The Dating Diaries

Shamefaced

2010-11-30T17:29:00.004+11:00

The title of this blog is how I feel. A comment from Ann O'Dyne, a boozy lunch with Deb today and a gentle email nudge from a mate reminded me that I have not blogged in (shock horror) almost 6 months. Forgive me for exaggerating, but where oh where has 2010 gone?

When I went offline earlier this year I had just finished studying and was in the process of setting up my own business as well as looking for a new job. (If you want to know what either is, my email is on the left). Fast forward to November 30 and I am due to commence my new job in 18 days and have been a small business owner for just over a month. If you don't mind me saying so, the process of achieving both has been a little exhausting.

Aside from that, not much has changed. Still living with and loving the gorgeous, lovely Tom. He's still being subjected to much teasing about impending engagements. Not from me, I hasten to add. Still have wonderful, slightly kooky friends such as Al and Deb. Still hearing far too much about other people's sex lives and philosophising madly about human relationships. Still catching the tram past Andrew's place every day. I have just been neglecting the blog world.

And yet something has felt like it was missing. I need to get back to externalising all my thoughts but turning on the laptop felt like too much work. Now that I don't have to write responses to selection criteria or business plans, it's a much more pleasurable exercise.

And you'll be seeing more of me.

xx

Strange crush #319

2010-06-17T20:13:00.004+10:00

I can't remember how many of these strange crushes I'm up to. I seem to have a lot of them. Does that make me fickle or just generous?

One that has been growing on me a lot recently is none other than (the dearly departed off a NZ cliff then returned from the dead) Jeff Goldblum.

It has certainly taken me by surprise. This is the guy I first saw on the big screen in Jurassic Park as a 9-year-old and whilst plenty of my other odd crushes have been my father's age, I've grown up knowing that Jeff is my father's age. Older, actually. It's about as bizarre as me suddenly developing a crush on my Dad's best mate. Well, except for the fact that I know my Dad's best mate and I don't have a crush on him. Digressing.

Back in high school in the late 90s, one of my friends was constantly banging on about how hot she thought Jeff was, particularly in The Fly. We all ignored her and put it down to attention seeking. After all, this is the same girl who wanted to have Sam Newman's babies and brought a 41-year-old to our Year 12 Formal and promptly told everyone that evening that he suffered from erectile dysfunction.

Lately though, I'm starting to see her point. Well, in regards to Goldblum at least.

I've not yet been able to bring myself to watch The Fly, but dear Jeff is looking pretty darn good in Law & Order: Criminal Intent and was rather dashing in Igby Goes Down. The dark hair, the hooded eyes, the voice, the correct posture... oh dear, I've given myself shivers.

Throw in the fact that not only is he quite good at this acting caper, he's also an accomplished jazz pianist and I'm half-tempted to follow him off that NZ cliff.

Anyone coming with us?

Red: the colour of romance & filing cabinets

2010-06-14T18:36:00.003+10:00

The World Cup is underway and so is winter in our neck of the woods. The past few weeks have seen lots of wind, rain and burrowing under the doona along with a ridiculous amount of red wine consumption. Oh, don't look at me like that. A girl has to keep warm, you know.

It's also seen my 2nd anniversary with the lovely Tom roll by. Despite the poor boy receiving an immense amount of pressure to propose from my girlfriends, he's still going out with me. Seems they want a wedding to go to and have decided that we're the most likely candidates even though neither of us is in a hurry to appease them. It has got to the point where I'm quite enjoying teasing them with text messages of a Saturday night along the lines of 'I said yes..... to dessert!'

We celebrated the two year milestone with a beautiful dinner at David's and I was spoiled with the gift of a bright red filing cabinet. Red, as some of you may have gathered, is my favourite colour and as I've plans to start my own business later this year, a filing cabinet was at the top of my wishlist. I spent all of Monday night happily transferring and alphabetising files from my concertina folders into the cabinet. I was in obsessive-compulsive HEAVEN and Tom knew it.

He's got past form for giving outstanding presents. Last year on our anniversary Tom cooked me dinner, followed by dessert of vanilla bean ice cream with not one, but two versions of ice magic - chocolate and mint chocolate. Ice magic has been my favourite ice cream topping since I was a kid and I often have trouble choosing between chocolate and mint chocolate. Two entire bottles ALL to myself? (Again) HEAVEN!

Whilst filing cabinets and ice cream topping may not seem the most romantic of gifts to some, to me they are the very epitome of romance and consideration. Any geezer can buy roses and jewellery but how many people, men and women alike, consider the small details that make their partner's day?

He keeps this up, I can guarantee I will say yes... to dessert.

And perhaps other things, too.

On my high-heeled horse

2010-05-31T18:01:00.007+10:00

Every so often I get a little bit manic and go through my wardrobe on a mission to 'clear it out'. Inevitably I'll find a few items I no longer wear and put them up on eBay to make a quick buck, then feel all sanctimonious because I have lessened my clutter.

I have a great many pair of heels from my previous life as a teacher, when the extra height helped scare students into good behaviour and the only walking I had to do was from the classroom to the staffroom. Nowadays, I cover several kms in a day, from home to the tram, the tram to work and work to meetings. Perhaps I'm getting older (I patiently await your firm rebuttals), but my feet just can't handle that mileage in 9cm stilettos. There's also my rather unfeminist theory that thanks to having the lovely Tom, I care less what male strangers think of my legs. Long live kitten heels!

Given my height, you'd be correct in thinking that my feet are not petite - they're a size 10 and I find that size 10s tend to sell like the proverbial in shoestores. Therefore, it isn't surprising that I've had no problem selling 4 pairs over the last few weeks, all in good condition and all well over 5cm high.

