Lying on a picnic rug in the sun at a music festival on a cider farm in a forest.
I saw you standing there
With your fucking Ned Kelly hipster hair.
I thought I saw you maybe looking at me so I put my Blunnies back on and wander over.
G’day, did we go to primary school together? Yeah, hi! Wondered if it was you under all that beard. I used to have the biggest crush on you in Year 4. Ha! Nah I don’t remember you kicking me in the face at soccer. Ya drew blood? True? Classic!
We talk through one band then another.
We face the stage and stand closer so we can talk into each other’s ear and sometimes our shoulders touch. Once, when you laugh, your hand gently holds my elbow for a second. A tiny pale faced singer in a white tunic sings over and over
If you feel like taking flight…
We talk until it’s twilight. We talk until it’s dark.
We talk until we need to go to the loo then sit down somewhere. On the back of the composting toilet door someone had written in blue crayon
There will never be a more opportune moment…
We wander away from the main stage, past the pond and paddock with the big old oak tree in the middle, up to a little wooden shack with a band on the veranda.
There is moonlight on the paddock.
There are songs about stars.
There’s a fucking string quartet playing.
There was space between us on your picnic rug.
As the string section lifts us up
My fingers brush yours as you pass the tin cup.
My first ever whisky. Warm and tingly and lovely in my mouth, my throat, my chest.
We look at that old oak tree.
Then we look at each other.
Welcome, welcome to you, you fabulous New Readers! Who knows how you stumbled across this place? Perhaps you’ve been trawling WordPress? Perhaps you saw a note on the back of a toilet door at a hippie festival in a riverbed near Alice Springs? Perhaps one of my fabulously intelligent and physically attractive Dearest Readers directed you here? Perhaps you really genuinely want to know about edible dates that grow in arid regions!
For whatever reason, I’m so glad you’re here. Apologies for the lack of medjools. Come on in, grab a cuppa (if you’re into that kind of thing) (FYI I’m not) (so if you’re considering asking me for a coffee date, make sure there’s juice on the menu) settle in and let me show you around.
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You can start from the very beginning here
Thanks for dropping by, I do hope you enjoy your stay. I’d be ever so thrilled if you joined me on the ol’ book of faces or subscribe below.
I’m walking along the Beachville beach with an Italian engineer. There are lots of things about that sentence that may excite you. Potential Italian homemade cooking, for one. So why, when he asks me to take of my sunglasses so he can look into my eyes, do I cringe internally? Why don’t I want to run into the sea with him right then and there and frollick like the other lovers do? Let’s backtrack.
It’s 2012 and I’ve just moved to the Pilbara. In an effort to prove to my housemate Jackie how easy online dating was, (and to satisfy my own curiosity) I log back in and suss out the local talent. Once again ‘lives within 200kms’ is my main searching criteria. Once again it unearths the same beer, bike and car loving guys. A few stick out – Jose_inK-Hole lists his favourite book as ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude.’ He has a favourite book! Fantastic! He reads! He has a curly black haired Spanish god of a headshot. We chat, but never meet. His schedule of 8 days on, 3 days off, 12 hour shifts combined with the bus timetable from his miner’s camp all becomes too hard. So I never found out if Jose was a literature loving Spanish god or not.
The next fella had a well written profile. Complete sentences with monosyllabic words are such a turn on. We arranged to meet up that weekend. His name was Jack Monetti.* What a name full of mystery! Outback Jack? Mob boss Monetti? Intrigue increased.
Monetti’s first mistake was arriving 45 minutes early. Few things annoy me more than people being early, mainly because I am consistently late. Second mistake: texting me three times between arriving and meeting me. Cool your jets Monetts! His third mistake was eating lunch before I got there, even though we were meeting for lunch. So our inevitable awkward silences were made even more awkward by him watching me eat.
Monetti is quick to tell me how much money he earns and that he has an investment property in Perth. Neither of these things impress or interest me, so I pull out one of my top three conversation starters (when I get really desperate):
- What would you do with a million dollars?
- Who would be on the bill of your ultimate music festival?
- If you could pick one super hero power, what would it be?
“One million dollars?” scoffed Monetti, “No one can do anything with that much. Ask me what I’d do with ten or a hundred million, then I’d have to think about it.” If you weren’t already thinking “What a douchebag!” then you will when you hear his answer to the second question: “Oh, I don’t really know, I like all kinds of music.” Puh-leeeze. I didn’t bother asking the third question, I didn’t care what lame superhero power he chose.
Monetti was fascinated about my work in the “Arts.” Ecstatic to discuss what “Art” was. I was less than ecstatic about him, but he’d driven all the way out here so I thought I’d stick it out for at least an hour. For some reason I suggested a walk along the beach, forgetting that for some people this isn’t something you do every couple of days for exercise, that for some people it’s only SUPPOSED TO BE THE MOST ROMANTIC THING YOU DO WITH SOMEONE OF THE OPPOSITE SEX.
