JOEY
I think I need driving shoes as well. They say to me: preppy in the style of Nancy Drew or Ali McGraw from Love Story. I could team them with blue jeans and a cute plaid shirt ...
Ok, my thoughts on a farm in Ireland:
You would need to research a nice area, close to Dublin or Cork because you would need to talk to city folk at some stage, or work for money to fund your farm stay. Farmers don’t count to talk to as they are hard at work for most of the day, and I believe Irish farmers’ wives are generally hard workers also, but with a disapproving demeanor and a way of saying ‘have another cup of tea then’ which discourages even the most avid tea drinker from taking another cup. Perhaps this is why Irish farmers spend so much time ‘getting the pigs in’ and so forth. Sundays would involve attending church in the disapproving catholic style but the tersely made roast would more than makeup for it.
Alternatively, if you do your research you could find the location where Gerard Butler lives as I believe there is a local pub where good looking young farmers hang out in thick, knitted wool jumpers and moleskin trousers after a hard days farming. They are more talkative than their forebears but you have to catch one that only drinks in moderation as the Irish are a bucolic, alcoholic nation. He might introduce you to his mammy if you’re lucky.
I would suggest a rural area close to the coast and within a days distance of Trinity College Dublin for your intellectual needs.
MAX
For the rest of us, who do have not seen PS I Love You, I am imagining being a researcher/PA/companion in a lovely Great House, and after some months becoming great friends with the young man who owns the house. Halfway through winter, the heating fails, and all inhabitants are sent away bar me and the young man to instruct the workmen when they appear. We can only heat one set of rooms in the house until the workmen come to fix the VERY old plumbing, so we must co-exist in wintery isolation of wood fires, a shared double bed and socks drying over the bookcases. Romance Blossoms. Max never needs to go home to Perth ☺
I have been planning, planning.
JOEY
Close, but much more interesting.
Perhaps you could be employed by a very old, slightly doddering couple ala Possession. They could live in a bad 1970s addition, shotgun at the ready, life savings hidden in the mattress, wellies in the mudroom until they decide to visit a distant relative somewhere, so you would be all alone in the great house. I think the old man could have an interest in racehorses and a large collection of valuable books, the documentation and organisation of which falls to you.
One wet and windy day, you could be exploring a wing of the old house, or out on a ramble quoting poetry aloud and stumble into a good looking, slightly arrogant young farmer (in a woolly jumper) who looks at you, incredulous that such a marvellous woman would be in his corner of the world, but with an antagonistic twitch to his mouth so you get off to a wrong start.
You think you dislike each other, but when the power goes off, one cold winter’s night, you reluctantly bond over tea and toast by the fire. I’m afraid marmalade would be involved, but you pretend you like it to save face. He does the same with the tea which he secretly likes sweet and milky. He also has some lanky hounds who appear throughout this story, and on a cold night in question could warm themselves too, by the fire.
Possible names for your arrogant farmer include:
Jack, Dylan, Sean, Liam or James.
MAX
I just made the three men who sit around me by barking with laughter when, cruising along in your story, a farmer appeared out of nowhere! ☺ Brilliant.
I think what will happen is I will choose Cork for some reason, be lucky enough to score a room in a dear little house in a dear little village that is being absorbed into the outermost suburbs of Cork (but has a great bus route to it from the City).
I will find it hard to find friends my own age because they would have all emigrated for work, so I will end up joining the darling little old ladies of the parish in their jam making, sponge baking and knitting.
One day, serving my wonderful sponge cake to the knitting circle and gossiping madly about our Dylan in America, I will be introduced to a returning grandson (he was in Africa somewhere teaching with an NGO) and we will conduct a slow and very much gossiped about romance in front of my best friends at the knitting circle. He will be the last gentleman in Ireland ☺
JOEY
Well you can tell your barking men that Dylan was walking the 10 miles from his remote ancestral home to the closest post office - which is only open once a week - to sort out a phone bill, and took a shortcut through your employer’s field which is how he stumbled across you, walking in the opposite direction and reciting poetry at the top of your lungs. (I mean, who does that?)
Or else, he didn’t know that the doddering OAPs had employed you and got suspicious when he saw smoke rising from the chimney (as he knew they were in Limerick visiting distant relations) whilst out on his tractor and came over to investigate, finding you in flagrante delecto in the main house, again reciting poetry at the top of your lungs!
