditions I may have lying dormant, I was sound asleep.

 

I awoke the following morning (which in essence was a mere few hours later) feeling as though I'd had a refreshing power nap. The kind where you smile to yourself while wiping away the drool on the side of your face, always a good sign of the perfect snooze. The previous nights events were still fresh in my mind, only now I had a clear head in which to assess them. I made Nolan's parents bed and affectionately stroked his two little dogs who had slept on the floor. I took one last look in his room and picked up the disc of a video game. Call of Duty. I felt the suppleness of it between my fingers and chuckled at how easy it would be to damage it irrevocably. I placed it back on a surface already cluttered with discarded plates and empty crisp packets. Too easy. 

Although it did tickle me to think that a guy who doesn't even care about the well being of his video games isn't likely to care about much else. Which should definitely be a wake-up call to Nolita, whose real name I'm fully aware of. I remembered the first and last name from Nolan's iPhone the previous night and typed it into his Facebook. He'd saved the logging in history on his browser. A solitary inbox message confirmed that Nolan had behaved in a poor manner to her prior to the previous nights shenanigans. How predictable. He didn't go into detail but mentioned something about promising to make it up to her. And we're all aware of how he did that.

As I was waiting for my taxi to arrive I received a text message. Nolan. "Are you OK? What was last night about?" Oh seriously, I was so done with this assclown. You tell me Nolan. You're the one who rushed out of the door probably still nursing a semi only to go and stick it in someone else. Someone you must like an awful lot to go to all that trouble for. And what a lovely gesture it was. I only hope I experience romance such as that at least once in my lifetime. I didn't reply.

The house phone then proceeded to ring continuously off the hook. I can only assume it was Nolan trying to decide if coming home before 10am was a good idea. I for one wouldn't want to come home to someone who was potentially ready to murder me. But I didn't have any hard feelings. Far from it. On the whole I'd found it refreshingly entertaining. As did the taxi driver who surveyed me throwing my shoes and bag out of a ground floor window before hurtling myself out on to the driveway. After coquettishly clambering into the backseat he enquired as to why I hadn't used the front door. I simply replied that when you're faced with the situation of a double park, sometimes tricky maneuvers are required if you want to get out.

A Fling Is For Christmas Not For Life

Men. They're just so flinging flanging hard to open.

Contrary to popular belief, most men are decent people. No really, they are. On the whole they're polite, kind and moral human beings. They dutifully pay their taxes, chivalrously hold doors open for others and generously help their landlady take out her rubbish. So, it often comes as a surprise to women when these decent men inevitably disappoint them by breaking their promises. It just seems so atypical of a person who is so virtuous in most other aspects of their daily lives. When actually what you'll find is this behaviour is very typical of these men, purely for the reason that they are so nice and decent.

You see when it comes to women, most men don't enjoy saying things which they don't mean - they just feel obligated to. Because they're cowards and they'd rather give you something to desperately cling on to as opposed to the actual truth. The truth being that there's something about you which they fundamentally don't like and on account of this they don't want you to be their girlfriend. Ouch. So, you can see why their words and actions rarely have a positive correlation. What man who values his life and genitalia would tell you that?

Of course, men aren't stupid. They realise that by flat out lying to you there will be consequences and they don't want to be held responsible for their actions and risk being accused of leading you on.

Men really don't like that happening.

After all a tarnished image is problematic when attracting women they're actually interested in (and also being confronted by the jilted lover's irate friends in public is such a nuisance). No, what they'll do instead is serve you up a compliment cleverly laced with an insult. They're not really aware it's an insult, as they don't give it too much thought. They just want you to construe it as nice and encouraging without having you read too much into it.

They do this because they don't want a woman they've slept with more than once to over-analyse the situation. I mean they enjoy the sex, naturally - and why wouldn't they? (You're probably very good in bed). Something which they would like to continue to benefit from, while at the same time knowing that this can't and won't last. Because after a while women start to expect commitment from them and they're not prepared to give that to a woman they've comparmentalised as a fling. It's very rare for a woman to transcend the fling / potential girlfriend boundaries which a man has set for them. Almost non-existent actually, so please don't think you're in the minority. Because you're not.

