I was Raised this Way

My Mum reminds me of Marge Simpson – a devoted housewife that everyone depends on.  Just like Marge, my mum can pull out her mad skill whenever the need fills her – she sometimes needs to prove she can seriously kick some ass. However, as like Marge, my Mum always realises this isn’t her life path and puts her apron back on – she is a homebody.

Thankfully, my Dad is not like Marge’s husband – unlike Homer, my Dad is a workaholic, he “fucken loves beer” and does what my Mum tells him.  These two people are seriously made for each other.  They’ve been together since my Mum was 15, she had her first child at 19 and she always sent us three kids and my Dad off to school/work with delicious packed lunches every day.  One day while eating my ham, tomato, cucumber, cheese and lettuce sandwiches – with just the right amount of salt and pepper – one of my school friends looked at my sandwiches with envy.  “Sooooo, what’s on your sandwich today?” – I told him – “but how do you keep the bread from going soggy?” he asked. I explained I didn’t know and perhaps my mum encloses the filling with lettuce…? “I’ve just got marmite on my sandwiches again” he said with glum repulsion.

I don’t know why my Mum continued to be so nice to us into our high school years. As kids we were the equivalent of satan’s spawn themselves.  My favourite game was antagonising my Mum so bad that she’d finally lose her shit, takeoff her jandal and chase me down the passage way trying to swipe my naked ass.  Each dodged swipe made her furious, which in turn made me laugh louder.  I would run in front of her with my white, fluffy hair all matted into a birds nest at the back.  I’d try and grab glimpses at my Mum running after me winding up for the next swipe so I could dodge it right in the nic of time – the point of the game was to make her think she was actually going to get me while in mid swing.  I’d dodge right at the last millisecond – best game in the world!  I think this is why I enjoy sport so much to this very day.

Alas, my mum was clever enough to realise I would never take my punishment seriously, so she gave up and told me to “wait till your father comes home -you won’t be laughing then”.  All day, she’d remind me – “your Dad’s going to be home in a couple of hours. Hope you’re ready for a hiding” she’d warn.  “When your Dad was naughty as a kid, your Granddad would whip his ass into shape with a stick – bet he’ll use the same punishment on you!” she berated me.

I told her with bravado that I wasn’t scared – but I was.  I was sent to my room to wait for my punishment.  I was scared frozen.  All I could do was sit in the middle of my room and try to think of ways to get out of this.  Maybe I could run away – nah can’t get any food together.  Maybe I could hide in the garage – nah too cold.  Maybe I could just say sorry – nah I’m not sorry.  After a while, I heard the dreaded sound of the door open and close as my Dad arrived home – this made my stomach drop and I envisioned having to go and find my own stick and then be beaten until I was made to say sorry.  I could hear them murmuring and then long silences, and then snorts of laughter – which I thought was seriously evil.  How could my own mother think getting a hiding was funny?!  Maybe I had taken things too far – I was starting to doubt myself.

Finally my Mum came to get me from my room.  “Come on you. Your father is very mad with you”.  She made me walk in front of her and was nudging me in between my shoulder blades to make me walk in the direction of the lounge.  My Dad was standing in front of the TV with a belt.  He had folded the belt in half so it was doubled over and had each end of the folded belt grasped in his adjacent fists.  He brought his two fists together so his thumb and forefinger knuckles were touching.  He then swiftly pulled his fists away from each other so the belt made a slapping noise.

Well!  I just laughed and dropped to the floor, clasped his ankle into a bear hug and yelled “pull me along the floor Dad!”  Which he did.  We all laughed, joked and played but not without a talk on how I should be nice to my mother.  Yes Dad, I will – I promised.

With having parents so young, growing up was really fun -but it was a real strain on them financially and socially.  With this strain, came the need to ensure us kids had more than they did.  They encouraged us to have a career and see the world before settling down with the person of our choice and have kids only when we have the financial means and support to do so.

My late Grandmother however had a differing want.  The moment each of us grandkids would turn thirteen, my Grandmother would ask “when am I getting a great grandchild?”  My mother was so proud of my response – which was passed down from my older cousin and sister – “oh no, don’t look at me for that” I said, and I confidently pointed her in the direction of my brother who was next in line to turn thirteen.  None the less, my mother was in no way ready to be a grandmother at the age of 34 and she wasn’t about to take any risks.  She immediately pulled me aside, as she had done with my older sister when she was thirteen.  “Don’t you dare” she hissed in my ear “don’t….you…..dare….do that to me”.

