Old School Charm

One thing I genuinely love is my readers, and I particularly enjoy it when my readers come up with a rather interesting blog topic. Hence this post. Many times in the past have Mrs N and I discussed our mutual love of handsome movie stars from a bygone era and yesterday I spent a good hour or so daydreaming about their raw sexual energy.

Their charisma and charm made young girls swoon and you can tell just by watching them that they were men, not boys. Men who could seduce women with their words and a simple glance rather than their looks.

Meet the Parents

Last Saturday I reached another relationship milestone, possibly more important than a first trip to Ikea.

Meeting the family of your significant other is surprisingly nerve racking. Would they like me? Was I dressed appropriately? Would I say something stupid? Would they disapprove of me being Australian? And more importantly, would the boy decided halfway through that actually it wasn’t going to work?
My fears of course were unfounded, the family, were in fact lovely and normal, and if the conversation was at any time slow it wasn’t awkward.

One problem that may become an issue though is that I just couldn’t keep up with them. Whether it is just this family, or all Northerners, but by midnight I had well and truly had my quota of food and drink and would have liked to have retired quietly to bed. However, my bed for the night was Mr W’s sister’s couch, which at the time was occupied by a giant Rottweiler called Duke.

Despite feeling incredibly rude, I could not help myself and began to snooze quietly, somewhat hidden behind the boy to save face. Alas, I do fear that this may have lost me the all important seal of approval, but as Mr W said, “this time next year you’ll be able to keep up”.

Here’s hoping so!

Ikea Date

There hasn’t been that many times in my life when I have taken a step back and thought about how lucky I actually am.

I recently moved into a new home, and required a trip to Ikea to kit it out with essentials. Mr W, bless him, offered to drive me, and hesitantly I accepted, knowing that men do not like Ikea. My parents, for example, did not speak to each other for 3 days after one doomed trip to the homewares superstore.
ppily followed me around for 2 hours without complaint. That’s right, without a single complaint, shoulder shrug or exasperated sigh. In fact, he was actually enthusiastic about the display kitchen cabinets, bathroom storage and bedding. It was only when we got to the marketplace that his enthusiasm started to wane.

And so, I quickly wrapped up my purchases and got out of there, with a happy boyfriend, and a wardrobe full of coathangers. I am, in fact, a very lucky girl.

Status Update?

Today, I’d like to pose a question to you all – when is the appropriate time in a relationship to change your Facebook Status?

Certainly you don’t want to jump in too early, nor do you want to be the first to do so. Likewise, I don’t want to delay the matter too long.

It’s a funny thing really, and a serious part of modern day relationship politics. I mean, I post that I am “in a relationship” and essentially I am screaming to the world that “Yippee! I have a boyfriend”. Then there is the huge risk that you change your status, and two weeks later “.. is no longer listed in a relationship” – your misfortune apparent for all to see.

I also have the dilemma of I can’t see what his relationship status is. After the conscious decision to not become friends on Facebook (after all, I don’t want to turn into crazy stalking girlfriend constantly questioning who that girl is in that photo) I am not privileged to this information.

So, to change, or not to change, that is the question!

New Discovery

I frequently find myself with a bit of an internal dilemma when writing at Secret Life. This is supposedly the one place where I can speak my mind, be brutally honest, vent and share. However, with so many of my close friends, the man, and occasionally my Dad reading this, I have found myself holding back on sharing things that I want to.

But today as I was strolling through Westfield London, I decided to no longer care. So without further ado I would like to tell you about something that has been on my mind recently. 

Oral Sex is a funny sort of thing to want to do really. The blow job I completely understand, It’s entirely an external thing, and as long as it’s been washed recently not entirely unpleasant. In fact, it’s incredibly satisfying to seeing and feeling your man orgasm, and feeling them explode inside your mouth makes you feel close to them in a way that few things do.