Take the following example, which you've probably been on the receiving end of at least once:

A friend of mine recently committed the ultimate dating cliche i.e. he met a girl in a bar and within a matter of hours swiftly found himself being invited back to her flat. The classic one-night stand, nothing out of the ordinary there. However, he didn't actually end up going home until 4pm the following day, which is a little unusual. They spent the day in bed, presumably kissing, cuddling and chatting. Which could mean that he viewed her as potentially more than a one-night stand? I thought so. It definitely showed promise right?

These were his exact words to me:  

"She had a really fit body (thin with boobs - win) and she was really lovely as well. Very easy to get on with and we talked for hours. She's not really the type of girl I usually go for though. She's into her fake tan and she has tattoos. Which I didn't mind. But ultimately, she's a bit of a chav and I'm not going to meet up with her sober. I wouldn't say no to her if we found ourselves in the same situation again though."

N.B That isn't to say that this certain je ne sais quoi which they don't like about you is perceived as negative by everyone. You shouldn't have to dramatically tailor your personality to suit someone else. Because even if you did, it wouldn't last and surely you want to find someone who will appreciate the subtle intricacies about you instead of wanting to change them? And if you don't, then you certainly deserve it. Don't sell yourself short.

(Of course it is important to note that women can also demonstrate the aforementioned behaviour. It isn't just limited to men). 

Which is clearly depicted in an episode of the IT Crowd (the scene is15 minutes in) where Jen ends her brief relationship with Michael the Magnificent purely because she believes him to resemble that of a stereotypical magician. And when he asks her what it is about him that causes her to think it, she simply answers, "It's everything! Just everything about you. I mean, don't you wake up in the morning and think to yourself wow I look like a magician?! Because I would if I was a weirdy-beardy-magiciany-man." He then goes on to reason with her and offers to learn some magic tricks in an attempt to make the relationship work. Jen replies that he would actually have to become a full-time magician in order to pull it off and questions whether he'd be willing to make that kind of commitment. The final scene of the episode shows Michael dressed in traditional magician attire haplessly failing to impress Jen with a card trick, and ends with him running out of the office crying.

(So, moral of the story: don't try and change yourself to benefit someone else. Particularly if it's just a fling, as it will only end in tears. Which will probably be your own).

The duration of a fling can be difficult to determine, as it is based purely on what the person who is in control of it identifies as risky behaviour from the other person. And when I say risky behaviour, of course I mean actions which convey relationship progression  i.e. pushing for more commitment than the other person is willing to give. These come in a variety of shapes and sizes, but the two big hitters which women will nudge a new man in their life to comply with in order to acknowledge her are:

1. Attendance at social events together.
2. Introductions to her friends and family.

As soon as a man who isn't really interested in you realises this is where it's headed (and trust me he will) - watch him disappear from your life. It's brutal, but something which you can spot early on and prepare yourself for. Because if men can easily pick up on this risky behaviour from women who they don't want exhibiting it and run for the hills, so then can women train themselves to decipher whether they're viewed as just that.

Of course I can't hold your hand through every bump in the road, but in order to provide a guideline I can give you some real-life examples of what men have said when they regarded me as a fling.

(Note: I've changed their names. Although I doubt any of the following people even have a means in which to access the internet. Actually that's unkind. They probably do. On their phone).

Maurice, who I'd met in a bar (naturally) and been on a few dates with decided this was appropriate pillow talk:

• "I haven't come like that in a while."

 You think: I must be a really good lay.
What it really means: I'm restricting my compliments to sex because you're not worth enough to me for anything else.