So you see, barking engineers, Max was responsible for getting Dylan out of obscurity! I just helped their love story along a little bit by making it rain.
I do like your NGO returning grandson. He could have red hair.
MAX
Oh god – sorry – my cold is not making me make sense.
I meant to say I made the men around me JUMP when I barked with laughter because the farmer was so unexpected and welcome in the story.
But your exhortations still stand relevant, as the men around me are just jealous that I get brilliant stories in my inbox instead of boring work, which appears in theirs! I am the only one in this office that will burst out laughing in happiness when reading my emails. So THERE, boring engineers.
My laugh this time was REALLY loud ☺
I used to recite Banjo Patterson out aloud to the bush when I rode our horses on the farm. They would listen to me as we ambled along the fence lines. I used to wish that someone romantic would think that the ultimate accomplishment of the woman he wanted to marry, but I never met that poetry loving male. Not until Dylan that is. Dylan sounds Mr Darcy romantic, but I am over difficult men at the moment, I fancy a straight-forward man to be truthful. Hence my NGO Grandson, modelled on the lovely Scotsman from Skegness, with his utter truthfulness and lack of modern artifice. It is entirely likely that he will be in possession of fox-red hair ☺
If I cannot find a redhead in Ireland to romance, I am just not trying hard enough.
I am worried about the economic recession in Ireland at the moment – I am consulting the Lawyer in Cork Dad put me in touch with as to if the Admin Sector is still buoyant – it would be crazy to go if there genuinely was a recession, and they may not give me a visa anyway ☹
JOEY
Hehe my feathers were ruffled at the engineers thinking I had poor narrative skills. I think you should aim for a thinking redhead to romance, as you are one smart lady
14 AUGUST
JOEY
Hehe … this is Dylan as a young tack with his Da … I can't find a more recent photo, but his expression has softened somewhat in the intervening years.
See you at 8.3X (that's between 8.30 and 8.40!)
MAX
Brilliant! :-) I hope his Da likes me. I may have to milk a cow and trim some hedgerows before he takes me seriously. I will be practising in between knitting lessons from Mum. God, so much to learn before Dylan and I meet.
Also, what do you think Dylan's Ma will think essential accomplishments for a girl who sets her hat at her boy? I can bake, cook, sew and shoot ...
JOEY
His ma will respect a woman who can put good food on the table at night, get her linen snow white and wrinkle-free and make a decent tea cake. She doesn't like those young girls with nothing but floss between their ears who are always making eyes at her boys, that's for sure. Although she's a straight-talking woman, she'll respect someone who can get along with Dylan's da, who is a fanciful, whiskey-drinking practical joker, always trying to trick you with his talk of fairies and folk tales. When he doesn't have much to say, he devotes time to cleaning his pipe or his gun. I think deep down Dylan's ma is a lot like Lynne from Hereford, she's a sweetheart, devoted to her family and farm. She might have a tough exterior, but that's just from years of hard work and raising 4 boys (Dylan, the twins Colin and Ryan, Thomas, the black-haired, blue-eyed eldest who works for a publishing house in Dublin). So, all in all, Dylan's ma is going to like you a lot more than her daughters-in-law (Colin and Ryan having married local floss with blonde highlights) because she can see you will love the farm as much as she does.
MAX
My immediate feeling - it sounds like Joey has decided which of Ma's boys SHE likes! :P
MAX
I like the sound of Dylan's Da, just the kind of Da I get along with. He sounds a little like Ash's Dad, who finally inducted me into the family a few months ago by getting me GOOD with a practical joke.
Dylan's Ma I think will have to be won over with plenty of time in the kitchen chopping potatoes and talking about all the things that women with sons don't get to talk about. First boyfriend’s mother was like that, she loved to talk girl talk with all her sons' girlfriends, which is why all her sons' girlfriends got along with each other as well.
I hope to have poddy calves and orphaned lambs and the only female puppy in Da's new litter of sheepdogs (which is when I know I am really in the family - none of the flosses have one of the family dogs). I will be OBSESSIVE about the vege garden, and Ma will teach me how to grow all the wildflowers around the area and I will introduce the family to the renewable energy revolution.
Da and Ma will let me have a tiny little nook by the fireplace with a small chair and table for my 'scratchings' and all the spare walls will suddenly grow more bookcases to hold all the books that will suddenly appear with me. I will also start a sideline in beading corsages for the local flosses little sisters for their balls. I will have both the Catholic and the Protestant clergy for dinners once a month, which will make the neighbourhood look sideways at me, but everything else will be normal about me, so they won't mind so much.