What is surprising is that 3 of the 4 pairs have gone to men. Just last week I sent a pair of pointy red stilettos to someone named Ralph in Sydney.

I really hope they've gone to some gorgeous drag queens or men with taste who like playing dress-up. I have fanciful visions of them adorning the foot of a glamazon lounging on a piano in a diaphanous gown like Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys.

Call me a prude, but I really don't want to imagine my beloved shoes being licked by someone with a foot fetish.

Love is a burning thing

2010-05-28T18:34:00.006+10:00

I've had today at home with a nasty throat infection. The sort that feels as though burning razorblades and fingernails are cohabiting in your throat and makes you sound like Darren Lockyer.

I can be the masochistic kind when it comes to illness. Normally I'll try to ride out a headache without resorting to painkillers and when it comes to sore throats, I'm the same. I can't stand throat lozenges (they make my teeth feel furry) and will grin and bear it for a few days rather than gargling Dettol.

Tom has just arrived home from work. Bearing some sort of antiseptic throat gargle. He's told me I must either take the gargle or drink his homemade concoction of crushed garlic, fresh ginger, lemon and boiling water. He swears the latter kills all germs and it wouldn't surprise me if it did - if I were a germ, I'd up and run if I smelled that coming towards me, too.

So it comes to this. Tom knows I'll do the gargle over the feral tea and is guilting me into it by using the 'if you love me you will' argument. GRRR!

If you hear screams of agony coming from Prahran, don't be alarmed. It'll just be me, taking my medicine. With love.

New girl crush

2010-05-28T12:25:00.004+10:00

I should say new girl crushes, actually, as I have two. Their names are Jean Johnson, 64, and the late Shirley Landells.

Last week Tom and I were flicking between channels when we came across a documentary on SBS called A Lady's Guide to Brothels*. Filmed in 2008 and narrated by journalist Nicky Taylor, it follows these two members of the Hampshire Women's Institute (a group rather similar to our own CWA, I imagine), on their crusade to legalise brothels in Britain. They're not madams or shrewd businesswomen looking to turn a quick pound. They're just regular British women, mothers and grandmothers who want to make prostitution safer for the girls involved.

It all started after 5 prostitutes were murdered in 2006. Jean felt enough was enough and so raised the subject of prostitute safety with her local branch of the WI. After receiving almost unanimous support from the 7,000+ members of the WI to investigate the licencing of brothels further, Jean and Shirley did so, in no small part by taking off on a world tour to investigate legalised prostitution.

A quick look at Jean and Shirley affirms that they're not the sort of people you expect to see sitting in an Amsterdam window touting for clients. And yet that's exactly what they do, albeit fully and rather smartly dressed. Shirley, 73 at the time of filming, even gets a wink.

Later, in Nevada, they meet Airforce Amy, who shares her case of sex toys and a special upside-down move, before the ladies don pink flufffy robes and join the line-up at the Moonlite Bunny Ranch. Their final stop is New Zealand, where they view several small owner operated brothels, known as SOOBs.

Determined to understand what life is like for working girls, these two feisty ladies ask some hard questions and willingly expose themselves to things they didn't even know existed. I daresay it will take me a long time to forget their expressions when they come across something called an 'Ass Midget' in a UK sex store.

Once back in the UK, they quickly set about using their learnings to convert an old campervan into a best practice brothel-on-wheels, complete with towels, condoms, talcom powder and a panic button. They drive it around English villages to show to their fellow WI members before heading off in said campervan to hand-deliver a petition calling for the licencing of brothels to Westminister and Downing St.

What I admire most about these two ladies is the grace with which they set about their tasks. Always polite and considerate, they treat every person they speak to with dignity and respect, thereby changing the prostitution issue from one of morality to one of humanity.

Brothels remain unlicenced in the UK but Jean is still fighting. After the death of Shirley in October 2008, she stepped it up. No longer satisfied with just legalising prostitution, Jean now wants to get rid of the stigma attached to it. As she says in an interview with the UK's Daily Mail, the girls involved are "somebody's daughters, somebody's granddaughters, somebody's sisters."

Thank you to Jean and Shirley for reminding us that all of our girls - regardless of their profession - deserve to be treated with respect.

*You can watch A Lady's Guide to Brothels at the SBS website by clicking the link above.

Strange crush #871

2010-05-25T20:56:00.003+10:00

Tom has just come home for the second night in a row to find me sitting at the laptop in my red butcher's apron. I've been experimenting with domesticity and by that, I mean cooking dinner. Baking is my thing, but cooking? Well, let's just say I'm honoured that Tom is willing to risk his life by eating my chicken.

I think the cooking must be a hangover from the weekend. Tom had a rugby game on Saturday morning so I decided to brave the market shop by myself. I felt very grown up wheeling my little trolley around Prahran Market and ordering pieces of chicken like I knew what I was doing. (Then again, I'm 27 years old. I probably should know what I'm doing by now). Once I had my chicken and pasta and mussels and vegies I had to do something with them - hence dinner the past two nights.

In all, it was quite a lovely weekend. Tom's team won, I got the groceries home and baked a lemon and prosecco cake. Saturday evening we had a gorgeous dinner at Il Solito Posto then went to see Tex Perkins' The Man in Black. Oh. My. Goodness.

If you're a Johnny Cash fan, you need to see this show. If you're not a Johnny Cash fan, you need to see this show, because you will be by the end. Tex and co do a brilliant job of telling the man in black's life story whilst doing credit to his music. I've not listened to anything but Cash since we saw the show and have occasional fantasies that I've a voice like June Carter's.