I realise now that we were coming to the end of the casual period and he felt obligated to say something vaguely positive to me, which would hopefully keep me blissfully unaware that he wasn't interested in a relationship for another week or so. Thankfully even then, I knew something wasn't right. If a man ever feels the need to clarify that your vagina gives him a more intense experience than that of his hand then it's time to get out. And as he described the period as 'a while' I can only assume he meant that the environment I'd provided wasn't as hospitable as previous girls. I distinctly remember putting my clothes on and leaving the room without so much as a word. I think in therapy they call that the break-through.


Chester took me on only two excursions in the entire time we were seeing each other (which was approximately three months). Chester, you cheap bastard.

• "Oh, please stay. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever had naked in my bed."

You think: I'm the best thing that's ever happened to him.
What it really means: I'm never taking you anywhere beyond these four walls.

While that may well have been the case, my name isn't Rapunzel. I don't enjoy being confined to a tower with nowhere to go. But what an accolade! I'm a gold medallist. Finally. Where's Miss Silver and Bronze? Let's get a podium set up so I can really rub it in their faces.

You should be very wary of the man who will only agree to see you if it's conveniently located in his bedroom. Because 'hanging out' is not a date. Oh sure, eating a takeaway in front of the television while in bed seems very romantic. And I am partial to it, now and again. But I also like to do other things where sex isn't so readily available and there are other things on the menu. Like going outside. You know in public? Among other people who are also living their lives and enjoying each others company. Because that's what people want to do when they're in a relationship. Complex? No, not at all.


The following is one that I get rather a lot. And while I don't tolerate it I'm certainly prepared for it.  

• "Your tits are amazing."

You think: He must really fancy me and therefore like me.

What it really means: I have nothing else to compliment you on.

I have rather an impressive rack, this much is true. I appreciate positive feedback as much as the next person and yes, I'm partial to a bit of playful banter. But when this is the only thing they have to compliment me on or in some cases even talk to me about - I pull the plug. And I mean that literally. Because this conversation more often than not occurs online (men tend to think they can get away with more if their words are confined to a screen). And there's no use in playing along with them in the hopes that you'll eventually meet in person. Because you won't.

I don't really have to tell you that a man who fixates on a part of your body which isn't your brain is not the sort of man you want to project a fantasy onto do I? Do you know what you are to him? You're his porn. Happy with being an online hobby are you? No, didn't think so. Delete. Reboot. Start again.


Adrienne Mole and I never saw each other with a level head.

• "I really need to see you when I'm sober."

You think: The relationship is progressing.

What it really means: He said this while drunk and "won't remember".

 

That's a terrific idea. But that was precisely the problem, Adrienne Mole only contacted me when he was drunk or when I was drunk or when we were both drunk. He text me most nights. Always late. Always under the influence. This is how we would typically interact with each other: he would contact me purely because he was intoxicated and then I would bring it to his attention the next day because he couldn't remember. "I text you last night?" He should have written a book: 'How to offend a woman in five words or less'. As you can see, an immensely satisfying relationship.

Alcohol is an essential precursor with which to break the ice and anyone who knows me won't be shy in telling you that I enjoy more than my fair share on a regular basis. But you can't rely on these altered states to form the basis of a relationship. It just doesn't work like that. Sure, a few drinks enables you to relax and encourages a more chatty side of you. But total inebriation whenever you're together is a barometer for what's really going on. Which is a whole lot of nothing. Being drunk with someone you like is great. Do you know what's even better? Being with someone you like when you're aware of all of your senses. And if indulging in their illicit hobbies is all they want to do, then you may never know what their priorities are, but you can be certain that you'll never be one of them.


If his parting words are any variation of the following:

•  "Take it easy / Stay cool / You're swell"

You think: He's saying goodbye.
What it really means:  Yes he is. Forever.

 

You need to do one of two things. Either slam the door shut. Or delete his phone number. In some cases you may need to do both.

Men don't tell women they're infatuated with to "take it easy." They say "goodbye" or "goodnight" or something equally appropriately normal.  

"You're swell" is a slip of the tongue (no one means that to be taken seriously) and they've said it because they're uncomfortable with the manner in which they're leaving. It's probably in the morning and they're feeling awkward about telling you they'll text you later or add you on Facebook, because in actual fact they're not going to do either of those things.

