Meeting the Selection Criteria



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Not long ago I met a man, and I use that term loosely, that had established selection criteria for women. He quite succinctly pointed out that dates are no different to job interviews and that a criterion simply assists with selecting the right candidate. I was both offended on behalf of his past and future dates, and intrigued. He wouldn't share with me the exact details, however, the odd bits of information passed to me by mutual friends at the time, it didn't seem to be your average list. So, should we have a selection criteria in mind when we are weighing up potential partners and what if they have a criteria, how can we possibly survive the interview phase if we don't know what it is?

Here is where Internet dating has advantage over conventional partner hunting. A good profile will put it all out there, what they consider to be their strengths and better qualities and exactly what they are looking for in a potential mate. The downside is they may be imaginary, lying or not really want what they think they want. Weeding them out on the internet is harder than in real life because when typing a response we have time to consider it, in the flesh we have a tendency to say something that we will regret forever, knowing deep down that it wasn't the answer that they were looking for.

So what is more important, establishing our own criteria or surviving theirs? Tough call, we are more likely to get a partner by meeting each of theirs, but how do we know if they are really the ones we want unless we have established criteria of our own. To create a list of our own we should first our own personality, what type of people we are compatible with and what we want out of life. Hmmmm, starting to get complicated. But I have a list of basics.

My basic list goes like this: male, heterosexual, single, fluent in English, physically available, emotionally available, in legal and paid employment, no addiction or substance abuse issues, non-violent person who has never been arrested or in been in custody. My secondary essential criteria list includes such items as being ambitious, great work life balance, friends of his own, not a party boy, accepting my son and I as we are, not living with his parents and having his own car. The third list of preferential criteria is where you weed out the ok guys from the great ones, these would be educated, worldly, down to earth, encouraging of my goals and aspirations, great with my friends and family and confident enough that I don't have to keep boosting his ego.

Notice the lack of physical characteristics, that's because we don't need them, we know fairly early on if we are attracted to someone or not, it's the rest of the stuff we have trouble recognising or tend to ignore too easily. Of course, I haven't mentioned any intimate criteria, but if you think that is not important you are seriously deluded. Having a partner that is compatible in bed can be, at some point, the make and break of a relationship.

So if these criteria can mean the difference between happiness and a miserable match up, should we tell them about it? I vote yes. I don't mean via document, or all in one hit, but as topics come up it wouldn't hurt to mention your preferences and goals. For example if a guy starts talking about backpacking Europe and you want to start a family, now would be great time to not only recognise you may not be compatible but to explain to him why it is the case.

Then there are their criteria. How do we know what it is? Well here's a thought, ask. I don't mean a bombardment of twenty questions upon first meeting, but as subjects come up don't be afraid to ask what they are looking for. This can be more difficult in non-date situations such as being out with a group of friends, but cleverly disguised conversation can still give you the answer you are looking for. For example a comment such as "her husband never lets her go out, says that they are married and it's her job to look after the kids", gauge his response and make a mental note of it.

Because being single wasn't hard enough, and looking the part just doesn't cut the mustard anymore, we are now stuck trying to work out what we are looking for, who meets that criteria and then what their criteria is and whether or not we meet it. Bugger that, I am going back to the Internet!

Nothing like a night out to ruin your night



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In a town as small and isolated as the one I live in you don't need to date. Everyone goes out to the same place on the same nights anyway. It's a bit like not having to order a-la-carte cause you know where the buffet is. And if in the back of your mind you are thinking that the quality at a buffet is never as good as table service, you would be right.

So why do we go out, is it to hang with our friends? we can do that at home or over coffee. Meet new people? In a town of twenty thousand, chances are we've already met everyone worth meeting, well those that actually live locally anyway. Let our hair down and have a good time? Don't know about you, but the last place I can relax and be myself is going to be in a well lit tavern filled with under dressed 20 year olds listening to a noxious mix of top 40 and country. Finally I understand why all the coupled up people stay home.