Monday, August 06, 2018
Saturday, July 07, 2018
7 July 2008
Robbie's Diary
Day 17 of Orange Hair. Went to Amps, Still the prettiest.
Robbie’s Diary
Day 18. Went to Amps. My weave no longer tells a soliloquy - it has been infiltrated by the indie masses. Must find another do.
No matter - still the prettiest.
Owen to Robbie
Day 18. Owen got all shirty when I accused him of trying on my dresses. He says I have impugned his masculinity. What masculinity?
Robbie to Owen
Day 18 … evening. The dress that no longer fits over my hips fits Owen beautifully. Bell has warned he may soon attempt to usurp the prettiness.
I wish him death.
Max’s Diary
Day 18 Evening. Owen mincing around in the dress purloined from Robbie. Robbie signed into Owen's profile while he was eyeing up Frodo (Sam will kill him if he tries anything) and joined the 'Sauron Will Always Have Eye Problems If He Watches Palantir For Millennia' Facebook Group.
Have sourced new headgear, although three Rohirrim will have to die to provide the raw materials. It is for a good cause, must retain power over pretty dancing girls.
Robbie’s Diary
Day 18. The air of dissent expands exponentially. Bell is to turn wranger … now even my closest circle is trying to overtake me.
Still brown though.
Max’s Diary
Day 19. Robbie is persuaded that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and she releases her deathlike grip on me to allow me to shop for my wig.
Got to wig shop and Elrond had cleaned out all the long wigs, as he appeared to have a new dress (suspiciously similar to Owen/Robbie's dress) and needed to be darker.
Saw Elrond later at Balrog's house trying to persuade Balrog to toast him to 'Robbie Brown' to match new weave.
General Fashion Confusion.
Robbie
Hehe - for one - surely tis not imitation as NO-ONE could possibly confuse the 2 of us.
for 1. u have bosoms
for 2. no, that's about it really
Okay - so this spot on my chin is huge now - i want to kill myself.
Robbie’s Diary
Day 19. I think I am developing a spot on my nose. V. serious situation, as Robbie spots likely to last for two days or more.
Still prettiest, despite blasted spot.
Robbie
no NO - this blasted spot is lasting for like weeks now! it is one of those pesky ones that won’t come up properly but is stalking behind the scenes, and creating great damage as it SLOWLY tries to get to the surface in a really half arse attempt.
i have to take pictures to send to Dan re my new hair colour, and have this disgusting brown spot on my chin- which is total botching the pics … so i have taken to posing with my hand covering my chin … like i’m trying to be cute or something … BAH.
Max
It totally isn't my fault Arthur, I am just saying the usual stuff, it is just that Miss Robbie is extra suggestible and under extreme pressure at the moment. Robbie, you are going to have to join a MONASTERY to get to the monks. A monastery. Yes. That would let me indulge in my third most inappropriate weakness, religious men.
Robbie
Please - i am ALWAYS suggestible. cept now i am more aggro than usual.
Heh - u and monks/priests ...
Max Bell - woman of the cloth.
Day 17 of Orange Hair. Went to Amps, Still the prettiest.
Robbie’s Diary
Day 18. Went to Amps. My weave no longer tells a soliloquy - it has been infiltrated by the indie masses. Must find another do.
No matter - still the prettiest.
Owen to Robbie
Day 18. Owen got all shirty when I accused him of trying on my dresses. He says I have impugned his masculinity. What masculinity?
Robbie to Owen
Day 18 … evening. The dress that no longer fits over my hips fits Owen beautifully. Bell has warned he may soon attempt to usurp the prettiness.
I wish him death.
Max’s Diary
Day 18 Evening. Owen mincing around in the dress purloined from Robbie. Robbie signed into Owen's profile while he was eyeing up Frodo (Sam will kill him if he tries anything) and joined the 'Sauron Will Always Have Eye Problems If He Watches Palantir For Millennia' Facebook Group.
Have sourced new headgear, although three Rohirrim will have to die to provide the raw materials. It is for a good cause, must retain power over pretty dancing girls.
Robbie’s Diary
Day 18. The air of dissent expands exponentially. Bell is to turn wranger … now even my closest circle is trying to overtake me.