And if anyone has the nerve to tell you to "stay cool" they're an imbecile and have wasted your time. The fact that this even happened to me has left me convinced that I murdered a child in a previous life.
 

Finally...

Deep down, you already knew all of those things. You just didn't want to admit it to yourself. Because when you meet someone new, you want to make allowances for them and not punish them for someone elses mistakes. You accept that people will disappoint you, after all no one's perfect right?

No they're not. But don't allow them to make you feel as though you shouldn't be valued as much as you deserve to be. And often the decisions you make are not even about the other person. They're about you being honest with yourself.  

Because being alone is a daunting prospect, but sometimes it's a preferable one.

All The Single Ladies Stick Your Tongue Out

Fantastic news for single women everywhere. FINALLY we can rest assured that ailments which befall our beloved vaginas are not a direct consequence of our single promiscuous lifestyles. I have been informed by a trusted source, that married vaginas are no more trustworthy than their single counterparts.

A friend of mine recently divulged that a colleague of his (who we will call Morgan so as to protect his identity) recently returned to work after a rather suspicious absence, which he claimed was on account of a chest infection. However Morgan displayed none of the typical symptoms of said chest infection i.e. a noticeably chesty cough. And as it transpired, Morgan is a lousy liar and crumbled under questioning from the Big Cheese at the first opportunity. He confessed to being the unfortunate victim of tongue thrush. And seen as this particularly nasty affliction typically befalls newborn babies and elderly people with dentures (of which Morgan is neither) I can only assume Morgan has contracted it via the act of cunninglingus from the yeast fungus in his wife's vaginal area.

As my friend so succinctly tweeted:

So let us put an end to the myth once and for all and remember that married people are just as likely to contract and pass on gynaecological ailments as single people are.

Silence is Golden

 

I'm not like most women my age. In fact, I would go as far to say, that I'm not like most women of any age. Sure, I have feminine interests. Just take a look at my header: pink, frilly, swirly calligraphy. See, I'm a woman. But I just don't share any of the typical common ground which other women seem to have with each other. I don't have any interest in diets or having my nails done or televised reality contests or celebrity gossip or babies or making gravy from scratch or discussing what age I'd like to get married.

(I don't enjoy reading romance novels by pre-menopausal Irish writers which are then adapted to simpering romantic comedies starring Hilary Swank either. So please, none of them for Christmas this year. Although after reading this I'm sure none of my female friends will want to talk to me again let alone buy me anything, and I'm already on thin ice in that department as it is).

Of course, there's nothing wrong with doing any of those aforementioned things and I'm in no way saying that they are the only things which women are interested in. It just means that when it comes to interacting with women I don't know, I rarely have anything to break the ice with. Which can be excruciatingly awkward.

This coupled with the fact that I'm a bit of an oxymoron anyway. In that I'm very social and enjoy going out, but I rarely make an effort with anyone new. As some of my now close friends will tell you: they did all the leg work. Which is very childish of me, I will concede and it's something I've recently started to change. As I've got older, I've realised that letting your guard down and being just that little bit friendly to people can be very rewarding.

What I'm yet to master though, is casual conversation with hairdressers. Cringe upon cringe. I suppose it's partly because I have little to no vested interest in the maintenance of my hair. It's been a weird amalgamation of dirty blonde and light brown for as long as I can remember, with its upkeep being typical of my general attitude: I don't care.

The bulk of the reason though is because as we've already established, I don't enjoy the company of strange women. And I particularly don't like said company in typically feminine surroundings. So naturally, anywhere beauty related is my idea of pure unadulterated hell. Row upon row of women bonding with each other over the current X-Factor contestants and fictional characters of Glee. Musing over their clever roller-derby pseudonyms and little nieces/nephews/godchildren who they just adore and can't wait to have of their own. Swooning over pictures of Robert Pattinson or the other Twilight one in the women's lifestyle magazine spread open before them.