But I’ve nearly really enjoyed it when they return the favour. That is until I made the recent discovery that in fact, it is awesome. Perhaps all the men beforehand just had no idea what they were doing. The Ex used to point blank refuse to do it, and I think subconsciously that put me off. But now, I adore it. Perhaps because my man is incredibly skilled with his tongue and his fingers, or perhaps because I am comfortable enough to not be paranoid that they’re not enjoying it – but for whatever reason, I can’t get enough.

The Talk

When one enters a new relationship, eventually “The Talk” must be had. It’s always a bit nerve racking having to bring it up, but sometimes you just have to grab the bull by the horns and do it.

So on Friday, I met Mr W (I’m still trying to think of a good blog name for him) for an evening in town, and after a few cocktails, we had the conversation I was dreading.

As a writer, I’ve always found it easy to express myself on paper (or any form of written communication), but when it comes to face-to-face interaction, the tendency to freeze up and be irrational often overcomes me. Perhaps it was the social lubricant of 2-4-1 cocktails, or perhaps it’s because he is someone I am completely comfortable and can be myself with, but the talk was easy.

Turns out we are pretty much on the same page, and we promised to not be assholes to each other.  I’ll keep you posted x

An Affair to Remember (part 2)

We left off the Monday of my first weekend in London, having said my farewells to my holiday fling and left to visit Madam Alsop in Essex.

I hadn’t been on the train to Chelmsford long, looking at the snow covered fields passing me by when I realised that there was no way I was done with him.

Some facebook messaging, an exchange of numbers and an unexpected block of free time led us to arrange a rendezvous for the next weekend.

The prospect of seeing him again filled me with a strange sort of calm happiness.  This all sounds ridiculously cheesy I know, but you all know that deep down I’m a hopeless romantic. I’ve always wanted to be swept off my feet with grand romantic gestures.  Through my 27 years I can count on one hand the number of times a boy has even tried.  But sweep me off my feet he did.

It’s not every day you meet a man who will willingly indulge your childish whims (hand-in-hand tour of Christmas lights.. sigh).  The Ex did everything he possibly could to get out of taking me to see the Christmas lights, and here was a man that did it just to make me happy. Jerry Maguire may have had Renee Zellwegger at hello, but this man had me at “Shall we go to Winter Wonderland?”

So readers, I was hooked.  It was nice to have someone around to text again when I was feeling frisky (a lack of available men has seen my love of drunk texting go unfulfilled recently).  It was nice to completely be myself around someone, in full geek mode, and STILL have them want to shag me senseless.  It was nice to have a man encourage me with my pursuits instead of telling me I was dreaming.  It was nice to have someone take care of me, hold my hand and hug me when I was feeling sad.  And after the calamities of my love life it was nice to have my faith in men restored again. 

So after three and a half weeks, hours spend in bed, two of the most earth shattering orgasms I have ever experienced (ever), much wine and food I said goodbye to my “5 foot 8, very good in bed and good looking” (to quote him) man for the fourth and final time.  And instead of a classy farewell like Casablanca, I cried like a baby and it took a lot of strength to walk away. 

I’ll probably always wonder “what if”, but in all honesty it’s probably best I came home before I got my heart broken or ruined it like I always do. 

So there are no promises of meeting on top of the Empire State Building a’la “An Affair to Remember”. Just happy, lovely memories of a wonderful man.  

An Affair To Remember (part one)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single lady on holidays in another country, will inevitably have a fling.

There is something about the combination of cocktails, being away from home and a “Woo! Holidays!” attitude that means that any man of a certain age, who is reasonably attractive, automatically becomes an interesting prospect.

And so, on my second night of my London homecoming I took a fancy to my good friends housemate.  One thing led to another and before I knew it we were snogging on the dance floor. Which then turned into a weekend of some serious fun.  

What was surprising however, was that this casual flirtation turned into something more.

Regular readers will know about my rather unsuccessful love life, and that it is not often that I meet someone with whom I instantly feel comfortable. But with this boy (or rather, man) I did. He made me comfortable. He made me feel slightly weak at the knees every time he kissed me.

But I didn’t think much of it at first.  I was after all on holidays and it was my first weekend in the country. 

So we said our farewells, but as soon as I left and got on the train for my next destination I knew that I absolutely had to see him again. And that, dear readers, is when it got interesting. 