I have read about how sometimes single people need to get off the dating treadmill when it gets tiring, predictable and stressful. In a society where dating has been replaced by attending the local cattle yard on a Friday night, getting off the treadmill means giving up going out. Unfortunately for the single person this can mean being devoid of a social life, at least for a little while.

So as I ponder taking a break from it all and thinking about how uninteresting my life will be without the once a month bout in the drunken night out ring, I take a quick inventory of my last six months out on the town. The last time I went out I pushed a guy into a door when he turned out to be friends with my ex [sic], the time before that the young journalist from our office vomited on my pants in a limo, the time before that I lost my camera and stayed out till five in the morning with my mother and baby brother, before that a couple of balls that left me more pissed off than relaxed for varying reasons. The first six months in the year weren't much better either.

So what happens if I take a six month hiatus? Well the first thing that comes to mind is that I might miss out on something. Miss out on what? a great night out? cause there has been so many of them lately. Miss out on meeting the man of my dreams? because clearly I am going to find him at some seedy night spot in the wee hours of the morning. Or maybe I will just miss out on gossiping, hours sitting around trying to look like I have friends, spending money I don't have on drinks I don't really like and wasting the whole next day on a hangover.

With the decision made to stay home and save a little money and possibly my sanity, I now have to deal with the knowledge that it will be at least another six months before I meet someone, or at least reacquaint myself with someone I once new that will do due to lack of options... but I have ran out of time to go any further with that idea. See you next year.

When I grow up I want to be Carrie Bradshaw

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When I grow up I want to be Carrie Bradshaw, albeit a an overweight, less fashionable, financially destitute, uneducated version. I have been spending a lot of time watching Sex and the City, mostly to distract myself from something else and I can't decide whether it is meant to make us feel better that even glamorous women have shitty love lives, or make us feel hopeless because if they can't make it happen what chance do us mere mortals have.

As far as role models go she's not what most people would aspire to, but she is neurotic and in that way I feel I have found a kindred spirit, and I won't let the fact that she's a fictional character take away my sense of validation. I watch a thirty something single woman on the flat screen who picks the wrong men, chucks tantrums and can't budget and I feel like giving her a high five. But then she has so much more.

Carrie has my dream life, a professional career where she writes for what appears to be a fairly good living, in a city full of culture and possibilities, with friends who love and support her and never has a problem getting a date. Instead, I have a medial low level part time job that barely gets me from pay to pay, in a tiny town in the middle of oblivion containing only a singular remaining divulge all type friend and I have never been asked out on a official date in my entire life.

Watching the glamorous foursome tramp all over the city I have been fantasising about since Sesame Street leaves me feeling with pangs of jealousy, but that's not why I'm watching it. As 1.30am on a Monday morning creeps up on me and I count down the hours until I have to go to work I still can't stand to turn season three off. Each time I turn it off a new feeling engulfs me, not envy, grief and I remember what I was trying to distract myself from.

The source of the grief I feel is something Carrie Bradshaw will never have to deal with. The complete emptiness and fear that I feel for the three nights a fortnight my son spends away from me. The horrible moments before I drop him off when the terror seeps in that I could never see him again, the  sleepless nights I spend checking an empty bed holding back the tears at the thought that it may remain empty forever. It's the most horrible place to be, a place many shared parent's are spared from. Then my son comes home.

For 11 days a fortnight I have the joy that can be unmatched by any designer clothing, cocktails, fancy jobs and unlimited supply of eligible bachelors. The feeling I get when my little boy puts on a concert, creates something just for mummy and crawls into bed next to me in the middle of the night and tells me he loves me. Somehow it all feels better.

It's 2am on a second Monday and in six and half hours I will have him back. But I still can't sleep, so I lose myself in Carrie's life a little more.

Somewhere over the rainbow, things are still shit



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One once upon a time, in a land called Oz, a girl and her little dog left her house and a town full of little men behind to go in search of a narcissistic pathological liar that would solve all of her problems. Along the way she met a man with no brains, one with no heart and one who was weak as piss. Fuck me. I think I've been there.