Again, nothing wrong with any of these things, I just don't have any interest in them. Sometimes I wish I did, just so I wouldn't feel so isolated in these situations. And feigning interest in them just doesn't work on account of my innate sarcastic nature. I enjoy it, but as I've discovered first hand, some women get terribly over-sensitive when it comes to flippant remarks.

But like I've said, I do possess some feminine interests. For example, I have an unhealthy obsession with Sex and the City. But I'm a deeply pretentious person, and if someone were to start discussing the films with me (which I pretend don't exist) I would scoff at them. And Lord help them if they confessed to not knowing it originated from a book, which they haven't read. Oh, would they be in for a berating. So, as you can see I'm a difficult person who takes herself far too seriously and therefore it's much easier for me to remain silent. And smile.

But therein lies a problem. Hairdressers won't let you be silent. They probe you for information about yourself. Because they've very nice people and are genuinely at ease with chatting about every day topics. I hate them for this. I'm very socially awkward. I prefer them to come to my house - I have my bearings in my own territory. I can make them a cup of tea in a mug which reads 'fuck tea where's the fucking caffeine?' and enjoy it. I'm sick.

But sometimes I haven't been able to keep them confined to my kitchen, and have been forced to venture outside of my comfort zone. Which is an ordeal right from the initial phone call needed to make the appointment. I always opt for the cut and blow-dry. Never anything else. No hair dye please. It's extortionate and they always try to bully you into having a lighter colour. What do you mean you don't think the shade of wet straw I always go for isn't very becoming? I like it. It looks natural. Do you know what doesn't look natural? Having a hairstyle which is significantly longer on one side than it is on the other. But who I am to judge? Then they want to know who I'm requesting to perform the haircut. Um, I don't know, all hairdressers are called Tracey right? Sorry, that's unfair. Sometimes they're called Sharon. Or Tina. Yeah, I'm going to stop now.

And when you get there, in a timely fashion for the slot which you have reserved might I add, they keep you waiting for around twenty minutes. This is the time in which I pretend that I'm an anthropologist. I'm only here to study these people. Did you know if you close your eyes you can almost make yourself believe that the incessant noise is being emitted by hens? Because that's what women (myself included), sound like when they're around each other. Shrill clucking sounds likened to that of your average farmyard animal. They don't even have to be talking about the same thing. It's fascinating.

So eventually you're summoned to have your scalp massaged by a youth on work experience, who always manages to fasten the cape (don't even get me started on the fucking cape), too tightly while catching a stray hair in the Velcro. Thus exposing the little tattoo on the back of my neck, which prompts them to go into unnecessary detail about the swirls they're having done on the bottom of their back next week. Of course, I'm not listening, I'm just thinking over and over, why do I even need this cape? It's perfectly ridiculous. I don't mind if little snippets of stray hairs get on my clothes, it's my hair after all. Seriously, every time. That's all I think about. Oh and this: I don't care if everyone else is wearing it too, I can't see my arms, this isn't natural.

I'm sometimes so caught up in this perpetual anguish, that I don't have any recollection of the hair washing coming to an end and being escorted from one piece of wacky Ikea decor to the next. And so then you sit and wait some more. Resisting the urge to spin around on the chair while trying to avoid your reflection, which in my case is dripping rats tails and smudged eyeliner. Great for the ego. So, I do, what everyone does when they don't know what to do with themselves in public: lamely turn my fixation to my phone. Some people choose to re-read old text messages, others abuse the Facebook check in feature. I on the other hand, opt for scrolling through my contact list and silently curse every single name.

Then finally the moment arrives and the very nice lady is snipping away at my hair, after adjusting the seat to a ludicrously high level, with the cape sometimes getting caught in one of the wheels. (Fucking cape). She chats away about herself and her day with a breezy demeanour which I'm more than happy to listen to. I try to treat it like I would a sport: spectating never participating. But then she eventually attempts to engage me in conversation. Uh oh. All of my anticipated dread has been leading up to this moment: 

• "Going out the weekend then?" 