I have a Cat

My cat loves me. She always wants to be near me, she waits for me outside the bathroom door and I’m pretty certain she would take a bullet for me.  She considers herself to be my protector and she takes this responsibility very seriously.

When men come into my life, she makes her presence known with immediate effect.  If we’re sitting at the dining room table chatting and having a coffee, she will jump up and sit right in front of my face with her back to my man-friend.  If we’re watching a movie on the sofa, she will creep up behind him and lick his head until he moves. If she can’t lick him away, she will sit on his knee and fart.

I find men are very weirded out by my cats’ behaviour.  They often feel threatened and accuse her of being jealous of them and ultimately get into a ridiculous power struggle with her – but she always wins.

I am willing to consider I could be wrong,  maybe it’s not the ridiculous male ego that’s the problem – perhaps it is simply that age old ‘crazy cat lady’ syndrome.  If a single woman over the age of 30 dares have a cat, it appears she is looked upon as being ‘mentally ill’.  In any case, I find my cat is a good ally to have around in the game of culling out these short sighted idiots.  And she really seems to enjoy her role in my odd family – made up of me, my cat and my chickens.

One man-friend, who I shall call ‘The Ego’, had a particular problem with my cat and got into quite an avid power struggle with her.  He would do mean things to her like shoo her off the sofa, he wouldn’t let her into the house unless she waited quietly for a least five minutes and he wouldn’t let her stay inside when raining and no one was home.  In response, my cat would jump up on my knee and start purring and smooching her head under my chin, all while looking smugly at The Ego.  Even though The Ego was trying to pretend my cat didn’t bother him, he was quite annoyed at this apparent ‘fuck you’ and things escalated pretty fast.

One morning, The Ego was heading out the front door and was eerily faced with my cat looking up at him jarringly and with blatant intent. As he hesitantly stepped out the door towards her, she turned and started running in front of him, plopping poos as she went. Her evil plan was to get him to chase her, all the while stepping in her trail of poo.  He was too clever for this and saw straight through her game.  He placed little pieces of wood on each poo and texted me to ‘beware of the cat shit at the front door’.  He was concerned for my clean shoes you see – Tui ad right there.

Even with all the effort to hide his fury, I could tell The Ego took my cats’ defiance personally.  That night, after work, he decided a meeting needed to be held about her. “She has some kind of bowl problem” – he stated with all the seriousness of a qualified vet – “and I think she needs to be put down”.  Instead of acting as he would have liked, by bawling and saying: “oh my superior that is man, I realise you know best, as I am but a mere, dumb, blonde woman…. “, I simply explained that my cat didn’t like him and, quite frankly, she’s a very good judge of character.

“Well!  It’s me or the cat!!” he spat with superior grandeur.

If my cat lays a massive shit an elephant would be proud of, inside the house or at the front door, I know I have done something to upset her.  She mostly gets upset with overcrowding the house with a lot of visitors at once.  If she is visibly upset, I will dote on her and try to make her more comfortable – my house is her house after all.  If men can’t take me for all I am – cat, chickens, career, independence, prosperity and all, they can fuck off.

I Don’t Put Out

The female dating game is pretty straight forward.  All we have to do is 1) make ourselves as attractive as possible, 2) be approachable and 3) filter out the men that are only interested in sex.

Obviously number one is very unproblematic – I’m not being flippant, it’s just that if you’ve been following my blog, you’ll have the basic understanding that single men and women are sluts.  All a woman needs to do to look attractive to a man-slut (single, straight man) is show a bit of skin and fluff up her hair a bit – I’m assuming I don’t need to mention the body control tights etc…?  Yeah good, thought so.

Number two – also easy.  I love meeting new people, it is my personality to be social and friendly, but I really ought to learn not to be so nice to the ugly ones – they are very hard to get rid of.  Ugly men are the ones that play the ‘numbers game’ and if you engage in friendly conversation with them, they think they’ve finally made a catch.  The ‘numbers game man’ can’t get the subtle hint to fuck off.  If he did so, he would have to continue with the numbers game – which is an unbearable thought.  So instead of graciously continuing on his plight, he’ll get really clingy and annoying.