Still brown though.
Max’s Diary
Day 19. Robbie is persuaded that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and she releases her deathlike grip on me to allow me to shop for my wig.
Got to wig shop and Elrond had cleaned out all the long wigs, as he appeared to have a new dress (suspiciously similar to Owen/Robbie's dress) and needed to be darker.
Saw Elrond later at Balrog's house trying to persuade Balrog to toast him to 'Robbie Brown' to match new weave.
General Fashion Confusion.
Robbie
Hehe - for one - surely tis not imitation as NO-ONE could possibly confuse the 2 of us.
for 1. u have bosoms
for 2. no, that's about it really
Okay - so this spot on my chin is huge now - i want to kill myself.
Robbie’s Diary
Day 19. I think I am developing a spot on my nose. V. serious situation, as Robbie spots likely to last for two days or more.
Still prettiest, despite blasted spot.
Robbie
no NO - this blasted spot is lasting for like weeks now! it is one of those pesky ones that won’t come up properly but is stalking behind the scenes, and creating great damage as it SLOWLY tries to get to the surface in a really half arse attempt.
i have to take pictures to send to Dan re my new hair colour, and have this disgusting brown spot on my chin- which is total botching the pics … so i have taken to posing with my hand covering my chin … like i’m trying to be cute or something … BAH.
Max
It totally isn't my fault Arthur, I am just saying the usual stuff, it is just that Miss Robbie is extra suggestible and under extreme pressure at the moment. Robbie, you are going to have to join a MONASTERY to get to the monks. A monastery. Yes. That would let me indulge in my third most inappropriate weakness, religious men.
Robbie
Please - i am ALWAYS suggestible. cept now i am more aggro than usual.
Heh - u and monks/priests ...
Max Bell - woman of the cloth.
Thursday, July 05, 2018
5 July 2007
Richard Armitage called, he wants his mascara back
Cruella deVille, Lara Antipova and Tatyana Larina have been calling all day wanting their coat back
steve jobs called ... he wants his computer back ...
Noah called, he wants his rain back
Al Gore called, he wants his six star rating water saving toilet back
Ernest Hemingway called, he wants his bar back
the devil called ... he wants his velvety trousers back from your metaphor ... dry-clean only please ...
karma called ... it's on its way over to my house
Valhalla called, Karma is late for the Deities morning meeting and they were wondering if you had forgotten to take off the handcuffs?
Hitchcock was calling me all fucking weekend wanting his haunted, cold, musty, insect infected country hotel back
i called paddington bear ... i wanted to know where he got his wellies + mac ...
the sailors of the desert called ... they want their ship back!
oi, spiderman called, he wants his spidey senses back!
Shah Jahan sent his vizier down, he wants his white gold concubine out of the garden!
well well well. that’s a very nice hat you are wearing. i could mention something about the owner calling + wanting it back, but that bird has flown
Cruella deVille, Lara Antipova and Tatyana Larina have been calling all day wanting their coat back
steve jobs called ... he wants his computer back ...
Noah called, he wants his rain back
Al Gore called, he wants his six star rating water saving toilet back
Ernest Hemingway called, he wants his bar back
the devil called ... he wants his velvety trousers back from your metaphor ... dry-clean only please ...
karma called ... it's on its way over to my house
Valhalla called, Karma is late for the Deities morning meeting and they were wondering if you had forgotten to take off the handcuffs?
Hitchcock was calling me all fucking weekend wanting his haunted, cold, musty, insect infected country hotel back
i called paddington bear ... i wanted to know where he got his wellies + mac ...
the sailors of the desert called ... they want their ship back!
oi, spiderman called, he wants his spidey senses back!
Shah Jahan sent his vizier down, he wants his white gold concubine out of the garden!
well well well. that’s a very nice hat you are wearing. i could mention something about the owner calling + wanting it back, but that bird has flown
Saturday, June 16, 2018
16 June 2007
Ah, see, you have articulated EXACTLY the conundrum myself and my girlfriends are in. The drought is so bad we give it a new nickname each week - this week it was the Rage. Last week it was the Tiger.