The one that got away

Yesterday I did the epic drive down the Gold Coast for Miss Indi’s very first birthday party. 

It was wonderful to catch up with old friends, but as always those pesky lingering feelings for old lovers always come back to haunt you.

When a relationship (if you could have called it that) ends because of changing circumstances rather than breaking up because they were a c*nt of a cheating bastard, it’s hard to know how to behave when you see them.

The first time I saw him I behaved rather badly, the second time was easier, but we ended up beign caught by an old guy in  a compromising position on the beach, pants around our ankles who asked if they could join in.

And this time. Well. It was ok. I knew he was seeing someone, but still, you always wonder.  We talked about real things like we used to (albeit, now it was about his new girlfriend), he teased my gingerness like the old days and we stood there in awe of the fact that 2 years ago we were drinking at Octoberfest and now our mates have a house and 2 babies.  Then scooped me up in an enormous lingering hug when it was time to leave.

I reckon if I had been drinking I would have attempted to flirt horribly and embarrass myself (hurrah for Sober October), but at last I behaved in a manner which I am not ashamed. As I was driving home I could actually admit to myself that I at last I am genuinely happy that “the one that got away” is happy.

And when I got home, I put on Love, Actually. Because sometimes a girl needs a Hugh Grant rom-com to remind her that it’s all going to be ok.

A letter to the opposite sex...

Dear Men, 


I'd very much appreciate it if you stopped treating me like a whore.  I know my past behaviour may indicate that I enjoy this treatment, but that was when I was still on the re-bound and shagging the ex out of the system. 


Being flirty with me and then saying "hey my g/f is away you should come down" is NOT acceptable behaviour. In fact it makes me feel cheap and implicates me as the woman you are cheating on your girl with.  Especially when I did in fact fancy you and thought you were a nice boy.  Also, proceeding to tell me about her, for the record, is a wee bit inappropriate. 


Likewise, not calling me for 9 months, and then calling to say "hey I'm visiting shall i book us a room" does also not make me feel particularly ladylike or do much for my self esteem.  In fact it makes me feel like I should be charging by the hour. Which I would actually find less objectionable, because then it is at least strictly business. 


So in future, unless you are going to treat me like the lady I am, please fuck off. 


Yours etc... 




PS... Not sure what is going on with these fonts lately!

Relationships

Once again I have been neglecting you dear readers, and once again I have no legitimate excuse.

So this morning, as I sit in bed with my coffee wearing my “Jane Austen is my Homegirl” hoodie I have finished up two half written blogs and am getting through some more.

I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships recently. Whether I am for or against them. Whether I think I am ready or not.

With so many of my friends recently splitting from long-time partners I sometimes think, if they can’t make it work, what hope is there for the rest of us?  On the opposite side of the spectrum I then have friends who are in a relationship that is so baffling to me I wonder why they stay together.

A few conversations with a colleague during a caramel latte run also gave me food for thought about the nature of human beings.  But mostly what has got me thinking is that after a recent date with a very lovely boy I was surprised at my sheer state of panic as the date drew to a close.

Clearly I am not ready for this  Clearly, The Ex fucked me up even more than I initially thought, to the point where I am so protective of my freshly mended heart that the thought of letting someone near it’s whole – yet still incredibly fragile state terrifies me.

When embarking on a flirtation it’s easy to let your guard down but as soon as that turns into something a little more than casual banter it can get scary.

The problem is, I don’t think that people can understand unless they too have been through a similar situation, and this sort of thing is so difficult to talk about with real-life humans, particularly ones that you know.  Therefore I use this blog as my therapy.

Apologies.

 

The Perfect Holiday Romance

Whilst lying on my tummy half stuck under my bed looking for a missing sock (pink, hand knitted and still MIA) I found a long forgotten box of treasures that I lovingly placed under there for safe keeping.

Dusting off the dust and mould (I live in a humid climate, with wood floors.. mould is inevitable) I saw that it was a box of travel goodies. Bits and pieces of basic rubbish that I have collected on my travels.  Ignoring the sealed bag of mementos from The Ex I picked up my diary from my very first overseas trip.