So when Monetti asks me to take of my sunnies so he can see my eyes, I cringe. I don’t want him to see my eyes. I want to keep these windows to the soul slammed shut! I take them off for two seconds anyway, and he just says ‘Wow,’ in a manner that I’m sure is attempting to be flattering, but just seems creepy.
Monetti texted me five times that evening, one time to say ‘So I looked up art on the internet, apparently people just spray paint on street walls and they call it art these days! Smiley face.’ Ten minutes later he texted ‘Did you get my last text?’ I neglected to engage with Monetti’s deep insight upon discovering art in a Google search, I also neglected to tell him I’d previously managed a graffiti art project and was passionate about its legitimacy as an art form. I simply politely informed him of my intentions to not see him again. It was my first (and last) online date in the Pilbara and I haven’t checked my profile since*.
*It wasn’t really, it was some similar Italian sounding last name.
**This is a lie, I check it every couple of months, just in case…
While y’all can’t decide which hipster bar to go to I’m deciding between shouting at American Idol judges or shouting at Fashion Star on TV to write to you, my dear readers. Now that I’m back west I have nothing to report other than that I’ve joined the Darcytown gym. I now spend my evenings in a confined space with a bunch of intimidatingly large, tattooed, huffing and puffing triangular men. It’s become too hot to keep jogging, lunging and squatting my way around the oval with the Boot(y)camp.
Since I have nothing to report on the dating front, I’ll re-open the vault of endless stories of bad online dates I had in Alice Springs.
I had committed to ten online dates, by date number four I thought I might as well get some decent meals out of the experience. I’d forgotten that a dinner date locks you into a least an hour-long date as you order, wait, then eat your food. So I went on a harmless enough dinner date to a decent enough Chinese restaurant with a mildly attractive electrician.
The great thing about internet dating was getting to meet people I would never usually come in contact with in daily life. Then again, I met different people working for the Census, and I got paid for that! Through online dating I learnt about a lot of different occupations and learnt more than I ever want to know about cars, motorbikes and the alcohol content of different brands of beer. The men I dated were outside my social circle, were interested in different things and were generally really different from my friends. The problem was, I actually like my friends! I’d rather date people like them, who are interested in SOME of the same things as me so that we have something to talk about. There’s gotta be some car, bike and beer loving women out there for those other guys.
Anyway. So I’m at harmless restaurant with decent guy who has amazing bone structure in his face. I mean, his jawbone and cheekbones were incredible. He’d been in town for a few months, hadn’t made any friends, didn’t have any ‘pastimes’ or ‘hobbies.’ Not even bikes or beer! He just went from his job on night shift straight home to sleep. Our conversation consisted of me asking him a question and him answering it, often with a yes or no. No offerings of anecdotes. No return questions. I got sick of interrogating him and monologued for a while. I told him about the Flashmobs I organized and invited him to a first rehearsal the following day. Our food came and we ate in silence. He grinned at me whenever I looked at him.
He must have been perfectly happy with the ‘comfortable’ silence, as he asked me out on another date. My desperation should come as no surprise to you by now, dear readers, when I tell you that I accepted. The next day he rocked up to rehearsal, but sat in a corner and watched. When my friends asked who the guy in the corner was, I explained he was a guy I met on the internet but I didn’t introduce them. I knew it was over. Who comes along to a rehearsal just to watch? Either join in or don’t come! His failure to grasp the inclusive and participatory nature of Flashmobs was the final straw. We parted with the usual ‘I just don’t think we’re compatible’ text message. Sometimes good facial bone structure just isn’t not enough.
Until next time, dear readers, here’s hoping I bump into and American Idol hating/secretely loving, participatory dance appreciating kind of guy with appropriately sized shoulder muscles at the gym. Ha!
I’m sitting on a plane next to a triangle of a man.
Toned is fine, but triangular tank from waist up? OTT. Perhaps if I was more waiflike I’d be daydreaming about being swept in this guys handsome forearms, but right now those forearms are getting swept up in my Qantas breakfast service muesli and my elbows are getting swept up by a passing tea trolley.
The Perth Glory soccer team are on board, so today the plane isn’t the sea of overweight hi vis that it usually is. It’s full of eye candy but dear readers, I think I’ll stick to predominantly scrawny beanpole men. Thanks all the same Perth Glory, you may be physically fit hotties but your specific dimensions don’t fit practically into my lifestyle.
Ahh Melbourne, it’s good to be on a plane on my way to back to you. Although, our last parting saw me empathising with a Kardashian. Kanye told her she was ‘one of many’ while she was pregnant with his child. Shit, bitch! I wasn’t going to give birth to a celebrity baby but I did get told I was ‘one of many’ and decided not to go any more city dates. You heard it first, I’m switching off my babe radar. Why?
