A Suitable Boy

I give up. Let someone else pick the next dysfunctional man I date.  Just don’t let that someone be my parents.

After a conversation on the dire state of my love life, my friend Jess suggested letting my friends introduce me to nice single men they knew.

Now, coming from an Indian family I am no stranger to the idea of relationship introductions. My Dad showed me a picture of my future husband when I was 11.

The image of a fat boy ramming an ice-cream into his mouth, as if it was the cure for ugly, made me burst into tears. As it turned out, he wasn’t my betrothed, but some random child who had wandered into the shot.

The arranged marriage ‘gag’ had been born. It would plague me all the way to adulthood.

Initially, there were some golden opportunities for a laugh. Like when my Dad signed me up to Shaadibride.com, an Indian dating website. We would sift through the applicants, who neither cared that I was an agnostic, nor that I drank and smoked.

“They’re desperate!” My dad would cry, laughing. Cheers, Dad.

But the fun would always be short lived. My dad’s thinly veiled desire to see me married to a nice, Indian boy always came out when an eligible candidate appeared. In this case it was a doctor, offering to fly me out to Frankfurt for a date. Then all I’d hear was:

“Why do you hate your people? Give him a chance!”

The doctors always made him crack.

Things haven’t changed. Only last month my Dad was waxing lyrical about the neighbourhood watch officer who had come to give him property stickers. Before him, it was the Olympian flautist he’d met at a wedding back home (playing fast and loose with the word Olympian there, Dad).

Occasionally, my mum will take over and dish out dating advice straight from the 30s.

No, I can’t keep quiet until the wedding day, mum. I don’t want to be a secretary and try to marry my boss. I will not learn to ‘talk nicely’ with ‘boys’. Thanks anyway.

They’re more bothered by me being single than I am.

I can only imagine that the sound of my biological clock ticking away like The Tell-tale Heart, is driving them to madness.

This is probably why I avoid any kind of spinstervention. Historically, they have ended in disappointment. My dad remains optimistic though.  He still insists I don’t stand directly in front of the microwave in case I fry my eggs.

Hope never dies.

 

 

 

Match

Liking the same breakfast cereal isn’t compatibility

Every now and then I see a profile on Tinder that perfectly matches mine.

It mirrors my likes and dislikes, and line for line appears to be  directly responding to my own profile.

It’s uncanny.

A smile will spread across my face and I will think to myself ” Did this fucker rewrite his profile to mirror mine, then superlike me?”

OK a bit arrogant, but come on. It’s too much coincidence. And I’m not the lucky kind.

A shared love of tequila and sarcasm? A dislike of drugged wildcats and sexually menacing texts? That’s not compatibility. That’s common sense. I don’t put any of my genuine interests on a Tinder profile.

I’m wary of anyone who I’ve got a lot in common with. In the age of all access information all it takes to find out what makes a person tick is a shrewd analysis of their social media.

Despite being a cynic, I am a romantic. Just not your garden variety. While other little girls dreamt of getting married, I was normally crawling around in dirt, pretending I was living in a post Apocalyptic society. Foraging for berries to survive on. Building a time machine out of twigs and paper.

My romance was never about that part of a fairy tale. I liked boys. They were fun and liked to do fun stuff. But I didn’t want to wear a bedsheet for one, not when I could be fighting a robot. I wanted the kinship. A friend. A partner in crime.

I grew up watching my parents disagree on everything, which had a profound impact on me. Their only common ground was a point of origin. They’d argue over something as arbitrary as a potato.lobster

Getting along and common ground mattered to me. A bit too much perhaps.

After watching The Lobster, I got to thinking about all the whimsical common ground that I drew on to keep relationships going. Any eclectic similarity would do. He wears glasses. He does a good Terrence Stamp impression. He too knows the disappointment of never getting a Mr Frosty.

I would let that tiny bit of common ground be the focal point that I meditated towards through every argument, disagreement and stumbling block.

Until I fucking hated Terence Stamp and Mr Frosty.

Common ground is just a foot in the door. Maybe I’ll try the window this time.

Hell is Other People

The hunt for digs is on. What fresh hell will I discover this time round.

I hate flat hunting.

It’s a reminder that you can put a price on freedom and it’s somewhere between  £600 and £800 pcm. It’s a small price to pay for sanity I suppose. That’s only if this group of flatmates doesn’t drive me up the wall.

On the whole I’m a live alone type of gal.

I did it for 5 years quite happily and enjoy my own company. There was no one to answer to. I could have whoever I wanted over, for as long as I wanted. No one complained about me smoking, or told me I couldn’t have a pet. I could dance around in my underwear eating Cheetos, listening to Nina Simone.