What a joy it was to read the thoughts of my 20 year old self, so eager, naive and if I recall correctly, so beautifully thin!

Much of the diary focuses on my holiday romance, in fact one of those ultimate holiday romances.  As a graduation present from my father I went on a 35 day camping Contiki tour of Europe when I was fresh out of University.

There’s a lot I do and don’t remember about that trip. I remember drinking alot, seeing beautiful things and every day being overwhelmed by the beauty before me.

One thing that stands out is a 24 year old Brisbane local whom I shall call Ben (to be honest his name was in fact Ben, but the fact that I have not spoken to him for nearly 7 years and that I can’t recall his last name should protect his anonymity). We met in a beachside camping ground in Barcelona, again on the French Riviera, through the streets of Florence and for two magical nights in Rome.

I was completely smitten by him. He was handsome by Brad Pitt proportions (and I’m talking Brad Pitt in 2004, pre-Jolie), tall and dark and knew how to schmooze a woman.

In Rome, Bella Roma, a city I had dreamed about visiting since my first viewing of Roman Holiday when I was 12, a gorgeous boy told me that “.. I’ve seen you walking around the streets all day and all I wanted to do was this…” before scooping me in his arms and snogging me senseless before tucking me into bed kissing my forehead and saying “Good Night My Beautiful Girl” in Italian.

Seriously. Wow. That was last time I saw Ben, until one fateful day later that year after I returned home.  I was walking out of a shop in Queen St Mall in Brisbane and ran into someone, I looked up and it was him.

Fate! I thought. No – just an incredible coincidence.  So tonight I’m glad I went looking for that sock, because that was a lovely memory I haven’t daydreamed about in awhile.  A memory that reminds me that perhaps, sometimes, fairytales aren’t just in storybooks. 

Successful Online Dating?

It was not long after writing yesterday’s blog that I sat down to eat my dinner with my parents. Who, decided it was once again time to start asking me when I was planning on finding a boyfriend.

My Mother suggested online dating. To which I guffawed. Honestly. Does she not know how horrible online dating is? Well obviously not because I have not told her about my online dating mishaps.

However advertising and women’s magazines are FULL of stories about  people who met the love of their lives online.

I decided to do some more research.. and to my surprise found that in the library (Classified under Dewey as Relationships) there was nearly a whole shelf on guides to online dating. 

I ended up borrowing a book entitled “Fine, I’ll go online! The Hollywood Publicist’s Guide to Successful Internet Dating” by Leslie Oren.  I am yet to read the entire book, however I have flipped through the first few chapters.

I found it highly amusing that it said that Leslie Oren thinks that “The vast majority of subscribers, you’ll find that most fall under the category of normal or regular”.

Well Leslie, I beg to differ.  Whilst I am sure that there are a whole lot of normal people on there, the vast majority of people I came across either had albums of guns on their facebook profile, ended up being two feet shorter than me, admitted to perving on 15 year old girls or decided it was socially appropriate to ask me in our first conversation whether my breasts were real. All indicators that these men are in fact single for a reason.

It’s not online this – but really, who is honest in their profile? I sure as hell wasn’t, in fact I didn’t even write mine, my friends did. I didn’t really want to talk myself up to much. According to this book, a profile should be the best possible version of your authentic self.

That’s all well and good but how can you put who you are on paper? You put on what you think is a hot flattering photo (that chances you are you have photoshopped slightly to make your thighs just a wee bit slimmer), you slightly over exaggerate your height, under exaggerate your weight.  You don’t mention the quirks that make you you (for example, no mention online of my love of romance novels, Harry Potter, knitting or eating cheese), rather write some fluff about how you like movies, drinks with friends and the beach.

I love the internet, the anonymity of it and being able to meet people from all over the world.  I love that some of you will read these words in the US, Japan or Spain. And yet, I think, when it comes to men, I’ll go about meeting them the old fashioned way.

By flirting with them in bars under the influence of white wine.

