Archive | May, 2014

The Leftover Men

29 May

leftover_pizza1

So last night’s Tindertastrophe didn’t make me feel great about myself. If we had enjoyed at least a couple of drinks and over an hour of conversation, I could understand. Sometimes it’s just not for you. But to decide so quickly and come down with an illness so mysteriously. Well, it made me wonder. Was he put off by my fat arms? (I do have sausage arms.)

But also – sausage arms or no sausage arms – who does that? It’s like something out of a bad movie. He scampered off to the toilet about thirty minutes into the date and then emerged and declared that he felt desperately unwell and would have to go home. And then had the cheek to say, “See you soon!” when we parted ways. What kind of an individual does that? Did his mother teach him nothing?

Honestly, since the pizza of doom things have just been getting worse and worse. There was fit but flaky B. Then there was Irish Two with his total lack of emotion. Then Irish Three who didn’t feel a spark. Sunday’s Irish Four cancelled on me. And now apparently I possess the ability to repel men in record time. Go me.

It leads me to believe what I have feared for a while now: when you’re single in your thirties you are dealing with the Leftover Men.

Leftover Men. Ugh.

Nobody wants them. They are deficient in some way. For some, they are incapable of feeling anything or connecting to other human beings (like my dear friend Irish Two). Some set their standards too high. After being alone for so long it’s going to take someone really special to make them want a relationship. Some have no doubt been burned by heartless women who have made them into leftover shells of what could have been a perfectly good guy. And it’s not their fault. But it also doesn’t make them a charming or at the very least polite date.

So here I am. Aged 32. Surrounded by nothing but other people’s castoffs and the ones that nobody wanted in the first instance.

Bl**dy great.

And, no, no no no no no. I am not a Leftover Girl.

Something’s just gone horribly wrong somewhere. I guess I have to wait until the Non-Leftover Men start getting divorced. What a happy thought.

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F*** tinder

28 May

Met Tinder dude. Attractive.

I thought all was well.

Until 40 minutes in he decided he felt violently ill. Less than an hour later I’m on the bus home.

I guess he was instantly repulsed.

At least he paid for my drink.

I suppose.

eHarmony, the Irish, and Tinder

28 May

I was supposed to go on a date on Sunday. He cancelled on me. This is probably no bad thing since he was from the same part of Ireland as my ex, and had almost exactly the same job. Hmmmm. Anyway, I was almost relieved that he cancelled. He had apparently met someone else. My only issue is that he cancelled with only a few hours to go, and had I known I could have gone to Ikea that morning and bought boxes to help me sort out my flat a little. Well, maybe I have one other issue. But it’s not with Irish Four. It’s with eHarmony.

eHarmony. The root of all my problems. Had I never met my ex, I would never have had to go through this cycle of love and grief and pain. Admittedly, I chose to rejoin following the pizza of doom. But why eHarmony insists on matching me with endless Irish men who work in finance is beyond me. Although I’m thankful for the introduction to Irish Two who has turned out to be a strange but special friend.

Instead, I’ve now joined Tinder.

I’d heard horror stories of guys sending penis selfies, and messages that amount to sexual harassment. But, so far, it’s been good, clean, fun. And 154 matches is a nice little ego boost. The people are way less intense than on eHarmony. And they seem to have better chat. I also like the fact that they are forced to write their own script rather than resort to sending me screening questions or (worst of all) ‘Must Haves and Can’t Stands’. I have to ask eHarmony whether they have any cases of people who actually self-screen against these. Imagine. Imagine thinking, “Oh well, he looked hot and we seemed to have loads in common, but unfortunately I have poor personal hygiene, terrible manners, I lie, I cheat, and I’m a massive racist.” Seriously.

(To clarify, I take personal hygiene very seriously, I have beautiful manners, I hardly ever lie, I’ve never cheated, and I have no bad feelings towards any races (even the fricking Irish).)

So Tinder it is. And tonight is my first Tinder date.

I’m impressed already as he’s booked a table for cocktails at a nice bar in East London. Oh, and he’s not Irish.

Paws crossed.

Sometimes they are ukulele players

26 May

Lanakai-Ukulele-ULU11

Catfish Season Three is now upon us. Yeah yeah yeah. I have a lot to say about it. But this is just a quick comment for starters. An appetiser, if you will.

Tonight saw Nev and Max investigate yet another “rapper”, who was in an online relationship with an “instafamous” girl from Dallas. Sh** got real.

As we all know, “rapper” sends alarm bells ringing as Nev and Max have been stung by their type before. Chances are, dude ain’t a big time music success story.

But you won’t get any spoilers here. Promise.

I did, however, just want to pick up on a comment that Max makes. “Always rappers. It’s never a ukulele player.”

Oh Max! And you were my favourite!

In my case it was a fricking ukulele-playing-wannabe-hipster-lying-assholey kinda musician.

And, no, he didn’t pretend to be someone else. He just pretended to be in love with me. He used to sing me love songs while playing that f***ing ukulele.

When he went to work in New York last summer I actually bought myself a ukulele and downloaded a bunch of apps to learn to play. I was going to surprise him. I know. I’m cringing too.

But, of course, he had a bigger surprise for me. The pizza of doom.

I’d smash that ukulele over his f***ing head. Hard.

So, Max, yes – just sometimes – they are ukulele players.

Peonies

25 May

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Peonies are my favourite flowers.

They’re actually one of my favourite things.

So when May rolls around I get excited about filling my flat with their exploding, colourful petals. I buy them for myself. Last year I dropped more than enough hints to the ex. I think I even said, “I wish someone would buy me peonies!”. He didn’t believe in buying flowers. Just like he didn’t believe in the colour pink, breast reduction surgery, or not being a complete asshole.

Anyway, this week when I got back from holiday I was genuinely excited about buying myself peonies. Unlike my relationships, they did not disappoint. So beautiful. So eager to pop open and bask in sunshine on my windowsill.

But, I’m sitting watching them this morning as the petals start to fall, and drawing comparisons with the pizza of doom.

When I get my paws on peonies, they haven’t popped yet. There’s the anticipation. Hoping they’re going to look great. I make space for them in my home.

They open up and I actually am compelled to post a bunch of pictures on Facebook, such is my glee with how amazing they look.

But I start to worry. How long will they last?

And then petals do start to drop.

And drop.

And there comes a point when you wonder if it’s time to throw them away. They start to look a little ugly. They stink a little. These aren’t the gorgeous, feathery flowers you were looking at a week ago.

You have to get rid of the leftovers. Keeping dead flowers feels kind of morbid. The joy is gone.

But, remember, May will come again.

Stronger

23 May

One of my friends (male) started a new job last week. He’s already off sick.

Men. Pathetic.

It makes me think back to September when I started my new job in the depths of pizza of doom distress. I didn’t sleep. I could hardly eat. I was so completely miserable I couldn’t focus on anything. I used to wake up at 3 am every day and sit in the bath crying until 7 am. Then I’d throw on some clothes and head to the office.

I’m sure I made a great impression on my colleagues.

But the point is, I did it. I’m really hard on myself about not being over my ex, but I have to give myself credit for how far I’ve come and how completely impossible it seemed at the time. They say that the three most stressful things you can do in life are 1) break up, 2) change jobs, 3) move house. I did two at once. And mentally the third, because I was all ready to move in with him. I did it. Myself. And I’m stronger for it.

I think my challenge now is letting my guard down. Coming back out of my turtle shell and being open to new people.

As usual, Nashville has a great song to go with this thought.

Yet another life lesson from Grey’s Anatomy

21 May

I need to embrace some Dr Edwards and get the f*** rid of his memory.