I have always been a great list-maker. There is a certain sense of satisfaction in writing up a list of things to be done, and then crossing the items off. I have made grocery shopping lists, reading lists, things to buy lists, weekly to do lists and things to do before I die lists. Once you start, they can be quite addictive really. There is one list that I have made a little while ago, which I keep tucked in the back of my Filofax. In the spirit of affirmations and goal setting, I set out a list of the characteristics of my Ideal Partner.

The items on the list, expansive as it is, do not include any reference to height, weight, looks or other such superficialities. It is a list of traits that are desirable, perhaps even essential, idealistically, in a partner. This list is useful for culling unsuitable men and indeed, it would appear Santiago does not quite fulfill even a modest number of the items on the list.

I was discussing this list on the weekend with PSD and a friend of his over brunch and caffeine. I was reading out my meager list, and it was brought to my attention, that at only the halfway mark of my list, I seemed to have alienated at least 95% of the straight male population. And then the final 5% were ruled out when I noted that I would prefer a clean and relatively tidy partner. I really don't think that my list asks for anything particularly special. Nowhere on there does it say that he must dance like Astaire, write like Camus, woo like Casanova and earn like Trump. I believe my requirements in a partner are no less than the demands that I place upon myself.

I think that if anyone fulfilled even 75% of the things on my list, I would be predisposed to give them a fair chance. So what makes it to the list? Here is a selection of items.

(i) Financially secure and responsible, and possesses financial goals
(ii) Enjoys cultural activities such as music, opera, art, and reading (and no, the newspaper doesn't quite count)
(iii) Enjoys real conversation and is capable of delivering an articulate opinion (being able to spell is compulsory!)
(iv) Has hobbies and past-times which just don't include watching TV - enjoys undertaking these things without me - so we can both enjoy our own space
(v) Appreciates food and wine
(vi) Enjoys socialising with friends and family (a weekly piss-up does not count as socialising)
(vii) Clean and relatively tidy, plus takes some pride in his appearance
(viii) Thoughtful, open-minded, sensitive and caring.

Ok, so it probably does rule out a fair proportion of the men that I have met of late. Sad to say, I can think of a couple of people that do actually fulfill these criteria, but for various reasons are unavailable to me - the most prominent being a tendency towards being same-sex inclined.

If you know of anyone that can meet these needs - please forward all details!

Tut tut.....language my dear!

Choir rehearsals are not generally known for their frivolity. More often that not, they just represent a lot of hard work, interspersed with a few witty comments shared with PSD. But sometimes, it takes all my strength to not guffaw openly.

Our conductor, affectionately termed Foetus, occasionally provides fodder for amusement. Whether it be his choice in headwear (this is one example he has worn), or his fashion stylings reminiscent of the period featuring Don Johnson, his comments and analogies he provides are often the more ridiculous. Recently he has asked us to "sing like elephants", trying to imbue in us a sense of the loping stride and the swinging pendula of that beast. The imagery almost works until he attempts to swing his arm from his nose, imitating the action he wants us to portray. The laughter takes over from the musicality of the moment. Nevertheless, Foetus enjoys using such methods of imagery to tease out the sound he is looking for.

It goes without saying, of course, that being a musical person, his choice of sexuality is in question. There are those who say that he keeps a foot in both camps (pardon the pun there). As for my opinion, I will relate my choir audition story, where I presented my piece to the accompanist and to Foetus. Asked what the piece was, I said that it is by Fanny Brice, but performed in "Funny Girl" by Barbra Streisand. The response to which, was gleeful clapping of hands by Foetus and accompanist. Stereotypes aside - that was not a normal reaction from a straight man.

Last week I had difficulty maintaining composure when Foetus said the word "breast" several times, trying to show the emotion he wanted us to express at that point of the piece. I may have mumbled to PSD that I am sure that is the only time in recent history that he has been in striking distance of said anatomical part.

But last night, I truly lost it. We are singing a Requiem, which is of course, in Latin. Now, Latin has provided me in the past with many a smile with the pronunciations of words lowering one to primary school levels of humour (what do you expect when you sing the words "Fac me" at full volume). Foetus was attempting to get the timing of the male parts of the choir in sync with his conducting. The word that the men seemed to stumble over was "Benedictus", which when exaggerated over a few notes can become a little disjointed. But I think noone was truly prepared for Foetus to exclaim, "Please, make sure your 'dic' is with me!".


Aaahhhh, gutter humour - can you ever go past it?


*PSD - Preferred Sperm Donor

"It's not like you didn't already know this...."

I was chatting with Santiago yesterday and mentioned that I am commonly referred, to by one of my closest friends, as "Scrag". He was both shocked and alarmed. I then went on to tell him about being called "Beige Ho", by another dear friend. (Hmm... do you think I was trying to bait him at this point?) I tried to explain that these were indeed affectionate terms amongst these particular persons. He found it difficult to comprehend these terms as affectionate, and further, felt confronted that these terms were being used in reference to me.

He seems to think I am a lady.

The conditions under which Santiago and I met, make his assertion that I am a lady even more laughable. Numerous weeks ago, I was invited out to dinner by a fellow from the internet, which was chronicled here. The gentleman, a term I will apply loosely to this man, profusely apologised afterwards, explaining that he was stuck in mud after four-wheel driving all day, and was unable to ring me. Despite my better judgment, I decided to give Date-Boy a second chance. So we arranged to meet at another less than sparkling eating establishment (his choice, not mine) to attempt another date. It was with no surprise that when he turned up, I was more than a little disappointed. He was exactly as I envisioned he would be - and exactly NOT my type. But not one to turn down a dinner, I decided to stay, since I had no better offer anyway.