“How Are You? What STILL Single?” “Oh Sod Off”

Recently I’ve attempted catching up with some people I have not seen in awhile, and their first question is always “Any boys” “Seeing anyone”.  Quiet frankly it makes me a little cross.

Whether or not I am seeing anyone is not an indication of my well-being, how I am doing, whether or not I am enjoying my job, how my writing or my course is going or if I am currently just a bit fat (well, this COULD be an indication as to why I’m not seeing anyone). 

My reply that indeed I am still single is always met with one of the following:

a) The right one will come along when you are not looking or
b) Plenty of fish in the sea, bla bla bla or
c) You better get a move on or all the good men are taken.

I don’t mean to sound so Bridget Jones-ish, but really must all the smug married people be so fricking patronising. Coming from a small town it seems your self worth is based on whether or not you are shacked up. 

The fact of the matter is, I can’t see myself staying in this supposedly idyllic (read dull) quiet coastal village for the rest of my life.  I am not done having adventures, and it would take someone extraordinary to deter me from this.  Yes it would be lovely to have someone to share these adventures with, but I’m just as happy with the companionship of my friends, and the company of myself.

And since my resolution to stop whoring around has left me thinking that perhaps finding a man should be a little higher up on my agenda (purely so I can relieve some of my daily frustrations in a more satisfying way), I am not going to go out of my way to achieve this.

I’ve managed to evade Mother’s continual requests for grandchildren by the addition of our adoring and affectionate Border Collie, if only I could do the same for my friends.

Geeky is the new Sexy

I’m not sure why it is, perhaps because I’ve been on my own for awhile, or that I’ve been watching too much Big Bang Theory, but I’ve noticed that my taste in gentleman has had a dramatic shift.

No longer am I lusting after handsome strapping manly men, tradesman with big sweaty muscles.

I am now lusting after smart men, men who are passionate about something other than sport and boobs. 

Apart from my faithful obsession with the incredibly sexy Scottish sex god Gerard Butler.. even my taste in celebrities is shifting from the suave and handsome to the awkward looking youngsters such as R-Patz.

And after spending a weekend watching DVDs I now have a rather big crush on BBT’s Leonard Hofsteder. Not overly attractive, nasal voice but lovely, sweet and would do anything for the girl he fancies.

Such a nice idea.

But really – I MUST stop forming romantic attachments to fictional characters.

My Online Experience

Loyal readers will know well of my dabbles with online dating.

Last week I had a typical online dating experience.  To be honest I didn’t really want to go on it, I knew I didn’t like him all that much but my friends convinced me that I can’t wait around for the guy you fancy to decide he really fancies you back.

We met for a drink after work. To start with he admits he was always late to everything and incapable of being on time. He therefore continually interrupted me halfway through conversation with unrelated things.  He seemed uninterested in what I had to say, but was interested in making some rather racist comments about South Africans.

The next 45 minutes dragged on and I found myself wishing I was anywhere else but there. The icing on the cake was when he admitted that he frequently checked out 15 years old girls (this was the point where I heard Hawkeye’s voice telling me that only weirdo’s go online)

It was such a relief to get home, drink chocolate milk and watch DVD’s.  Online dating is such a horrific experience and I’ve come to realise, in a small town like this one that the people on there are single for a reason.

Frequently you hear stories about how people met the love of their lives on the internet.  In fact, one of my old friends met her current live-in-boyfriend via Facebook.  I however have had no such luck.

Lots of online conversations, 3 dates (this one by far the worst, seconded by the guy who turned out to be about a foot and a half shorter than me) and many blogs later I think that perhaps this online business has had its day for me.

Sigh. 

I’ll Have One Phone Breathaliser Please

Hangovers always make me reflect on life a wee bit. 

Yesterday I reflected on money, men and other mysteries of life.  The main questions I would like answered are a) Where does all my money go?  Despite my frugality I am still always broke.  b) Why is it that its always the men you really want the ones that aren’t that interested? And why is it that I keep sending text messages when I’m drunk to boys that I am mildly crazy about.