The yellow brick road of boyfriends and one nighters is long and the Emerald City of matrimony far, but don't be fooled, behind every great and powerful Oz is a scheming little man just vying to make his escape when he thinks you're not looking. And you are going to have to work for it. Whether or not there is a crazy witch and flying monkeys depends on the mental state of his ex and whether or not he has children, and being able to deal with these or similar obstacles is going to test authenticity of your fairytale.

Nevertheless, a brainless, heartless, self centred liar with no balls you can do without. So the next question is how to get home. No, you may not have ruby slippers, but you do have it in you to find the way yourself. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in a place that is not quite real and has dangers lurking around every corner? I know I don't, but it sure is pretty.

In Oz the three men are given tokens of what they are seeking, a fake diploma, a fake medal, and a ticking clock instead of a heart. In real life we often accept the same, a shared bank account, a house, a ring, maybe even a fancy party, when quite often it's not the real thing. So trust me, you are going to want to get back to Kansas before the toxic posies trap you forever. 

There are times where we think that the problem is us and they we need to work harder, perhaps it's just the fear of the unknown that keeps us in the fantasy land, when we should remember the good things about the place we so desperately wanted to run away from by getting into a relationship. In the words of Dorothy “If I ever going looking for my hearts desire again, I won't ever going any further than my own back yard” because there's no place like home.

The Big O

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Someway into my 24^th year I became obsessed with the search of The Big O. My naivety, a weakness of my twenties, and now, had shielded me from not only experiencing the female orgasm but from even knowing that it existed. Once my friends stopped laughing they decided to help.

I was in a live in relationship with a then 21 year old I had met straight out of high school, he was sweet, extraordinarily handsome, young and well built. He was also unemployed, unambitious, and a homebody who detested spending money. Our lives consisted of going without nice food, a social life, holidays  and hobbies so that we could save for menial possessions. As he paid off  lay-buys for video recorders and computer game machines I started to feel my whole life was on lay-buy. One that I could never afford to pick up. I wasn't sure what I wanted out of life, but I felt that even the white picket fence out the front of our tidy 90's villa was mocking my desire for something more exciting. It's no wonder sex became a chore.

I had flown the coop so to speak, well at least three nights a week and on weekends. After discovering that being terrible at sport was quite enjoyable when there was a lot of drinking involved, I found myself happier at the football club than I ever was at home. My team mates decided the reason for this was bad sex, and Monday, Wednesday and Friday training sessions were often followed by, well, training sessions. It was a butch version of Sex and the City. Instead of designer clothes and cocktails it was joggers, jeans and beer, but the content of the conversations were much the same.

After several months of transferring my new found knowledge to the bedroom I was still no closer and starting to stress out. In an attempt to loosen my inhibitions, more beer would be consumed, but this would back fire as by the time I got home from all my consumption activities my mystified partner was well and truly asleep. That's when the fighting began, not happy with being at home all alone and me spending all the money I earned on alcohol, the numbingly peaceful home started to turn toxic.

It wasn't the bad sex that was making the relationship bad, it was the bad relationship that was making the sex bad, or at least killing my enjoyment of it. Six months and an attempted rerun later the whole thing was over and I was starting to discover that my new uni friend, despite all appearances might not actually be gay. I was wrong, but more on that another day. In the meantime he was providing me with an opportunity for practice. I will admit, he wasn't the only one during that year that I styled my craft on, but he was the most reliable and fun to be around in general.

Eventually, a year later I found it. Not the way I thought. I had had it all wrong. I was looking for something that made me scream, when what I really needed was something that made me truly relax. We are all different, and just like we all want something different out of life, our hidden and most desirable treasure will differ greatly also. I am not saying you shouldn't listen to the advice of your mates, just don't waste 18 months of your time obsessing over something when you don't really know what it is you are looking for.