Well, it's Tuesday, so I don't really know. I suppose I might..I do like to leave the house occasionally. Oh Christ, just say yes Sam.

"Yes."

• "Where you going then? I'm going to Revs. LOVE it there. Do you like it there?"

I suppose this isn't the best time to divulge that I harbour secret fantasies of blowing that place up. 

"No, I don't really go there much."

Shit, now I have to go into detail about these fictional plans. Where can I hypothetically go, so she'll stop asking questions?

"I'm going to a gig."

• "Ooooh, I love gigs. I'm going to see Pink next year, do you like Pink?"

Fuck my life. No I don't like Pink. In fact to say I don't like her would be an understatement so vast it would swallow every abandoned Chinese infant girl throughout history. 

"Um. No."

Smooth. Although probably safer to be concise.

• "I think she's amaaaaaaaazing!!"

Yeah, I'm just going to make a point of fiddling with the cape now.

• "Especially when she comes down into the crowd on one of them things."
  (She gestures wildly in my face with two fingers imitating what I can only assume are Pinks kicking legs).

At this point I'm at a loss. As I've already established, I'm not a great conversationalist at the best of times. So, I ask you: what is the correct conversational protocol when someone you don't know sticks their waggling fingers in your face because they don't know what the word trapeze is?

(I'm not insinuating that this is representative of all hairdressers, this is just a snippet of what has happened to me).

There must be other women out there like me who:

1. Fucking hate getting their hair cut.
2. Are socially awkward on an insane level.
3. Can't talk to other women.
4. Don't want to talk to other women even if they could.
5. Don't go to Vodka Revolution on the weekend.
6. Have a mortal fear of hairdressing capes.

I refuse to believe I'm the only one. Your support would be appreciated. As would any awkward conversational encounters of your own. Comment away.

EsCABade

Recently I blogged about the perils that can often be involved when experiencing a seemingly mundane journey via public transport. In which I portrayed myself to be a hapless victim forced to eavesdrop on other people's ludicrous conversations. Of course what I didn't tell you is that I've had my fair share of outlandish behaviour when it comes to public transport. It mostly involves the fact that I vehemently refuse to cough up for the fare and take extreme measures in avoiding this legal requirement. In the past it's just been limited to trains, (which I think is perfectly acceptable), but recently I'm ashamed to admit, I entered new territory and added cabs to my shameful list of callous debauchery.

In my defence, it wasn't premeditated. Halfway through a journey home from a drunken escapade my cab buddy decided to get out and leave me with no contribution and so as I neared home I discovered that I didn't have a shred of cash on me. I panicked for a few moments, desperately trying to think of a plausible solution. And that's exactly what I did. Well, what seemed perfectly plausible to me at the time anyway. I decided that I would convincingly sound shocked and appalled at having no money as we neared the entrance to my close and venture the idea for the driver to come back the following day to collect the fare. Of course in those few moments of mulling over my options, the crazed penny pincher in me decided that I would thwart the drivers efforts to obtain the fare the next day by instructing him to go to the wrong house.

Believe me. This seemed like such ingenuity at the time. I believe I even stifled a few glee filled giggles, marveling at my plan. So anyway, he agreed to return the following day. Begrudgingly so. But he had no choice in the matter. So upon entering my estate, I proceeded to tell one clumsy lie after another in an attempt to calm my nerves. I claimed to live at number 11, but instead instructed him to stop outside a house bearing the number 19. He presented this fact to me, to which I replied very cleverly with, "yes that's what I meant." Accompanied with a hefty amount of nervous laughter.

So it was at this point I felt as though I wasn't really doing my best to legitimize the lie and proceeded to tell him my name was Sian. (Which is completely absurd as Sian isn't exactly dissimilar to my actual name), and as a further stroke of genius supplied him with a contact number, in case there were any problems. Half way through reiterating my phone number to him I realised of course there were going to be problems - he would be returning to a house which blatantly wasn't mine, so I panicked and tried to give him an incorrect number, only to then not give him enough digits. All in all, I don't think he was terribly convinced that anything I'd said was the truth.