Sadly, the Melbourne encore season has just come to an end but the show is next in Adelaide, Canberra and Perth. If you're domiciled on this continent, consider going. It is worth the plane ticket.

Which, in a very roundabout way brings me to another of my strange crushes: Tex Perkins. Sure, he's old enough to be my father, but he can work a crowd like few people I've ever seen. And what's not to love about a man who's tall, rocks a suit, has great hair and can sing like J.R. Cash?

Dear Akermanis STOP

2010-05-20T17:38:00.004+10:00

Dear Jason Akermanis STOP You have made me very upset today STOP Love MD

If you're not from around these parts then you may not know what I'm talking about. Mr. Akermanis is an Australian footballer and today wrote this piece for a newspaper, advising any gay players in the Australian Football League (AFL) not to come out. What utter - excuse my language - bullshit.

I have so many problems with his piece that I don't know where to begin. For the record, I have read Akermanis' column and not just the hype surrounding it. I know what was said and I have made certain to read it several times. He may well have had good intentions in publishing the piece and I can see this in parts. But the vast majority of what he has written just. Gets. My. Back. Up.

First, he claims that a gay player coming out would be 'international news and could break the fabric of a club'. (I'm not sure you all know how hard it is right now not to type 4-letter expletives).

I imagine that it would be difficult coming out in a football club in the first place, but after someone says you may 'break the fabric of a club' in doing so, who would want to? Some of these clubs have long and proud histories, at times threatened by players indulging in alcoholism, drugs, gambling and wife-bashing. But hey, that doesn't matter. According to Aker, coming out as a proud gay man is absolutely the worst thing you can do to your club.

Don't tell that to Welsh rugby captain Gareth Thomas, who came out publicly late last year. He had battled depression for many years and was near suicidal before he told his coach, Scott Johnson, he was gay in 2006. Johnson, correctly deeming that Thomas would need support, told some of his teammates, who then went to Thomas. Their response? 'We don't care. Why didn't you tell us before?'

When Thomas went public 3 years later, largely to provide encouragement for other gay people in sport, he also received overwhelming fan support. Yet Akermanis doesn't think AFL players and fans have quite progressed to that level. One wonders if he thinks they ever will.

Akermanis goes on to claim that a player's coming out would subsequently make his teammates uncomfortable in the change rooms afterwards. That statement is possibly one of the most egotistical I have ever heard. Ooh, he's gay, he must fancy me. What's more, it's childish. 12-year-old boys used to make this argument to me when I was teaching and my response to them is the same as it is to Aker.

Just because someone is gay it does not mean they find you attractive, Jason. Not all men are attractive to gay men, just as not all men are attractive to straight women. Imagine if I walked into your club change rooms when you had your boy-parts out. I am heterosexual and I can say without a sliver of doubt that I would not find you attractive - even if I could see your doodle.

I'm sure you'll all tell me if I'm drawing a long bow here, but isn't Aker's statement rather akin to saying that women should cover up when in the company of men because it would be otherwise 'too tempting' for the men not to take advantage of them? Come on, Aker, give people some credit for behaving with decency.

He then goes on to say that the suicide rate for same sex attracted youth is 4-6 times higher than the average for young males. And he'd like us to deal with this by telling gay players to lie about themselves. To consider their sexuality a dirty little secret that their colleagues and friends won't or can't accept. Because some people might not be able to deal with it and alienate them as a result.

Gee, wouldn't it be grand if we could punish people who do act with prejudice against gay players? Wait! We can. There's these wonderful new-fangled things called anti-discrimination laws!

Again, Aker, you're not giving anyone any credit. Do you really think there aren't enough strong gay males out there to make a stand, or enough principled straight players to say 'this is not ok', were it to happen?

Tom and I heard this story break on the news this morning and we laughed at Akermanis' floundering responses to his grilling from the anchor. Tom then got rather angry. He plays competition rugby and is routinely naked in a change room with other blokes. I asked him how he would feel about one of his teammates being gay. He said it wouldn't matter. I can't remember enough to quote him verbatim, but the gist was that honestly, you'd have to be pretty shallow to give up friendship because someone prefers the same sex.

I have a smart boyfriend, don't I? Perhaps he and the Welsh rugby team can give Aker some lessons.

Don't tell Mama

2010-05-18T21:08:00.005+10:00

How many of you have secrets from your parents?

Not the I'm-an-adult-film-star or I-have-3-husbands type. I mean the ones that seem little yet somehow turn us into sneaky teenagers when we think other people may find out. Things like hoeing into a giant jar of nutella or making so much noise the neighbours complain. Things that we likely got into trouble for as kids and for whatever reason, have never progressed past.

I don't claim to be all that well-adjusted but truth be told I've never really kept any secrets from my parents. Which is why it surprised me when a friend of mine, Blake, announced that as of Friday he's going off the gaspers - cold turkey style. He'd also really appreciate it if we didn't make any reference to his smoking for the next week.

Why? The parents are coming to town.

This made me laugh out loud. Blake is a 37 year old man and perfectly capable of making - and living with - his own choices. He has a successful career, a flat and a broad circle of friends. He knows the dangers that smoking carries and has made an informed decision to continue doing so. And yet his parents can't know?

It seems he told the olds he'd quit several years ago and now can't bring himself to admit that he's relapsed. When I pressed him as for why, he said he simply couldn't bear to disappoint them, particularly with a nurse for a Mum and a reformed (and now vehemently anti-) smoker Dad.

Despite what Blake says, I can't help but wonder if the choice not to tell them is more for himself than his parents. They might be unhappy initially but I'm sure they would get past it. In the scheme of things, the fact that their son is a smoker probably won't matter too much to them.