Number three is the one I purposely and strategically endeavour to accomplish.  “Ooooh, this sounds like a little gemstone of a tip”, I hear you squeal with scandalous delight.  My strategy is pretty uncomplicated really.  I call it ‘survive for five’ which simply entails waiting for five dates before putting out.  Although, ‘simply’ is probably the wrong word to use to be honest.  Unfortunately for me and the crevice of wonders, every guy I have liked enough to date beyond a coffee has dumped me soon after the third date.

Coincidence?  I think not.

My hairdresser thinks this rule is ludicrous – “you gotta make sure he has the goods”, he reckons.  His advice is to cop a feel on the third date so I don’t get any unpleasant surprises and become sourly disappointed for investing all that time for a flop – pun intended.

These days men don’t even buy you a drink in exchange for entering the muffin made for love.  They seem to have forgotten that there are certain rules you’re supposed to go by.  Firstly, the waiter tells the man-slut how much the bill is, the woman is supposed to offer to pay for half (he’d be insulted if she offered to pay the full bill) and the man-slut is supposed to turn down the offer if he wants to see her again.  If he doesn’t want to see her again, he should let her pay half.

These sex crazed maniacs will allow me to pay for everything they can get and then they will actually see if the crevice of wonders is open for exploration.  When they don’t appear to be ‘hitting that next level’, they dump me…the fuckers.

Never-the-less, I don’t care so much – These man-sluts are doing me a favour.  Dating is like going for job interviews, you have to be honest with them so they can look within themselves and decide if they’ll be good for you and if you’ll be good for them. When I am getting to know a man-slut in more depth, I will assess if I can make a positive impact on him and his life – I will stick around if I can.  If I think I will just be a miserable cow because I don’t like something about him, such as pissing in my wardrobe after a court session or telling me how sexy I look when I do the dishes.  I will let them go so they can find someone better suited to them.

Whether it’s a dream job or a dream man I am going for, losing to someone better suited to the role is a good thing. I know there is something better waiting for me just around the corner.  Hell, if I get dumped just three more times – I’ll meet a man that’s three times better. Wouldn’t that be gold.

I Want it All

I was talking to an exceptionally funny, good looking, talented and all-round awesome person – Cory, when a thought came to me…

JUST JOKING!!

My friend Cory makes me laugh, we share the exact same sense of humour.  To people on the outside of our friendship, it appears we are interested in each other. These people may have a good point.  When two people are really good friends, comfortable in each others’ company and make each other laugh, then perhaps they should enter into a relationship together.

Many years ago, in the days when we were in our mid 20’s and cutting shapes all around Wellington, Cory and I shared a mutual friend.  This mutual friend was interested in having a relationship with him. Unfortunately (for her), she was very suspicious of my close friendship with Cory – I guess I can understand why she might have been a bit threatened and why she was confused as to which one of us Cory wanted a relationship with.

On one occasion, we were all sitting around my dining room table, she looked really annoyed with Cory’s ease and comfort around me and suddenly blurted out: “which one of us do you want?!?”  Cory’s body language was very open and honest as he sincerely replied with: “Either.  Whichever one of you I can sleep with first.” Typical me thought this was hilarious but the mutual friend stormed out…oops.

I wonder what my life would be like now if I had of tested out the validity of Cory’s statement.  What would have become of me if I had of pipped the mutual friend at the post and swooped in on Cory for my own selfish benefit?  Putting aside the fact I would have been a shit friend for doing that, of course.

Going by Cory’s life now, he wanted a partner that will enable his life to remain unchanged throughout the phases of his relationship.  For example – man get married: no change for man. Man have kid: no change for man.  Man buy house: no change for man. Not only do their lives not change, but when men get married, their lives get better.

When women get married, their lives become much busier and more stressful.  She has to organise everything, pay for at least half of everything, if not more (have you seen how much food and beer men consume?).  When women have children, they’re the ones that raise, feed and stop the kids from killing themselves – all whilst working in parallel. When women buy a home, they have to organise all the decorating, do all the housework and keep on top of all the household supplies and bills.

If the relationship breaks down, the man moves out of the house begrudgingly (i.e. fucken’ woman taking everything I’ve earned). The woman has to go on the DPB to raise the children. She becomes poor because men give the minimum they legally have to to the IRD, who then in turn give the women 80 bucks (no matter how much the men give IRD).  If the women are ‘lucky’ enough to work for an employer that operates 24/7, they can pick up evening and weekend work (god forbid if the woman asks the man to work part-time so she can also work during sociable hours). In any case, the woman gets no sleep and burns out.  When this happens, the man steps in and saves the day, further improving his life (he gets a big inflated ego for being able to cope better as a solo Dad).