I went on a ridiculously great blind date in Melbourne. Possibly the best date ever. Key ingredients included great food, ambient lighting, good music etc and minor characters include a tabletop contortionist, African dancehall musicians and 60’s beach themed go go podium dancers. Oh readers, we kissed on a dance floor! This is to say nothing of the Blind Date himself, who will remain respectfully anonymous and un-discussed. When I asked to see him again he said he was dating a few other girls and if any of them worked out it wouldn’t be right to see a ‘desert lover’ because he was a gentleman.
How am I meant to suss out if we’re compatible, if it’s more than a spark? Over fucking Skype?
‘Ooh, Movidas, nice! Put your video on so I can see what you’re eating. Me? I’m eating Pitango at the office where the fast internet is, so don’t worry about all of my colleagues in the background, or those 11 year olds or those senior ladies. Oh, sorry about the noise from the musicians next door, it’s still working hours in my time zone. Yeah I’m good thanks. No, I’m not nervous, I’m just sweating because our air conditioner is broken and it’s 41 degrees.’
It’s hard to play the field when you live 7 hours away (by plane) from said field.
I try to maintain that there’s nothing wrong with me, there’s simply no men where I live, that as soon as I move to the right place the men will come flocking. Melbourne is a Man Oasis, but I’m not around to follow up (note to self: move to Melbourne) and none of them are as available as they initially present to be.
Heart on your sleeve? Nah, y’all need to print out your marital status on your T shirts fo realz, I’m sure the Kardashians would invest in such a fashion line. Imagine you in da club, scoping the joint for babes. Who are you gunna pick? The guy in the ‘Up for a shag, but sussing out several other women for their girlfriend potential’ T shirt? I would have saved myself heaps of time (and written less blogs) if only shirts existed reading ‘I kissed another girl 3 weeks ago and it’s still undefined,’ ‘I’m not flirting, I’m just giving you polite customer service,’ and the even more helpful ‘I’m just a massive douchebag.’
Kardashians, I await your call. Men bearing ‘entertaining and available handsome gentleman’ T shirts, feel free to give me a call too. Meantime, I’ll be enjoying other pleasures of big city life, like wearing long pants and scarves instead of shorts, wearing boots, culturally inappropriate necklines and synthetic fabrics, eating delicious Balinese food, dining out, dancing and shopping with old friends in a shop that isn’t Country Target.
In a small town you’re bound to bump into guys you’ve dated. I once bumped into the lady who waxes my bikini at a party. I once was on a date at a café, bumped into my doctor and had to introduce her to my date. I know nothing about either of these women but they’ve both seen my genitals.
Speaking of genitals, or of being a dick (segue of the week!)… remember Suit Guy? The one who stood me up and forced me to eat four serves of chocolate mousse by myself? I never heard from Suit Guy again until several months later I turned up to Todd Mall markets with my Year 8 dance students. Who should happen to be the sound guy for their debut performance? Suit Guy. “Do you know that guy or something Miss? He’s ce-yuuuuute!”
The same Year 8 dance class wanted to learn ‘Thriller’ after MJ died and became cool again.
I also taught it to my super cool adult dance crew and Flashmobbed it around Alice Springs. We got offered $200 to perform it at a Halloween party at a local nightclub. I teased my hair and wore ripped op shop men’s pants and a tweet jacket that I’d spent the afternoon burning and dirtying up. I rocked up looking like a real deal authentic zombie. Somehow the others had figured out how to look hot AND look like zombies with an effortless and ‘on trend’ combination of ripped stockings and white contact lenses.
We got to the front of the line, got in free, got free champagne and got our 200 bucks. In cash. We were now ‘professional’ dancers. We felt collectively awesome and grown up and living the dream. All was going well until I bumped into the Pub Manager. Then across the room I saw the Breakdancing Mormon (I know, WTF, I thought they didn’t drink?).
Our music started. We cleared the dance floor. We crawled into position. During the 5 minutes and 16 seconds of our routine I saw the Prison Warden, the Tasmanian drunk driver, and another guy I’d previously met from the internet, been on a date with and never seen again until now. Now here they all were. Five of them. In the same pub. Watching me. Looking like an actual (slightly drunk) zombie.
Whatever, I told myself afterwards as I threw back another free champagne, I’m a professional dancer now. Pretty soon I’ll be getting flown around the country choreographing Flashmobs for Motorola and Pepsi advertisements and I’ll probably get a boyfriend as soon as I leave the desert and we’ll laugh about my first night as a professional dancer.
*Flashmobs are hard in a town where there are no large gatherings of people to surprise. Most of the time the amount of people involved in the Flashmob outnumbered the people watching the Flashmob. There are no crowds, no huge shopping malls, nothing to line up for, no huge train stations, well, other than where The Ghan stops, but all the passengers would potentially have heart attacks if anyone other than the Town Crier met them at the station. Yes readers, Alice Springs still has a Town Crier.