Yet the weight of their disappointment is something Blake doesn't want to bear. And I can't blame him. The most devastating thing my parents could say to me when I was small wasn't that they were angry; it was that they were disappointed in me.

No matter how old you are, I don't think it ever gets easier to stomach.

How to make an impression on the in-laws

2010-05-13T17:44:00.005+10:00

And I don't necessarily mean a good impression, either.

Tom and I were having lunch with friends at their place recently. It was quite a last minute thing on a autumn afternoon - salads slapped together, bottles of wine dusted off, an anti-pasto selection of whatever was yet to expire in the fridge. Relaxed and comfortable.

Sitting on Dougal's patio in the late afternoon sun, I could hear a song drifting up from a neighbour's radio. Not one of my personal favourites, it was the undeservedly popular Sexy Bitch. In between bites of kabana, I nudged Tom.

'Hey! It's Mum's song!'

Dougal and Eileen looked at me in a mix of horror and disgust. Perhaps I should explain.

Late last year, my aunt and uncle threw a party to celebrate their 50th birthdays. Our family is very close but geographically dispersed, so big occasions like these are welcomed by all as a chance to get together and create mayhem. And so 25 people packed their bags and headed to Queensland.

It would have been a logistical nightmare, but my uncle Vince is an enterprising (and generous) soul. He and my aunty put their parents, siblings and partners up at their place, then hired 2 serviced apartments so that us 15 kids had somewhere to sleep. Every bed and couch was taken but we were together and we had a fridge full of champagne. What more did we need?

The party itself was wonderful - a fabulous safari-themed adventure, complete with pith helmets and fire twirlers. At one point Anna and three of our cousins climbed fully clothed into Vince and Marie's ensuite bathtub to re-enact less modest photos taken 15 years ago. We had wardrobe malfunctions involving glasses of wine, a mid-party kitchen raid and grandparents tearing up the dancefloor to Lady Gaga's Pokerface. It was mad and loud and memorable.

I imagine that if this was the first time you'd ever met our family, it might have been a bit intimidating. This was the position that my cousin Sam's girlfriend, Bree, found herself in. She grew up in an outback country town and at 22, is less worldly than my much younger cousins. This isn't a problem in itself - everyone's different. It does become a problem when you abuse other people's hospitality, though.

Without an invitation, Bree decided that she was coming with Sam to Queensland and subsequently did so. She proudly told us that the party was a chance for her to get drunk on as much free wine as possible. Uhuh. Not a great first impression, exactly.

We realised that she intended on living up to her vows early in the evening when she fell into a garden bed and needed assistance getting out. Some would take this as a sign to slow down. Not Bree. I'll give the girl this much, as least she keeps her promises.

Later in the evening I was chatting with Mum and a few other relatives when Bree ambled over to us. Glass in one hand and a blaring iPhone in the other, she grabbed Mum in a bearhug. What followed has become stuff of legend.

'Let's dance!'
'Oh, I-'
'Dance, Sexy Bitch, Dance!'
'Pardon?'
'Dance! Come on, you sexy bitch!'

Mum demurred, saying she didn't know the song and would perhaps join in later. This seemed to appease Bree and she toddled off in the direction of the bar. We all stared after her in muted shock, then burst into shocked laughter.

My Mum is a very elegant lady. She's quite liberal, but calling her a sexy bitch is perhaps a bridge too far. Which is precisely what made it so funny. Of all the marks to pick that night, Bree chose her?

And, strangely, this was not the funniest moment of the night.

Oh no, that honour went to 75-year-old Oma, who, needing help with the cake, stuck her head outside and asked in her thick Dutch accent where the 'Sexy Bitch' was.

I've heard a lot of things from elderly ladies, but I never expected that to be one of them.

Blog, interrupted

2010-05-12T19:32:00.007+10:00

I woke up this morning and realised it was May. Mid-May. Where has 2010 gone?

Last time I wrote I had just had an encounter with John Waters of Playschool fame. In the ensuing weeks I had two more encounters with him; one at a Southbank restaurant and another on a Melbourne street. I'll ignore the fact that he was in a Hannie Rayson play at the Arts Centre; I prefer to think that he was stalking me.

Since then 4 months have flown by. So much has happened and yet not much at all. I shan't bore you with the minutiae.

But I have missed this blog. I missed the people who frequent it and whose blogs I frequent. Deb changed jobs earlier this year and we no longer see each other as much as we would like. Over a catch-up dinner Monday, she urged me to get back to blogging, if only so that she could keep up with my news. Cough cough Deb - if I'm back in, so are you.

Just after Christmas I had drinks with an old teaching friend. Stace has always been the mothering type, despite her being only a few years older than myself. When things went south with Richard, she was there for me. Handkerchief in hand and judgement suspended. When Tom came along, she was ebulliently enthusiastic on my behalf.

Over a lovely pinot noir, she told me how contented I looked. Filled with wine and cheer, I waxed lyrical about my happiness and came to a realisation.

I'm becoming my mother.

I used to be so ambitious. I wanted a career (as a globe-trotting war correspondent, no less) and financial independence and designer handbags and acknowledgement and wouldn't be bothered if I never married or had children. As a know-it-all teenager, I used to badger my mother. Didn't she want more than just to be someone's mother? Didn't she want the glory of having done something with her life?

I shudder now to think I once said that. If I ever have children, I hope they're a lot nicer than their mother was.

No, Mum would say. She just wanted to be with Dad and to raise her girls. If she could live a good life, raise her children well and be loved and healthy, that would be enough for her.

And as I told Stace on that magnificent summer evening, that's how I feel, too.

I have my health. I have somewhere to live. I have people who I love and who love me. I have Tom.

Maybe one day we'll have a family, too. And that will be enough for me.

Pretty hard to live in a designer handbag.

Whetting the appetite

2010-01-07T20:55:00.004+11:00

Just home from dinner at a Chapel St pizzeria with Tom and our two German houseguests. The girls have been here since Sunday (hence the lack of posts) and fly out to Singapore tomorrow so took us out to dinner to say farewell. Jolly nice of them.

Halfway through our pizza and pasta I looked up to see a familiar face. One that I have known since childhood and always found comforting, like a favourite uncle.

Ahem. In recent years, however, I have come to find this face sexy, which is a little disconcerting given that the man in question is older than my father. Perhaps it was because he played Captain von Trapp on stage once?

Yep, it was John Waters.

Think I might be going out for dinner more often.

Laying my ghosts to rest

2010-01-02T16:54:00.003+11:00

Having had this blog for a few years now, I'm starting to realise that the names I gave some of my ex-boyfriends weren't particularly imaginative - or apt, for that matter. What was I thinking when I named one The Boy and another Gorgeous? Cripes, was I a sop. What's more, I sadly made that all-too-common mistake of confusing infatuation with something much bigger with each of them.

Yes, yes, I know it's easy to say, but having had a blissful 19 months with Tom I can see that my previous relationships haven't even come close to what this is. For one thing, our relationship has never felt like work nor has there ever been any drama involved. We've each always known where we've stood and are conscious to never take the other for granted. It's been lovely. And it's worked.

Ghosts of boyfriends past could not have been further from my mind. Until recently, that is.

At a pre-Christmas party, Lydia told me how she's seen Gorgeous out and about a few times. Turns out he's back from wherever he went - if indeed he went - and living back in the neighbourhood that borders ours. At least, that was the assumption that Lyds drew from where she saw him as she hadn't actually spoken to him.

This didn't bother me. We ended things on a good note and the brief contact that we've had in the time since then has always been very polite. Running into him would be no different to running into an old friend. (Except for the fact that most of my old friends have not seen me naked. But I digress).

What did bother me was the freakiness of this universe. A fortnight later, he popped up in a dream of mine one night as a bit player. The following day, I returned from lunch to find I had an email from him.

Nothing of any consequence, just a hey-how-are-you-hope-you're-well email. The kind that really has no purpose other than a fishing expedition (cynically, I wondered if he was single for the Christmas party season and looking for some action). Not that it matters. This fish was hooked long ago - and by another fisherman.

I often expect to feel something when I see or hear from exes. A small frisson of excitement or a spark of vindication, perhaps. But there was...nothing.

Having been raised with good manners, I eventually responded with a 'hey-i'm-well-hope-you're-well-tata' email. Because if anything, the ghost of Gorgeous made me realise that I truly wish all my exes well. Even the bastardy ones.

I think a lot of it has to do with my level of contentment in life. I'm happy, I'm healthy and I have a good standard of living. More importantly, I have all the love I need from a variety of places. From Tom, from my friends and from my family.

I'm in my happy place and that lets me lay my ghosts to rest. Without pain, regret or animosity. Moreover, with gratitude for lessons learned and wisdom acquired.

Ah gee, wouldn't the world be marvellous if we were all in our happy places?

May you find yours in 2010. (End sermon).

The more things change, the more they stay the same

2009-12-30T18:40:00.004+11:00

Christmas and work over for another year with the new year not particularly far away. Where has all the time gone, I wonder?

Each time New Year's Eve rolls around I think the new year is going to be momentous - things will happen, circumstances will change, I will learn new things. And whilst I'd like to think that that's all true, I'm also learning that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Take Christmas, for example. Those of you who've been around long enough will remember that last year my uncle Fred got tipsy and tried giving Tom and I 'fertility shots' in an attempt to get me knocked up. This year, my sister thought she'd tell him he'd succeeded.

Tom, Anna and I were sitting on the back deck on Christmas day when Felix, Fred's son, arrived with his fiance, Beth. We were exchanging Christmas greetings when, for reasons still unknown, Anna thought it would be hilarious to tell Fel and Beth that I was pregnant.

They rushed back inside to tell the extended family whilst Anna giggled, I stood there looking gobsmacked and Tom spluttered in the general direction of my wine glass.

'She's not! She's drinking, look!'

But it was too late.

Before we knew it there were no fewer than 30 very excited people on the deck clapping and screaming. My protests fell on deaf ears as both Tom and I were rushed by family and friends eager to congratulate the would-be parents. When I picked someone up in a hello hug, I was promptly told to put her down as I should not be lifting 'in your condition'.

Cripes. It was only when Anna eventually admitted that she had made it all up that the frenzy abated. (That said, I did feel a little saddened afterwards. Everyone seemed so much happier when I was faux-pregnant!)

The message didn't appear to get through to Uncle Fred though - or perhaps the Christmas drinks had blurred it somewhat. Later in the evening, he sidled up to me.

'Hey, MD darling, great news about the baby.'
'There isn't one! Anna made it up.'
'Yeah, yeah. I think it'll be a boy. I want you to name it after me -Tom Junior!'

Families + Christmas = funny

Hope you all had a lovely Christmas. Lots of love and good wishes for 2010, too.

It's not what you think

2009-11-25T14:12:00.006+11:00

Elle and I have been swapping emails today at work and after a lengthy update on all that's been happening in her life, I received the below as an email post-script.

Does your signature say that you are a Relationship Executive? If that's true then can you please find me an intelligent, knowledgable in world issues, musically inclined, Russian speaking (but not Russian), tall, skinny beard* who won't impinge on my independence? Thanks.

True, I am a relationship executive but one of the corporate rather than personal variety. Although I'm always happy to hear stories and try out my armchair psychology as this blog well demonstrates. Perhaps I could turn it into a new line of employment?

Hmm. Looks like I have my work cut out for me.

* By this she means a man with a beard. Not the other sort of beard, Al.

It's not me, it's you

2009-11-22T16:11:00.005+11:00

Isn't it a beautiful Melbourne Sunday? For those of you who aren't locals, we're in the midst of the hottest November on record. After a week of 30+ temperatures the heat broke admirably on Friday with flash storms and lots and lots (and lots) of rain. As I type right now I've a window open to watch it coming down, a cup of tea at my elbow and a freshly baked date and walnut loaf cooling on the kitchen bench. How thoroughly domestic of me.

I need it to be a domestic Sunday as I've exhausted myself somewhat this past week. With the end of the year looming, each and every weekend until 2010 is booked up and the past 2 weeks have been no exception. Wine and late evenings are often involved. No wonder I'm wrecked.

Friday night I met Heidi for a few bottles of wine and a cheese board at a beautiful pub on Commercial Road. Heids is single, utterly gorgeous and never without a date story or two. She reckoned she had a story that I would find interesting. She was right, although I reserve the right to add the word gob-smacking.

Heids recently met a chap and agreed to meet him for a Saturday afternoon date. She planned it for the afternoon with the theory that she could keep it casual this way. If things weren't going well or there was no chemistry she would just say she had some errands to run and leg it.

But there was chemistry. Lots of it. As we settled comfortably into our 5 cheese platter and rather Swedish-looking surrounds (blonde wood, lamplight, beautiful fabrics) she told me how much she had enjoyed the date.

They met at another classy pub in the area for a late lunch. He was tall, mid-30s, attractive and well-mannered and lunch was surprisingly easy. They had lots to talk and laugh about and there wasn't an awkward minute.

When lunch ended he suggested another drink. When the drinks ended, they played pool then sat down for another drink. By now it was well into the evening and Heidi was relieved that she hadn't had to pull the 'Oh my, is that the time? I have to go to the post office/dog washer/ gynaecologist' excuse. In fact, as she put it, she was thinking that it had been a bloody great date and she'd rather like to see this bloke again. Until it got late.

At around 9.30 Heidi decided to call it quits. The young man she had been with was happy to do so too. Provided he got to go home with her, that is.

Heids was more than a little surprised by this. Sure, the date had been great but it was only the first one. They had got along well but there'd been no mad snogging, dirty dancing, discussions of baby names or anything, in fact, that might make him think a leg-over was a certainty. As a result he didn't take it well when Heids said no.

Indignant and intoxicated with admiration for himself, he concluded there must be only reason for this.

'Are you a lesbian?'

As she recounted this tale to me such was my surprise that a small chunk of ash brie lodged in my throat and we had to take time out to prevent my choking. We were soon back on track though.

'He didn't ask you that!'
'He did. In all seriousness, too.'
'He honestly thought that was the only reason you wouldn't want to go home with him?'
'Yep.'

Part of me wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation whilst another part of me wanted to smack him for his arrogance. Heids told me that she just said goodbye, climbed into a cab and promptly put a cross through his name on her mental date list.

Given that this bloke thinks the only reason a woman won't sleep with him is because she's gay, I imagine he hasn't gone home, nor shall he be going home with anyone for quite some time.

I really hope he doesn't work for the government's census bureau. Imagine how skewed the figures on Melbourne's lesbian population would be.

The more things change...

2009-11-16T20:23:00.004+11:00

...the more they stay the same!

It has been months since I last got on here, although I must confess that isn't by choice. I've had so much to say and write about but the same excuse abounds - life gets in the way. There's work to be done, groceries to be purchased, friends to visit, cakes to be baked and cuddles to be had. Oh, and then to top it all off Tom and I took ourselves off overseas recently. We're only recently back from some time in Mexico and New York.

When all is said and done, nothing has changed around here too much apart from the accrual of a few more pieces of furniture. I'm still incredibly happy, fulfilled and with a great appreciation for
cake (in all its forms). Tom is still gorgeous, considerate and kind. Al and Deb are still hilarious and supportive. And others are still pushing for Tom and I to make our relationship official.

Several weeks ago, we journeyed north to Queensland for Tom's cousin's wedding. It was a beautiful occasion and I met much of his extended family for the first time. We had a big recovery bbq at his aunt's the following day and much of the conversation did not revolve around the wedding just past, but about the one yet to take place.

Ours.

Now, you haven't missed anything. We're not engaged. But through nothing more than genetic good luck I managed to catch the bouquet and it sent his aunties into planning mode. I must confess not an awful lot of effort was involved, particularly when you consider that in my heels I was a good head taller than all the other girls. They leaped, scratched and huffed. I extended my arm, bent my wrist. And Tom's mum went mental.

Before I even realised I'd caught the scented, thorny bundle a throbbing mass of Tom's female relatives encircled me, shrieked a bit and pointed at poor Tom. Oh well. At least I know I passed family muster.

But wait, there's more.

Last weekend was my grandpa's 80th. The same grandpa who encouraged me to get knocked up earlier this year, married or not. All the family had flown in for the party and he was at his sentimental best, tears and all.

So I really shouldn't have been surprised when he hit Tom up for marriage but the manner in which he did so did knock me somewhat. In front of over 60 of his nearest and dearest, Gramps ended his speech by looking Tom in the eye and announcing that with any luck he had at least one future grandson-in-law in the room. And he'd really like it if someone could give him a great grandchild, too.

A lesser man would have fainted, but luckily my Tom is made of stern stuff.

I know I'm blessed.

A very bad but happy MD

2009-08-11T19:17:00.004+10:00

Hello, lovely people.

A comment from Mike & Ann and a conversation with Deb at work today reminded me that I've been very bad at blogging. I want to blog and I have a notebook full of post ideas but this living together caper gets in the way sometimes. Maybe it's the newness of it all, but at the moment I love nothing more than coming home for a relaxed dinner and cuddles on the couch with Tom.

The new living arrangements have turned me into some bizarro domestic goddess. The girl who still doesn't know how to cook rice unless it comes in a microwaveable bag now spends her Saturday mornings at the market after menu planning for the coming week.

And don't even get me started on the baking. Following my Swedish sojourn, I've become obsessed with the concept of fika and have started baking all sorts of goodies to take into work for morning tea. Worse still, I actually like doing it and am now taking requests from my colleagues.

Sheesh.

In truth, the living together has been incredibly easy. Ariel, my best friend since childhood, rang about a fortnight after we moved in to ask if I'd discovered Tom hiding any irritating habits I wasn't aware of before. Nope. Not a one.

I'm a little in awe of how simple it has all been. It's wonderful.

So wonderful I'll have to keep blogging about it.

Hope you've all got high sugar tolerance levels.

She always forgets her manners

2009-07-06T18:39:00.010+10:00

The beautiful Tom is working tonight so for the first time since we moved in to our darling little flat I have some time to blog. He has been very kind in offering me time and space in which to do so earlier but given that the only internet access we have is from a little dongle-thingy that isn't entirely reliable, I wanted to wait until I was able to take my time with it. By the way, if any of you happen to know of any brilliant wireless/naked ADSL internet deals going, I'm all ears.

The move itself was seamless if you forget that both of us had the flu and that the flat is located at the top of a spiral staircase. Oh, and that we were given a parking ticket by a bored inspector who chose to ignore the fact that the moving truck was a) parked legally and b) in the middle of a move. Thankfully, we've a band of strong and lovely friends who came over to assist and we were unpacked that same night.

In the time since our move we've been getting to know the local area. Not that we really needed to; most of our weekends were spent either at the market or a cafe on Toorak road or at the pub around the corner beforehand. But knowing that we can now wander down for a $4 pizza whenever we want is somewhat intoxicating. As is having a practical use for the red kitchenware I've been collecting for the past 5 years or so.

Last night I went to see The Sound of Music at the Astor, a beautiful old art deco cinema on Chapel St with Heidi and Nat, some school friends. Sitting in the Astor's faded glory, eating cherry-ripe flavoured choc tops and listening to Julie Andrews whilst gazing at Christopher Plummer -oh, Christopher Plummer - it was a rather magic afternoon. Finishing the evening with afore-mentioned cheap pizzas and a bottle of red made for a perfectly civilised winter Saturday.

For reasons I can't remember, talk turned to Judy Blume novels read in adolescence, with particular reference to Forever. If you're not familiar with Judy's work, this is the book that caused quite a stir when first published for its references to teenage sex, pubic hair and bodily secretions.

Strangely, we all remembered it for the fact that the main male character had named his penis Ralph. Heidi was perplexed by this, having never encountered one with a name herself.

H: In all my years, I've never come across a penis with a name. Have you?
MD: Come to think of it, no, I haven't.
N: Neither have I. But then, I've never asked. (A look of worry crosses her face.) Is that rude?

Cue laughter and snorts from Heids and I.

Wonderful movie action, great food and drink and time spent with people who make you laugh. Perfect Sunday indeed.

Does this make me a twit?

2009-06-24T15:33:00.002+10:00

I've done it. I've finally succumbed to the monster that is Twitter.

I'm still not entirely sure about Twitter. Honestly, isn't it just one big great ego machine? Surely no one is so bored that they wish to hear all the ins and outs of other's lives as they occur? The one upside that I can see is that I can write my blog ideas down as they occur to me - but are there any others?

We'll see, I guess. I know Ling is a fellow twitterer - is anyone else?

My ego speaks here.

Try before you buy

2009-06-23T17:01:00.005+10:00

I spoke to my dear Nan on Sunday. Seems the bush telegraph is working well and truly as she already knew that Thomas (as she calls him) and I were moving in together.

Normally I'd be worried about how someone of her age would take it, particularly given my Dad's somewhat traditionalist stance. Then again, it wasn't so long ago that Nan told a rather nosy man where he could stick it when he tried to upset her by asking about my living arrangements.

Still, I don't know that I was prepared for what she told me during our phone call.

Nan: So, darling, I hear you and Thomas are moving in together!
MD: Yes Nan, next Saturday. We found a place really easily.
N: Great news! I think it's a fabulous idea. Best to try before you buy, don't you think?
M: Well, yes, quite.
N: I mean, if I'd lived with my first husband before we got married, I NEVER would have married him. Would have saved myself a lot of heartache there. Oh yes, you're doing the right thing.
M: It feels that way, Nan. I'm really happy and he's a lovely boy.
N: Good, good. And you know what I've always said.
M: What's that?
N: Well, it's far more comfortable to do it in a bed than in the backseat of a car. And this way your mother knows where you are, too.

This from my 91 year old Nanna. Just when I think I have her pigeonholed in the crocheting, biscuit-baking, blue rinse set, she blows away all my assumptions.

That said, when I mentioned it to Mum afterwards her face quickly turned to thunder.

Mum: She said what?
MD: That I should try before I buy. And that in a bed is better than the backseat of a car.
Mum: Hmmph. She didn't have that view before your Dad and I got married. She would have killed us both if we'd tried it.

It must be so much easier to be a grandparent than a parent.

If you see me walking down the street

2009-06-22T17:56:00.005+10:00

Aren't all of you lovely to post such good wishes about the move! It's truly exciting for me, but when you know others are excited on your behalf it means so much more.

I left work at lunchtime today. I'd had a funny tummy since yesterday and given the pig flu that's circulating of late, figured it was best to go home lest I infect the entire office.

Strolling through the Degraves St subway to catch my train, I noticed a figure coming towards me. Hmm. Looked a bit like Richard from far away. Certainly walked like him. Wearing a funny hat in an attempt to be avant garde, too.

Shit.

It WAS Richard. What's more, he'd seen me, too.

We each did an admirable job of ignoring the other as we crossed paths. Sitting down on the train moments later, I was amazed at my complete lack of feeling. I've not seen him since I left my previous job 18 months ago and had imagined that when/if our paths ever did cross again, it would be traumatic. But it wasn't.

Truth be told, it was like seeing someone that you might have gone to primary school with. You have a vague recollection of the face, but not enough to go over and say hi.

I told a girlfriend who'd seen me through the messy part this afternoon. She asked how I'd dealt with it and I commented on my lack of feeling - no anger, no pain, nothing. Her response?

That's good then. It has been placed where it should be - in the past.

Amen to that, sister.

Home and hosed

2009-06-18T18:31:00.005+10:00

I've been back from my travels for almost 3 weeks now and am only just finding the time to sit down and write. So much happened whilst I was away - learnings of a professional and personal nature, weight gain (mmm, fika) and sightseeing to name a few.

Having time away from work gave me an opportunity to think about lots of things. Something about lots of forests and picturesque lakes encourages one's mind to wander. I wondered - what do I want from life, my job, my relationship? The time apart gave Tom time to think, too. Happily, we both reached the same conclusions - we want to spend more time together, not less.

So, once we arrived home from Malaysia - where everyone referred to us as 'honeymoon' with singsong voices and knowing smiles - we started looking for a place together. The Melbourne rental market being what it is, we expected the search to take several weeks. But the day after submitting our first application, we were accepted. We move in together a week from Saturday.

Looking to share our good news, I rang Dad to tell him that we 'd been successful. Dad asked where it was, whether it had off-street parking and how much we were paying. He gruffly told me that 'it's alright, I guess.' Right. Not the response I'd been hoping for.

I was upset. I've always looked for my parents' support and not getting it wholly makes me uneasy. I called Dad back and told him that he'd upset me and asked why he wasn't entirely supportive. It took a bit of pushing, but evenutally I got it out of him. Seems my Dad is somewhat of a traditionalist and is a little troubled by the idea of his daughter moving in with a bloke without 'a sign of commitment'.

Dad and Tom have a brilliant relationship and Dad's said how happy he is that we're together - his problem isn't with my choice of partner, but that I haven't a ring on my finger. He knows there are no guarantees in life, but he would feel more comfortable if we made our feelings for one another 'official' - to minimise the risk of my getting hurt.

Maybe I'm setting the cause of feminism back 20 years here, but I love that Dad cares enough to want a commitment for his girl. And it's good to know that if I'm ever dying to get engaged and Tom isn't quite getting the hint, Dad's waiting to be enlisted.

Disappearing MD

2009-04-15T23:34:00.004+10:00

But only for a few weeks, I promise.

As threatened, I have packed my laptop and flown the coop to beautiful Sweden. After a hellishly long 28 hour journey, I arrived this morning and was instantly bewitched by the natural beauty of this country. Fir trees, rolling plains, peaceful lakes - it's pretty much all you expect and more.

The trip that I'm on involves a rather tight schedule, so unfortunately I'll be around even less than I have been of late. I will be trying to commandeer some laptop time whenever I can but fear that inspiration may not come as often. Or if it does, you may be subjected to long, dithering rants about how much I miss Tom (I'm not seeing him until we meet in Malaysia 5 weeks from today).

So, dear friends, for now I bid you goodnight - but not goodbye.

Like any good temptress, I want to leave you wanting more...

A different sort of stimulus package

2009-04-02T18:03:00.004+11:00

Yesterday was Dad's birthday and all the family gathered around. Sat around our dining table eating and fighting over gravy allocations were Mum and Dad, Anna and Dave and Tom and I.

It was the first time that we had all been together since the family wedding in Sydney, so it was inevitable that there'd be a slight recap. After all, it was a wedding. Although we'd all had a few, surely between us we could remember the entire event if we just put our heads together?

I couldn't resist sharing the story about Grandpa and his apparent keenness to become a great-grandfather. This came as a surprise to Dad, but not to Mum. Oh no. For Gramps had been on the phone that very day.

"He said he's going to write a sign with a dollar amount on it and whoever pops out the first great-grandchild gets the money. He's calling it 'Granddad's baby bonus'."

He didn't.

He did.

This revelation made my jaw slack with shock.

It made Anna ask, 'how much?' (And shortly thereafter made her boyfriend Dave turn a peculiar shade of puce).

He was kidding, wasn't he? Mum didn't think so.

According to Mum, he asked her to gently encourage Tom and I to get busy as he doesn't think my cousin and his new wife will be breeding any time soon. Apparently they're 'too career focused'.

I suggested Anna as an alternative - she likes kids. She's a primary school teacher, for heavens' sake and has ben with Dave for almost 4 years. But according to Gramps, she is probably too young. Which means that I'm the only one left.

Bloody hell. I never thought I'd see the day that a bounty was placed on my womb.