Here comes the Badger

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The online urban dictionary defines a badger as the ugly version of a cougar. So as an overwieght, over thirty, single mother I would probably fall into that category regardless of who I was interested in, and lets face it men naturally aim much younger and choosing someone their own age or similar is just.. well not necesary.

So what is the worst part about being a badger? It's that everyone assumes you are on the prowl or "waddle". It's when I try to mingle where the paranoia hits fever pitch. I worry that every male I talk to regardless of age, relationship or my level of interest is being assessed as out of league by bitchy woman around the room, and even by the men themselves.

I wish it was paranoia, unfortunately I have heard the comments about others all too much, even had a few rumours about myself come back and hit me in the face. So what do we do about it? Not go out? go out but sit inconspicuously in the corner making sure not to talk to any men? In an ideal world we wouldn't let banter like that get to us. This isn't an ideal world.

So as I get ready to go out I push the thoughts of comments of "you can't dress up a turd" out, as I arrive at the pub I push the "bingo was last night" comments out, as I order a drink I push out the "don't think they sell your spritzer here" thought out, when I go to the bathroom I try to ignore the look of the thin pretty twenty somethings who think they are "never going to end up like her", on my way back to my friends I may run into someone I know to chat to for a bit, God help me if he's male. The brain goes crazy with the "look who she's trying to pick up", "move on grandma" and "poor guy" comments. By the time I get safely back to my friends, my own thoughts and paranoia have decimated what was left of my self esteem.

Then I get comfortable talking to someone and slowly but surely all those insecurities seep away, a handsome yet lovingly chubby tradesman was more than happy to talk to me, which would be better if the topic wasn't how great his wife is. Then there is the hot young guy that I can actually have an intelligent conversation with until he decides it's time to go hunting for a root for the night. I try talking to women, but I'm shit at it, or they don't like me cause I'm single... not sure.

Either way I spend a lot of the night looking for my friends who dont' seem to have any of my hang ups, or if they do, they are effortlessly concealing it as they dazzle the men around the room. Maybe it is all in my head. I really wish I could beleive that.

All my ex-boyfriends are getting married

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Correction all my ex boyfriends have already gotten married. Well, I haven’t checked up on the latest one, I have deliberately cut off all contact, because quite frankly I don’t think I could bear knowing. It’s not the type of jealousy that indicates I want them back, it’s the fact that despite what they told me, they were indeed the marrying type, it was me they never wanted to marry.

I know this happens to a lot of women, for those that haven’t experienced it, take the complete feeling of dejection and worthlessness when you find out your ex has a new girlfriend and times in by ten. It’s that horrid complete internal organ back-flip feeling when someone casually mentions that your ex is engaged, the urge to hold in the vomit when you see the wedding photos, especially if they got married at the spot you picked out, and the inability to function as a normal human being when you accidentally run into them at a restaurant on a Saturday afternoon and he introduces her as his wife.

I have had eight serious boyfriends since my prom, seven of them are married. But then it got lots worse. It got to be that every guy who I had a casual fling with was shacking up within days and married or engaged before the end of the year. I was the female equivalent of Good Luck Chuck. As a never married, overweight, single mother, thinking about this fact for too long can be soul destroying.

It’s at this point I usually reflect on the positives of a situation. I've got nothing. I never gave marriage too much thought in my early to mid twenties; I just sort of assumed it would happen. It never occurred to me that it wouldn’t. Now I am approaching 34, living day to day without the opportunity of ever meeting anyone new, let alone compatible, and I am yet to decide whether or not to give up hope.

I watch a romantic movie or some intimate moment on television and I feel like screaming, Fuck you life! That’s what I wanted! The only thing that can calm me down is the realisation that the only common denominator in all my failed relationships is me. Perhaps I don’t’ have the required skills, or I don't project myself as wifey material, I might be attracted to the wrong men or have incredibly bad timing. So what to do? I honestly don’t know. I tried online dating, long distance relationships, the works. I may never get married, and maybe I just have to teach myself that that is ok.