I realise, it’s not fair to put the blame entirely on the man…ah fuck it. This is my blog, and Cory….well this is a bitch-fest just for you sweet pea xox.

I would love to work and live in equal measures.  I would like to spend my 24 hour day like this: Sleep = 8hrs (while having fair turns at waking for the kids in the middle of the night).  Work = 8 hours.  Family and house time = 8 hours.  During the family and house time, I envision my fantastical partner to be operating on the same timetable so we can tend to the family and needs of the household in each others’ company. Oh, and we’d both have equal turns at going to the pub/pursuing our individual hobbies during the week.

This is my fairy tale.  Fuck sleeping away my life until a man comes along and ‘wakes me up’ with a slobbery, beer drenched kiss and promising the world. 

Would my life be different if I ended up with Cory? No, I would’ve given Cory the flick too!  

I’m a Ruthless Bitch

If you’re familiar with Alice in Wonderland, you’ll know the Queen of Hearts is a tyrant –  she rules over Wonderland with selfish and cruel dominance.  If she doesn’t get her way, she shrieks “oooowffff with his head!!!”  If one of her living footrests are too slow to produce their warm bellies for her cold pleasure, “oooowfff with his head!!”  she’ll bellow.

Much like the Queen of Hearts, I too believe a beheading is the answer to all my problems.  In my Wonderland, when men let me down, I yell “give him the flick!!!”  All the poor bastards’ need to do is criticise my driving, open a door for me or if he takes over an hour to text me back, “give him the flick!!!” I’ll yell.  God forbid if he slaps my ass while I’m walking past – he’s out the door so fast he wonders if the memory of me might be a dream.  He’ll text me a couple of days later to see if I might of existed.  I do not reply – no doubt reinforcing his paranoia that I was always a figment of his imagination.

One man, who I call ‘the Brazilian’, escaped a beheading for a good two months.  He was my flatmate so I had to maintain a level of civility.   When he moved in, we got along really well.  We would cook yummy dinners for each other and have interesting and meaningful conversations, which ultimately deepened our friendship.

One night he came home with a couple of bottles of wine and declared he was going outside to drink and think by the fire.  After a while I went out to join him. He was quite drunk and morose and started talking deeply about his feelings.  Suddenly he stood, swaying a little with a glass of wine in one hand and a small bottle of fire accelerator in the other.  He dramatically doused the fire and along with the resulting roar, he swung around to face me.  I wanted him to sit down as I feared he might fall into the fire. “No! I must declare something to you!” He spectacularly announced. I told him to move away from the fire and be careful. He swung around and took a couple of wobbly steps away from the fire and swung back dramatically.  He then lifted his arm high above his head, and just like a triumphant matador winning a bull fight, he threw the bottle of fire accelerator onto the ground.  Then with both arms out wide, still clutching his wine glass, which was now empty, he readied himself for a grand announcement.

He kind of looked like Michael Jackson in the video clip Dirty Diana.  He had torn at his shirt so the top buttons had ripped off and his bare chest was exposed.  His long curly, black hair was blowing wildly in the Wellington wind and his arms were outstretched with clenched fists – how the wine glass stayed intact – I do not know.  He had a mixed look of wrought angst and determination on his face.  Then, with unbridled passion and fervor he declared his love for me – “I love you!!” he shouted.  And then fell backwards down the bank behind him.  Thankfully, after about two minutes of crashing around in the bush below, he emerged and conceded he was fine.  I put him to bed and wearily went about putting out the fire and cleaning up broken glass and spilt liquids.

So of course, the Brazilian required a beheading.

There is nothing wrong with being single. I would much rather be alone than be with the wrong person.  I think it’s important to build the life you are happy with and when someone special comes along you should not have to give it all up. Obviously some equal contribution is needed when finding a middle ground, but in order to continually live wholly and happily – it’s important to know what you want to keep, give up and what you are willing and able to contribute.

Men are Sluts

Did you know, every two weeks, one man can produce enough sperm to impregnate every woman on earth?  Given this biological fact, it’s no wonder single, straight men are driven to try to bed as many women as they possibly can.  There’s this bias among men and women alike that women are hormonal crazies that are totally preoccupied with the sound of their own biological clock. If women wear a short skirt, too much make up, try to lose weight or wear ‘slutty’ clothing, this bias seems to be further reinforced.