I’ve been doing this for years now. It started when I was in London.  And since then has escalated to the point that as soon as I have had a glass of white wine I feel the urge to say something along the lines of “I want to be on you” (I’ve PG rated this for you – usually the language involves mentions of licking, doodles, nakedness etc) to a boy that I fancy.  And the more I fancy them the more I send them.

I know that boys don’t like it that much, but what they never understand is that its almost involuntary.  I’m like an alcoholic.  Have wine, must drink.  Have phone, must text.

One day, when I finally succumb and jump off the anti-iPhone bandwagon, they will have surely developed an application to stop drunken texts.  I await this day with anticipation.

A Letter

Dear Potential Suitors,

When attempting to court me online would it kill you to learn how to spell?

If you ever wish to have the privilege of seeing me naked, you had better learn how to speak properly.  For example ‘I don’t no’ is quite obviously incorrect, and there are clearly monkeys in darkest Africa more intelligent than you. 

Whilst I am more than happy to partake in the occasional LOL, I’d prefer to use correct words in conversation.

I would find you much more attractive if you chose to do so.

Kind Regards,

Miss Ginger

Who The Bloody Hell Cares?

As I was hunting through new.com.au for some blog inspiration I came across an article that made me a bit cross. Susie O’Brien of some Perth newspaper has come out defending Lara Bingle in this nude photos scan.  She claims that women shouldn’t have to worry about men betraying them.  Because men shouldn’t betray women.

Theoretically this is a nice idea, but lovers have been unfaithful to each other since Eve went and flirted with that snake.  And quite frankly, I think when it comes to revealing the secrets of a relationship women are the worst.

I know that back in the day when I was a bit whoreish I would more than happily spill the juicy details on my conquests (I did, along with a housemate, come up with a unique scoring system for sexual hookups).  I know that my ex showed very provocative photos of me to his housemates, when I found this out I was very blasé about it (I did ask them however, what they thought of my body). 

Because quite frankly.. who cares??? It’s not as if I expected anything better from him, but more than that, I let a boy take pictures of me on their camera.  I have spent most of my life in the company of men.  I know what boys speak about at the pub, and I’ve seen them get pictures of girls out to show their mates the “shaven haven” or the boobs or whatever.  Its a boy thing.  Not a very grown up thing but hey. 

Lara Bingle, model wannabe, I can understand that you might be a bit put out by having your boobies broadcast for all to see, but you were sleeping with a notorious bad boy footballer who was already married.  You should have known better.

But what is perhaps sadder.. is that when the news mentioned Lara Bingle I had to think to myself.. “Who the bloody hell is she?” (no pun intended)

Tsunami? Oh My God, We Are All Going To Die!

Drinking wine on the Gold Coast on Saturday night, I wasn’t overly surprised to see a sever weather warning on the telly.  It is, after all our rainy time of year (for my many international readers – the “Sunshine Coast” is in the middle of a monsoonal low and it has been raining pretty much non-stop for a week) however it wasn’t for heavy rain or flash flooding. 

It was for a bloody tsunami.  Being my fathers daughter I immediately logged onto the Queensland Bureau of Meteorology website to see YES because of the earthquake in Chile a tsunami has been created.

Cue extreme paranoia.  Turns out, I’m not so good in a crisis.  I should have had this figured out after the Oktoberfest Bus Crash of 2008, where instead or remaining calm and bracing myself, I clutched at the boy I was seeing at the time screaming we’re going to die.  I was fricking PANICKY that not only might I drown, but that I would lose my car. 

This then caused me not to be able to sleep due to listening for the crashing on waves and warning sirens.  My insomnia could only be cured by a late night visit to a friend just over the way.. where a much needed cuddle calmed me down to the point where I could nap for a few hours.

Until I awoke at dawn and was out of bed every ten minutes checking to see if a killer wave had drowned my car.

So is Miss Ginger as calm, cool and collected as she likes to think she is? 

Apparently not.

PS. Whilst am very glad that no Tsunami hit Australia, thoughts and prayers are with the people of Chile.. and I hope people aren’t too stingy after helping Haiti to help Chile as well xx