They were truly great times.

The only downsides were when I’d freak out after a Special Victims Unit marathon and barricade myself in the bedroom with the cat for protection. Or when my pervy landlord would decide to pay a visit while I was in the shower.

It was still bearable for a rent controlled, two bedroom apartment in an up and coming part of Mexico City. And all at the bargain cost of £350 a month.

I should never have left.

I definitely shouldn’t have moved into student housing.

Sharing a bathroom is the quickest way of learning that hell is other people. There’s nothing like realising someone’s been using your razor to shave their face, or your Femfresh to shower, to make you want to use their toothbrush to clean the thick ring they left in the bath tub.

I don’t like inconsiderate people.

How do you fail to realise that your hair won’t clean itself out of the drain?  Or that screaming about your love life with your rabbi over Skype at 11pm on a school night isn’t considerate?

It’s a catch 22 situation.

They seem nice, like all people do in the wild. But you’re only going to really get to know them by living with them. Sometimes it’s great- like my first flatshare in Barcelona- or the well intentioned, albeit stingy, clown who would practice his schtick on me.

And sometimes you are woken up by a woman who has decided to dress exactly like you, in your clothes, and even squeeze her size 5 feet into your size 3 Nikes.

It’s like Russian roulette. Only instead of shooting yourself, you may end up with a flatmate who gets drunk and mutters menacing threats through your door, as you cry into a body pillow.

Let’s hope speed flat mate hunting holds a regular couple of alcohol loving, neat freaks to bunk down with.

Pray for me.

 

Situationships

Every now and then a guy will resurface on my whatsapp, or chat, that I’d completely forgotten about.

You know ‘dem ones.’

The mandatory maintenance text that outwardly says ‘sup’ but means ‘I haven’t forgot you. We could still hook up.’

The situationship.

These monosyllabic reminders of the fuck ton of bad choices I once made keep me real. They taught me to discern the fuckboys from the sexual opportunists. I can tell a waste of my time in under 10 characters now. It’s like being able to find my way home drunk. Second nature to me.

After oh so many mini relationships that went no where, booty calls who I’d catch feelings for, and average sex I could live without, I decided to stop wasting my time.

These people were not making me happy. I wish them the best, but they got all the time out of me that they were going to. If I was going to spend my time frivolously, I’d rather waste 20 pokeballs trying to catch an angry Seadra, than maintaining sporadic contact through a series of boring whatsapps.

I stopped getting in touch. Not because I was bitter, or mad at them. It was the sanest thing to do.

Yet, much like the elusive bus that only appears when you light a fag, the minute you stop bothering with some guys they step up their text game.sex-love-life-2014-10-text-from-ex-main

Why get in touch with someone you aren’t interested in?  Why assume some type of emotional vigil is being held for you? If you want to get all nostalgic have a wank over your mum’s Mary Kay catalogue, or watch The Goonies.

I don’t get guys who flip their shit because I won’t assist them in the delusion that they were my best pal and would put my life on hold, until they got their shit together.

Case in point: Colombian fuckboy.

It started with ‘Hey’
Seriously dude, get a thesaurus. What followed was monosyllabic inane small talk and questions about my love life, which culminated in him asking when I would be coming to see him in Colombia.

I haven’t seen this guy in 2 years. The only response I could think of that was both honest and appropriate was LOL.

He did not take this well and told me I obviously didn’t care and to forget he’d said anything.

1412194655565_wps_57_image001_pngtexts_from_yo.jpgHey buddy, chill. You text me. Remember? I was happily eating Jaffa cakes in a dick free zone when you felt lonely.

A month later my pal text me again to tell me he’d moved to Mexico and to ask whether there was a chance I’d be moving back there. Or was I still mad at him?

Say what now?

Nothing makes me find block and delete quicker than a guy who doesn’t have a clue. I get that he thinks he made a mistake. I didn’t though. Maybe he can use this story to hit on new chicas.

What he won’t be doing is interrupting biscuit time again.

 

Haters Gon’ Hate

Why have some people got their panties in a bunch about loving Pokemon Go?

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Shout out to my fellow trainers. “When Pokemon hunting is lit”

As a Pokemon fan from way back, nothing has made me happier than the chance to update my pokedex, get out there and meet other like minded nerds.

We’re adorable.

Think of us like asexual doggers, wandering around parks and scenic routes,looking for invisible creatures, which we then get mad excited about and try to catch using our smart phones.

It’s great fun.

I’ve met people in my community, had lovely conversations and laughed with people in the sun. It’s been really interactive and in a healthy, positive way.