I think it is actually the men that are the hormonal crazies.  Men are way more driven by their hormones than women are. In fact, it’s only a handful of women that are afflicted with hormonal problems and those problems are diagnosable and treatable.  Except of course, when their partner is an asshole, (refer previous post for explanation of asshole). Unfortunately, there is currently no treatment available that can stop a woman from flipping out at an asshole.

I’ve actually experienced firsthand a single man’s oblivion to his hormonal impulses. After breaking up with and getting over the ‘significant ex’, I thought I would try out some dating sites. I googled “best dating sites in NZ” and NZ Dating came up as the most popular. At that time (before my singledom had really set in), I was a considerate and kind person, so I didn’t want to hurt anyone or give them the impression I was ready for marriage and kids right now. In order to portray a true representation of myself, I set up my profile as “looking for friendship”. I felt this was a good option to choose because I envisioned meeting nice men and possibly starting a relationship if our friendship developed in that direction.  Given the other options were blatantly: “I’m looking for sex only” or “I’m looking for a relationship” or “I’m ready to have children soon”.  I thought my choice was quite clear that I was looking for friendship.

It was good fun getting back into the ‘game’ and I could do this all from the comfort of my home. I didn’t have to make the effort of getting dressed up and going out only to wake up with a hangover and some stupid idiot texting me wanting to know if I was still keen to go tramping with him for two weeks next month. Don’t men wake up and realise they were talking shit all night?  I do.

Anyway, one night while happily sipping wine next to the fire in my pyjamas, I was reading the hundreds of messages in my inbox one by one. I liked to read the messages but I very rarely replied (you’ll understand why when you read on). The messages would cover a wide range of personality, some would just send a smiley face, some would have a pre-written message that was obviously cut and pasted into the message, and there were literally hundreds of ‘appendage’ photos attached to their messages.

Of these very very entertaining messages, I opened a message from ‘thelovedoctor’. I opened the message to find his profile picture was a photo of his erect appendage. Now, it’s important that you understand, profile pictures on NZ Dating are public and everyone can see this picture when they are conducting a search. It can even be seen by people that haven’t signed up to the site yet (you only have to sign up if you want to send and receive messages).

Thelovedoctor’s email message was really polite and down to earth, which was a huge contrast to his profile picture. He was all “hey, nice profile. I like going tramping too. I also like long walks on the beach and I have 50/50 care of my two delightful daughters.

So I’m thinking: “what the…..?” and as I’m scrolling down to the end of the message, more confusion was added to this contrast – he’s only gone and attached a photo of his face!  I ask you: who writes a message, to someone looking for friendship, with an appendage photo for their profile picture and deliberately attaches a photo of their face?  Oh and did I mention that I had set up my profile as totally anonymous? He didn’t know who he was even messaging.  What….a….fucking….tool.

Well, that’s not actually the shocking part! Although I was already fully shocked at this early stage of the message reading process, to my further shock (who knew being ‘further shocked’ after already being fully shocked was possible?), this person was a Manager and colleague at my workplace. Whenever I was in a meeting with him, or walk past him in the hallway, I would just stare at him curiously with squinted eyes. As we’d be walking past each other, I would stop and watch him walk towards me, then I’d turn my whole body as he walked past me and proceed to watch him until he’d walk out of my sight. If anyone spoke to me during our meetings, I would turn my head towards that person but my eyes would never leave Thelovedoctor’s face.  I was totally mesmerised by Thelovedoctor’s double life.

So yeah, that was pretty weird. However, I now understand that Thelovedoctor didn’t know what he was doing, he did what he did because he is a slave to his hormones. It’s a man’s job to impregnate as many women as possible for the survival of the human race and it is the woman’s job to look as attractive as possible for the survival of the human race (so men will want to impregnate them). We’re either all sluts or none of us are sluts – you choose. If we didn’t behave/dress the way we do, the human race would die out. End of.

Men are Assholes

The longest relationship I have had was 6.5 years. He was a loud mouthed rugby head and was loads of fun.  We met through a mutual friend and would party together every weekend.  After about three months of friendship we went on our first date and after six months, we moved in together.

This man, who I call my ‘significant ex’, had me hooked on him and therefore knew he could reveal his real asshole self with no significant repercussions.  I would be innocently watching TV, reading a book, eating dinner or just doing any activity that put my face approximately at ass level. My significant ex would walk past me all preoccupied and innocent looking.  Just at the right moment he’d tip his ass towards my face and would let rip a massive fart square in my face.  It would literally make my hair blow in his wind.  It would happen so quickly and unexpectedly, there was never anything I could do, except completely ignore the occurrence as if I didn’t notice a thing.