After a few minutes of idle chit-chat, a friend of Date-Boy's happened upon us, and sat down. As you may have already guessed, Date-Boy's friend is Santiago. At that point in the evening, I knew I wanted nothing further to do with Date-Boy, and had written off any chance of securing the attention of Santiago. I then tried to apply some logic to my ensuing actions.

I decided that [straight] men involve themselves with two types of women. There are the women they date: whom they want to be nice and proper and presentable to parents. And there are the women they want to fuck.

As any woman will attest, it is much easier to decline the advances of someone purely interested in sex, than it is to nicely turn down someone who actually likes you (without feeling like a heel). So, I quickly decided to position myself as the latter category. Thus began the conversations between Date-Boy, Santiago and myself. I was asked all manner of sexual questions, which I answered honestly and without hesitation. I believe I presented myself as some sort of high-class hussy. And I felt that I would have dissuaded any attentions from Date-Boy.

Whether is worked or not, I am not completely sure. Date-Boy contacted me again, but with only a modicum of motivation to catch up with me. But apparently, I made such an impression on Santiago, that he perused the dating sites on the internet until he found me. I, of course, was nervous about what his intentions were. It would appear, that despite my vein of conversation, he was left with the impression that I was indeed a very proper lady.

Let's see if he still thinks that when he gets to know me a little better.

So I am currently drinking my way through my meagre liquour cabinet. After starting on my favourite cocktail, Japanese Slipper, I have now moved onto more creative drinks relying on the fact that I am already a little inebriated and things don't need to taste as good.

I have never been one to drink at home by myself. Not even a sedate glass of red with dinner. I came from a family in which my father would declare after two light beers that he was getting a "little out of control". My mother would feel it was a big night if she were to have more than one glass of Lambrusco. So for me, drinking spirits at home alone indicates a rather morose state of mind. The last time I remember vividly attempting drinking heavily alone was not long after the ex-husband had taken his leave of me.

At that time, I realised there was something not right when I was drinking "slippers", with some Vodka added for a bit of extra "kick", and attempting cyber-sex.

Which brings me to tonight....

I have had a few drinks, which have rendered me a little less coherent than socially acceptable - surfing for porn and whatever else takes my fancy. And the cause of the recent degeneration....The Bangle Nazi of prior entries has made her presence known again. So here I am, at home, on a Friday night, drinking whatever is around and crying to whomever will listen. Thankfully Absum is online yet again - although a pizza with his name on it will tear him away very soon.

It is funny that no matter how many books about men and Venus and Mars are printed - some men just don't get that all women want sometimes is a bit of sympathy and a hug - not some fucking treatise on what you should be doing and how to do it. Earlier today when the faeces hit the cooling device, S provided me with words of wisdom along the line of "look for another job". I would have given anything at that point for just a bit of shush and a big boy-hug. Nothing compares and nothing consoles better.

Santiago has also offered some advice, and again it is just as meaningless. Do men need a script to tell them what women need to hear? It seems so. I plan on suffering tomorrow with a hangover - something which I rarely get - but feel perhaps is due punishment for me.

And why the cracking the sads tonight? More shit at work, more self-doubt about my purpose and direction, and more self-realisation about my lack of place in the world. Over-dramatic? Maybe. After a day like today I contemplate on many things. I remember in Grade 7 being told by our school principal, Sister Rita (yes I am a product of a Catholic Girl's school education - surprised? I thought not!), that all of us was good at one thing. One thing in all the world that made us unique from everyone else. One thing that was our "gift" from God. That one thing made each of us unique and special in our way. Since that time, I have often contemplated on this theory, and wondered what indeed was my "one thing". I have never been able to work out what it was. I was the kind of student who could do well in all subjects. I have since then been able to achieve modest "success" (by whatever definition you wish to use), in all things I set my mind at. I know there are things I definitely cannot do... but realistically, I have never found anything I can do particularly well. So after a rather painful day at work, I find myself over many an intoxicant contemplating all the things I cannot do and questioning my existence.

I can only hope I pass out soon from the horrid combination of alcohol and sombre music.

A.K.A.......

Well the votes are in for the new name.... actually quite a small polling sample. As per usual, the wit of S was hard to beat. The chosen pseudonym is Santiago from "Old Man and the Sea", or in this case "Old Man and the C". Oh, and he is the new man du jour.

For a little while now, my preference for men has been for those younger than myself. When I was younger, I couldn't even entertain the idea of dating someone younger. As I have gotten older, the lure of the younger man has been more and more inviting. I must admit, that they seem to be my preference. I am not sure as to why - is it their obvious youth? Is it a state of mind at that age? No idea, but as I get older, the men have been staying about the same age. Indeed, the divine Twelve represented my most significant age difference in a long time, but it didn't bother me half as much as pursuing a man older than my years. There is probably a Freudian thesis in this somewhere. One can certainly ascertain that as far as my dating life is concerned - I do not seek a "Father Figure" as is often purported to be what most women are looking for.

So, it has come to a point now, when I announce to my friends that I have had a date, or dates, with a new gentlemen, the first question is not "What is his name?", or "Where did you meet?", but in fact, "How old is he?". So to this end, Santiago ended up with his name purely because by some freak chance, he is actually three years older than me.