The problem with me and the Rage is that the isolation of study amplifies the Rage until I start giving out TOTALLY inappropriate signals and suddenly, as happened last night when out dancing, young men of the drunken persuasion grab me from behind and kiss my neck in a way that WOULD have been sexy if he had been tall, dark and sober (not young, blond and very bendy due to drink) and I had not had a totally sweaty neck! :)
Now, this attempt at being a deliberate strumpet, did this end for you in the harrowing knowledge that you had lost the ability to 'close the deal' as it were? That moment where you can drop the coy, slow-mo, black and white 'run' away from them and just let them catch you. But as they reach out you think 'eeeewwwwww' and just walk away because you suddenly remembered that you like sleeping starfish style in your own bed?
I have COMPLETELY lost the killer instinct to close the deal. Lost, lost forever. From now until eternity I shall be a spinster of the parish. I hate cats though, so I will have penguins.
Unless, of course, I find that elusive, take charge man who simply tells me that he thinks I am brilliant and he rather fancies taking a crack at me and would dinner with compulsory snogging be fine tomorrow?
And he is not, like the current take charge man in my life, in possession of a female long-term partner that is out of the country.
*gloom*
For myself and my fellow singles, going out has become something of a blood sport ... and it is not ours that we spill.
We don't drink, we always have a smile on our face, we are not fashion victims and we enjoy a good conversation.
So your average Australian male, beer in hand approaches us and we see the slow strangling of our social life coming into view.
We see our unimpressed grimaces, we hear our whiplash replies, we see our total boredom with inane conversation and we watch them retreat in relief from what becomes for them an uphill struggle against wordplay, nimble minds and robust senses of humour.
No matter how frustrated we get, how much we yearn to be thought about, how much we wish to have a companion that we love, we cannot stomach suppressing our true selves in a bizarre attempt to compete in a limited marketplace.
What I find disappointing is the men who assume that they are looking for women who reflect best on them by being weak. How does that make them more masculine? Surely an intelligent, lively and charming woman who decides to spend time with you is a better reflection on your masculinity than a silly woman? I must be alone in thinking this!
And I think this is why I am in the same boat as you with that strange paradox of looking for someone stronger than us, yet not envisaging how that will happen with us being as strong as we are.
I find that my greatest frustration is that I am willing, in fact almost desperate, to give selflessly of my intelligence, my passion, my care, my company, and I cannot find anyone to take it for FREE because it is just not valuable to anyone!
It is my looks, my *cough* bed and my value as a Perth-girlfriend (this is quite a specific value in our small town - who my connections are and how much I am fancied by the male friends of the male in possession of me) that are more important.
It was brought home last night as my two girlfriends and I went out to our usual place o'dancing. We were on fire last night - all of us frustrated as hell and quite willing to jump the first fanciable guy that came within arms distance.
Giving out those kind of signals we actually prompted an embarrassing run of clumsy pickups that sunk dreadfully the moment we opened our mouths. Literally. The moment we did anything other than just letting them paw us.
Despite the tiny pool of available talent, we managed between us to attract, then repel almost all the game ones.
Come three thirty we were standing, a little stunned, sober and upright in the middle of the dancefloor, a ring of bewildered boys and men around us wondering if we had softened since they last tried it on with us. Some real male friends came to talk to us and one of their friends openly walked up to them in front of us and congratulated them on being able to 'handle these lovely ladies'.
Women as pretty objects that are there to adorn your arm, you party and your sexual prowess *shudder* awful situation. But last night I also witnessed the flip side of the coin - which ties in with your point about the loss of manliness.
A man came up to us to compliment us and because he did a lightning attack - in and out without imposing any expectations of drinks etc - we were happy to accept it gracefully. But he felt he had to preface the compliment with the assurance he just wanted to compliment, not to pick up. We assured him that we took it in the spirit in which it was intended, but it was a sad reflection on the manner in which compliments are taken in such contexts.
Men cannot really give compliments without being suspected of ulterior motives and it poisons the entire exchange. Women learn to be suspicious of cads and armour themselves with language and we end up being too challenging for strangers without self-esteem or a quick wit. It is a dreadful spiral.
As for Other Women, the curse of Perth is that the men here really are spoilt, and the women here are brought up to pander and flirt and stroke egos. It is a horrible thing to observe up close as you see picture perfect girls walking in awe of the godlike beings called boys, and you see the disgust those arrogant boys get on their faces when you refuse to just keep your pretty mouth shut.
Alcohol *gah* Australians drink to get pissed and it is an ugly sight when you are sober. My favourite moment in a club is the 1.30-2am window when the boys stop having fun and start thinking about who they are going to take home to shag. I call it the witching hour and you see previously picky guys literally tripping into a female lap and just taking what is on offer. Thankfully the urge to just trip them ourselves passes once we contemplate a sober coupling with an incompetent drunk.