After about a year of enduring this behaviour, ‘The Day of Glory’ happened upon me… Now, listen closely ladies – What I am saying is that I have the answer on how to stop this behaviour.  I know, I know, I know – you think it’s impossible. You’ve tried crying and saying how much it upsets you.  You’ve tried yelling and saying you’ll leave.  You’ve even tried leaving, haven’t you?  These tactics don’t work.  At the end of the day, it’s funny as hell – to him, to his friends, and to your friends.  If you leave, you’ll just be single and isolated.  When you try to talk to your friends about how much of an asshole your man was, and you think you deserve better than him, they will just nod sympathetically and wish you luck in finding a ‘decent man’.

The Day of Glory came when my significant ex and I were living in Melbourne.  We were play fighting on our bed.  He was lying on his back and being all tickly and playful.  I slid on top of him and was being all cute and tickly back. After pretending to kiss him and then playfully pulling away, I swung around so his head was level with my ass – this was a very valuable position to be in.  To his detriment, he had forgotten his own ‘ass/head’ rule.  This was the first time since we met, that I had ever been able to have the ‘ass/head’ power.

He was shaking his head side to side and growling like a little puppy. I did a little wiggle back which made him open his mouth and growl louder, as though he was a puppy wanting to play tug of war.  It was at this very moment that I filled hot air, straight from the inside of my butter chicken filled intestine, into his mouth, nostrils and down his throat.  The shock of the situation and the weight of my body meant he was pinned down for a good 10 seconds before his arms and legs started flailing.

He never farted in my face again.

I believe the reason men dutch oven, waft, fart in faces and wind the window up after farting in the car, is because they themselves really like the smell.  They want their loved ones to be a part of their happy memory making. They want everyone to sit amongst the glorious stench, breath it in and make comments on it.

I think this noteworthy phenomenon is due to survival behaviours straight out of the Stone Age.  When men were out hunting, they would be in groups and they would cover their entire bodies with mammoth shit to hide their odour from the prey they were hunting.  All they did all day was wait for hours with their mates.  Once their pray walked into their trap, they would jump from their hiding place and make their kill. Killing the animal would take a matter of minutes

On returning to their cave, their women would see them walking in from the horizon with a massive sabre toothed lion slung over their shoulders. The women would be so very excited of this sight as it meant they wouldn’t be getting clubbed over the head and wake up pregnant.  The women were exhausted from gathering, tending to the children, making the fire, cooking food, making clothes, tools and housing structures, and performing surgery on their birthing women and elderly men. Even so, they would rush towards the men with arms out wide.  They would tell them they are so strong and brave and oooh you smell like a real man!  Come to my hearth and lay with me by the fire.

Happiest day of a man’s life: sitting around all day with their mates, smelling like shit, killing an animal, coming home to a cave all warm and comfortable and then getting laid.

Why I’m Single – It’s not me, it’s you.

Several men have asked me, in the last five years, “why are you single?” They say it with lust and longing in their eyes and it usually comes with a ‘compliment’ like “you’re so hot”.  I smile back sweetly and say that I don’t know why.   What I would actually like to say is: “dude… your’re a fine example.  You’re salivating, I earn more than you and the things you say about your girlfriend/women makes me want to vomit.

I have started this blog because I have been single for five years.  I have had some entertaining, heartbreaking and valuable learning experiences that I think is well worth sharing, plus it gives me something to do on my dateless Saturday nights.

At times, I may come across as bitter, I may offend your sense of idealality (this is a word I made up, it’s pretty much the opposite of reality). If this happens, I urge you to comment, argue and express your views unapologetically – I am a rare breed that does not get offended easily by others’ views, in fact you most likely will be apart of my personal growth. Just no personal attacks please (unless it is warranted )

I’m starting with my first love, Indy. He was such a kind soul, and in this relationship, I was the dick – not him. This is the one and only blog that the man will not get full and total blame.

Indy was a Gothic when I met him, we were flatmates and connected immediately.  I loved him deeply and he always did anything for me, including facing up to the barriers I created through being unwell.

I bumped into him on the Wellington waterfront a couple of weeks ago, he hasn’t changed except for having two beautiful children , that he loves.

Tune in for a weekly, entertaining blog on a single woman’s dating ups and downs.

xo