Still, I bravely bade him good night, stepped out of the taxi and walked up the pathway of number 19 - where I do not live. (I cannot stress this enough). So, as I'm slowly getting closer to the front door, I can still hear the cab engine at a standstill and not reversing as I'd hoped. Shit. I calmly stopped mid-way and proceeded to make an epic show of, "looking for my keys", in order to kill some extra time in wondering just what in the hell I was going to do next. I did this for about a minute, which is a very long time to be making exasperated sounds and flailing your arms in the air, all the while surreptitiously looking over your shoulder to check if a suspicious cab driver is showing any signs of leaving. Which of course, he wasn't.

So I walked further down the drive way and stood in front of the back gate, which was a great big wooden mechanism, (presumably designed that way to keep people like me out), put my bag on top of a wheelie bin which stood adjacent to the side of the house and pretended to go through the contents of it further. I then took my phone out and pretended to be on it, wandering around the perimeter of the house, as if I was trying to reach someone who was inside to let me in. Still he's parked there with the engine running, gawping at me like an insane person. Because clearly he's the one who is mentally ill in this scenario. I retreated back to my position outside the gate and idly considered climbing over it into the back garden. I immediately aborted this plan when I took a closer look and discovered a sign warning, "beware of the dog". It was probably a fictional deterrent, but I didn't want to risk it.

Several minutes had gone by now and at this stage I sat down on the floor for a while behind number 19's Renault Megane, obstructing the cab drivers view of me, which was oddly relieving. Even though the ominous growl of the engine, still in the same spot where I'd gotten out, was a constant reminder that I would have to come out eventually. I contemplated climbing over Number 17's gate and curling up in a flower bed for a while, as that didn't have a guard dog sign on it. But then the driver would see me doing so and would know for certain that I didn't live in Number 19 then. Although I think he was beginning to cotton on to the fact that I blatantly didn't live there by now.

Feeling defeated, I started to put all of the contents back into my bag from the top of the wheelie bin, which I'd removed earlier in my, "key searching", efforts. I whipped my phone out and started talking. I don't know who it was supposed to be to, all I know is the person on the other end was incredibly funny, because I didn't stop laughing. At this point the cab driver had finally turned the engine off and was talking on his phone. I assume he was talking to a real person, unlike me who was essentially talking to nobody. He was probably rallying around his cab driving cronies to come and teach me a lesson, or worse; the Police. As soon as this thought entered my brain, my reaction was immediate. Within seconds I'd whipped my shoes off, thrown my phone into my bag and ran off at lightning speed, (or what certainly felt like it) in the opposite direction. Back to the entrance of the close, as the cab driver was facing the other way and so it would take more time for him to turn around if he decided to follow me. (I do possess some logic after all).

Of course he did follow me. But I had some distance on him. I can only imagine what this must have looked like. A girl erratically sprinting along a main road at 4.30am, being chased by a cab while trying to keep her shoes wedged under her arm and hold her dress up, which was doing little to stay where it should have been. I covered a couple of hundred yards in all and physically exhausted, chest heaving, I finally flung myself into a footpath which led back to my estate. Funnily enough once back inside the residential area I jogged past number 19. Ah, my old friend. And then proceeded to run through various front gardens, not wanting to venture too close to the roadside, just in case the cab driver suddenly appeared and tried to run me over. Which in all fairness, I wouldn't blame him for attempting.

Suffice to say, I got home unscathed but drastically short of breath. The next day I didn't so much as go near a window, just in case I was spotted. To my horror though, I discovered that in all the confusion I'd misplaced my purse. To this day, I'm not sure where it's gone. I could put it to a poll. Either it's on number 19's wheelie bin. On the roadside. Or, sickeningly enough, still in the taxi? In which case, calling and asking for it back would just be bad form. Luckily the address on my drivers licence isn't my current one. But I guess he knows my name isn't Sian now. Damn, and I'd almost got away with it.