So why is it when a group of people look like they are having completely harmless fun, someone will come along and either a) try to ruin it b) try to take advantage of it or c) criticise it?

Yesterday a group of hackers took down the  game making it impossible to get online. Why? I don’t know, why does someone step on your transformer when you’re about to launch a stealth attack? Fuckery.

Then there have been the stories of a few opportunists who have seized on the whole excitement to mug people. Yes. Mug people.

“There’s a rare pokemon down this alleyway….Now give me your wallet.”

Ok, some users need to be more grounded in reality. But what a bummer to be reminded when you’re trying to have fun, that some jackass will do anything to spoil it.

Which brings me to kill joys.

Why does Judgy McJudgerson care how old I am and if I know what I look like?

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See? Hawt

  I look like a hot pokemon trainer. If I choose to run around my local park, smile on me like a Cheshire cat, and I’m having fun, why does it bother you? If you don’t want to play, fine. But please don’t project your misery onto me under the guise that you’re worried I’m making a fool of myself.

Guess what? I give zero fucks how I look.

I may take it a step further and go Poké hunting in my Wonder Woman costume. If this makes you uncomfortable, guess what? That’s you not me.

People need to lighten up. There are far worse things happening in the world today.

Now if you don’t mind, A Snorlax has been spotted by the duck pond.

Gotta Catch’em all!

Pokemon trainer humour at Cosmo for the Go lovers! 

http://www.cosmopolitan.com/entertainment/news/a61383/hilarious-pokemon-go-pictures/

Life as we know it

The future looks more like the past than the past did.

When I was a kid, I thought that in 2005 I would have those self lacing hi-tops from Back to the Future and be living in a Jetsons style apartment in space.

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The future

The technological advancements have been amazing. Even if I do seem remarkably underwhelmed a lot of the time.

Why can’t I Whatsapp underground? Why won’t my internet work faster if I click a thousand times every 5 seconds?

I suppose there’s a disappointed child in me that wanted the future where pizza rehydrators existed.

Despite technological advancement and surface improvements, we continue to live on shaky foundations. As an animal we’re a real show off. Look at how clever we are, we can fit a camera on a phone. But we’ll continue to perpetrate ideas of race superiority, act violently and bomb the brains out of each other, because we’re retro like that.

Maybe that’s why Lavish Reynolds chose to stream the moments following her boyfriend’s shooting. Use our technological advancements to showcase our failures as a society. We’ve failed to progress if even one person is being treated this way, let alone thousands. It’s even worse that others make excuses for it, or try to downplay serious social injustice.

Killing people is wrong. Acting out of hate and prejudice is wrong. Controlling people through fear is wrong.

It’s like that film California Man. Yes, they dressed him up so he could fit into Encino life, but he was a caveman and continued to behave that way. That’s how humanity has started looking to me; like a PG Tips advert where the chimps have gone feral.

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Let’s have a cuppa. We’re not animals.

We’ve all got a brain. We can all think. Reflect. Take responsibility for our own lives. Our own actions. Yet so many people would much rather make excuses for their behaviour. He scared me. She was provoking me. So and so says we should be wary of those people. Why don’t we just think for ourselves? Why do so many people think they are exempt from basic human decency? Why do so many people buy into the crap spouted by hateful people, blindly assuming they have our best interests at heart?

Why abdicate your own reason in favour of someone else’s?

Erich Fromm called it The Fear of Freedom. It was too much to be responsible for our own decisions and use our free will responsibly. What if we made a mistake? The majority would rather be told what to do. How to think. Where to shop. Who to blame. Then it wasn’t their fault. It was what they had been taught/told/shown.

But the ‘He told me to do it’ defence doesn’t hold up.

We advanced too fast and weren’t mentally prepared for it. But a handful of opportunists were. Peter Parker got the “With great power comes great responsibility’ talk. What did we get? Pictures of my dinner, smartphones and Kris Kardashian’s pasta primavera recipe.

Distractions.

They released the self lacing hi-tops a few months back.

Oh, how far we’ve come.

Jobless in London

Unemployment, my old friend…

I think that my job search has managed to go from bad to worse, today being the biggest disappointment since finding out Ben Kingsley wasn’t (and then was) Indian. It was a confusing childhood rife with misinformation. I blame Gandhi myself.

I went for a job today, expecting to sell myself for an advertising post. What I almost ended up doing was going to Worthing to watch someone handing out Beauty Salon promos for no basic wage. I probably would have got on a train had it not been for another girl piping up to say it wasn’t for her, giving me the opportunity to say “Ditto” and run off.

I should have twigged something was off when I caught a glimpse of their morning mantra/pep talk. