Happy birthday to me. Kooky single mother clown comedy writer. Please give generously or small children may go without food, and my poor, long-suffering teenager may grow up deprived of designer clothes and shoes. Apparently I’m supposed to starve to pay for everything.
I joined Badoo, E-Harmony and RSVP and numerous other internet dating sites about two years ago. I wrote profiles and answered a million questions but never followed them up. It was too overwhelming and scary and as my girlfriends tell me I am a ‘bad picker’ so I couldn’t tell if some hot guy was right for me anyway. Today I had a look at the quality of available males and my main thought was still, ‘Am I bothered?’
I checked out 24 year old Marius with a view of the Alps in the back of his photo. I’d love a toy boy but long distance, need help from a translator because I don’t speak German and I’m terrified about his music taste because I haven’t heard of most of it because he was born in the 80s when I was partying hard, and he’d be up for a relationship with an old bag like me? No thank you.
Do I really want to meet Brenton from Belconnen? Apparently he is a highly compatible match, but he smokes, likes motocross and doesn’t read books. I don’t know what motocross is, I’m a hypocritical two packs a day ex-smoker, now rabidly on my soapbox about non-smoking because cancer sticks cause death, and I’ll read a cereal packet if I can’t get my daily reading fix. And why did I tick the box that said I’d be up for a date with anyone anywhere in the world? Brenton lives in Canberra.
Nice guys, oozing sincerity but why are they all so bad at spelling? Why can’t these men use a spell check before they post their desperation on the internet? And they’re in their 40s and they want their own child and/or they want a step parent for their children. Me as a step mother? I would be a wicked stepmother, and I don’t mean that in a wick-ed cool way. I would be a nightmare stepmother favouring my own children over anyone else’s kids.
Am I being too fussy? Maybe I just don’t want a new husband. I think I’d rather buy a male cocker spaniel who will love and worship me unconditionally.
Every time I log onto Facebook or Hotmail or MyTwitFace or any kind of social networking sites late at night when my children are in bed and I’m feeling all alone (cue sad, lonely blues music) and crying into my cask of wine, I see ads popping up tempting me to log on and find my ideal man. The ads read something like this:
Find good looking single policemen in your area. I could dial 000, it’d be quicker and cheaper. When I got burgled recently I had five big policemen on my doorstep within twenty minutes and I didn’t have to sign up for endless emails.
Single and Christian? Find God’s Perfect Match for You. I found God’s matchmaking skills were way, way out. The guy who was apparently ‘ideal’ for me had a head like a brick and lived in Utah.
Come on a singles cruise. Great, so he can throw up on me at breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Why am I not excited by these ads?
Earlier this year I went to the Middle East to stilt walk at a fair in front of the Bahraini royal family. As one does in one’s day job. So I had to work while I was there but for me it was a single mother escape with endless joy from the minute I sat down on the plane. I love planes. Someone gives you food regularly, you watch endless TV and films, read pointless magazine articles, someone refills your drink and cleans up your spills and you don’t have to make anyone dinner. What is not to love? When we arrived in Bahrain we had drivers to help with our bags and take us to and from the hotel. I can handle hotels, I really can. Having a slave clean the bathroom and make your bed every day was divine. This single mother was loving it. One day after work I had a massage, then sat in the jacuzzi for two hours. Because I could. Someone else was washing my sheets. Free from housework and childcare, I could shop, eat too much food, look at tourist sites and sleep in. When I returned to my darling friends who had looked after my children while I was away, I realised that even though I loved my Middle East adventure, from the camels to the swarthy men, it didn’t really matter where I went, because every slave mother needs to misbehave at least once a year.
The clothes, the harmonies, the facial hair, the cheesy lyrics, I loved this music as a child in the 70s and tragically I’m still loving it all.