As for personal mojo, in the last three years I have started realising that I care not to go out with someone that I do not know well, very well indeed. Preferably for years as a friend or acquaintance.
And this is necessarily narrowing the range men deemed acceptable at an alarming rate. And considering I value my male friends so highly, the thought of ruining a perfect friendship by possible relationship stupidity makes me shudder. I have three male friends with which I have highly developed romantic possibilities and they haven't eventuated for a really good reason, we are great friends.
Yet a stranger does not inspire trust and respect and so does not get the stamp of lust until they tip over into the old friends category and they are effectively out of bounds.
Pathetic really.
I applaud your plans for intellectual stimulation, it is tricky, but rewarding. I am studying full-time this year and the intellectual connections are the most pleasurable and the most problematic, although I suspect you would know this from all the performance you do.
This year I am surrounded by academics who work closely with us as students, PhD students who are trawling the Honours class for partners and classmates with which you spend too much time and with which you share strong intellectual experiences. Such compatibility of thoughts, the power relations inherent in hierarchy and the visceral pleasure of mental stimulation has created a tangled web of lust that ignores almost all social mores once there is alcohol involved.
I am a big one for intellectual crushes, but surrounding yourself with people who share your passions and who speak the same heartfelt language becomes addictive! :)
I bask in elegant and erudite conversations, in flexing intellectual muscles and on Fridays perching in laps of clever holders of doctorates and flirting like mad. But one should not date in the Faculty if you want to avoid rumours of sleeping around for marks so you just have to suppress the feelings and that makes everything that much harder.
*harrowed sigh*
I am holding out for travelling again myself. I am not nearly as affected by my loneliness when I travel, and I am more open to strangers when ALL are strangers and I am assembling my new group of friends.
Only about eight more months and I will be working my way around the world again and I will be able to relax a little bit and allow some lucky man the chance to prove his worth :)
The problem with me and the Rage is that the isolation of study amplifies the Rage until I start giving out TOTALLY inappropriate signals and suddenly, as happened last night when out dancing, young men of the drunken persuasion grab me from behind and kiss my neck in a way that WOULD have been sexy if he had been tall, dark and sober (not young, blond and very bendy due to drink) and I had not had a totally sweaty neck! :)
Now, this attempt at being a deliberate strumpet, did this end for you in the harrowing knowledge that you had lost the ability to 'close the deal' as it were? That moment where you can drop the coy, slow-mo, black and white 'run' away from them and just let them catch you. But as they reach out you think 'eeeewwwwww' and just walk away because you suddenly remembered that you like sleeping starfish style in your own bed?
I have COMPLETELY lost the killer instinct to close the deal. Lost, lost forever. From now until eternity I shall be a spinster of the parish. I hate cats though, so I will have penguins.
Unless, of course, I find that elusive, take charge man who simply tells me that he thinks I am brilliant and he rather fancies taking a crack at me and would dinner with compulsory snogging be fine tomorrow?
And he is not, like the current take charge man in my life, in possession of a female long-term partner that is out of the country.
*gloom*
For myself and my fellow singles, going out has become something of a blood sport ... and it is not ours that we spill.
We don't drink, we always have a smile on our face, we are not fashion victims and we enjoy a good conversation.
So your average Australian male, beer in hand approaches us and we see the slow strangling of our social life coming into view.
We see our unimpressed grimaces, we hear our whiplash replies, we see our total boredom with inane conversation and we watch them retreat in relief from what becomes for them an uphill struggle against wordplay, nimble minds and robust senses of humour.
No matter how frustrated we get, how much we yearn to be thought about, how much we wish to have a companion that we love, we cannot stomach suppressing our true selves in a bizarre attempt to compete in a limited marketplace.
What I find disappointing is the men who assume that they are looking for women who reflect best on them by being weak. How does that make them more masculine? Surely an intelligent, lively and charming woman who decides to spend time with you is a better reflection on your masculinity than a silly woman? I must be alone in thinking this!
And I think this is why I am in the same boat as you with that strange paradox of looking for someone stronger than us, yet not envisaging how that will happen with us being as strong as we are.
I find that my greatest frustration is that I am willing, in fact almost desperate, to give selflessly of my intelligence, my passion, my care, my company, and I cannot find anyone to take it for FREE because it is just not valuable to anyone!
It is my looks, my *cough* bed and my value as a Perth-girlfriend (this is quite a specific value in our small town - who my connections are and how much I am fancied by the male friends of the male in possession of me) that are more important.
It was brought home last night as my two girlfriends and I went out to our usual place o'dancing. We were on fire last night - all of us frustrated as hell and quite willing to jump the first fanciable guy that came within arms distance.
Giving out those kind of signals we actually prompted an embarrassing run of clumsy pickups that sunk dreadfully the moment we opened our mouths. Literally. The moment we did anything other than just letting them paw us.
Despite the tiny pool of available talent, we managed between us to attract, then repel almost all the game ones.
Come three thirty we were standing, a little stunned, sober and upright in the middle of the dancefloor, a ring of bewildered boys and men around us wondering if we had softened since they last tried it on with us. Some real male friends came to talk to us and one of their friends openly walked up to them in front of us and congratulated them on being able to 'handle these lovely ladies'.
Women as pretty objects that are there to adorn your arm, you party and your sexual prowess *shudder* awful situation. But last night I also witnessed the flip side of the coin - which ties in with your point about the loss of manliness.
A man came up to us to compliment us and because he did a lightning attack - in and out without imposing any expectations of drinks etc - we were happy to accept it gracefully. But he felt he had to preface the compliment with the assurance he just wanted to compliment, not to pick up. We assured him that we took it in the spirit in which it was intended, but it was a sad reflection on the manner in which compliments are taken in such contexts.
Men cannot really give compliments without being suspected of ulterior motives and it poisons the entire exchange. Women learn to be suspicious of cads and armour themselves with language and we end up being too challenging for strangers without self-esteem or a quick wit. It is a dreadful spiral.
As for Other Women, the curse of Perth is that the men here really are spoilt, and the women here are brought up to pander and flirt and stroke egos. It is a horrible thing to observe up close as you see picture perfect girls walking in awe of the godlike beings called boys, and you see the disgust those arrogant boys get on their faces when you refuse to just keep your pretty mouth shut.
Alcohol *gah* Australians drink to get pissed and it is an ugly sight when you are sober. My favourite moment in a club is the 1.30-2am window when the boys stop having fun and start thinking about who they are going to take home to shag. I call it the witching hour and you see previously picky guys literally tripping into a female lap and just taking what is on offer. Thankfully the urge to just trip them ourselves passes once we contemplate a sober coupling with an incompetent drunk.
As for personal mojo, in the last three years I have started realising that I care not to go out with someone that I do not know well, very well indeed. Preferably for years as a friend or acquaintance.
And this is necessarily narrowing the range men deemed acceptable at an alarming rate. And considering I value my male friends so highly, the thought of ruining a perfect friendship by possible relationship stupidity makes me shudder. I have three male friends with which I have highly developed romantic possibilities and they haven't eventuated for a really good reason, we are great friends.
Yet a stranger does not inspire trust and respect and so does not get the stamp of lust until they tip over into the old friends category and they are effectively out of bounds.
Pathetic really.
I applaud your plans for intellectual stimulation, it is tricky, but rewarding. I am studying full-time this year and the intellectual connections are the most pleasurable and the most problematic, although I suspect you would know this from all the performance you do.
This year I am surrounded by academics who work closely with us as students, PhD students who are trawling the Honours class for partners and classmates with which you spend too much time and with which you share strong intellectual experiences. Such compatibility of thoughts, the power relations inherent in hierarchy and the visceral pleasure of mental stimulation has created a tangled web of lust that ignores almost all social mores once there is alcohol involved.
I am a big one for intellectual crushes, but surrounding yourself with people who share your passions and who speak the same heartfelt language becomes addictive! :)
I bask in elegant and erudite conversations, in flexing intellectual muscles and on Fridays perching in laps of clever holders of doctorates and flirting like mad. But one should not date in the Faculty if you want to avoid rumours of sleeping around for marks so you just have to suppress the feelings and that makes everything that much harder.
*harrowed sigh*
I am holding out for travelling again myself. I am not nearly as affected by my loneliness when I travel, and I am more open to strangers when ALL are strangers and I am assembling my new group of friends.
Only about eight more months and I will be working my way around the world again and I will be able to relax a little bit and allow some lucky man the chance to prove his worth :)
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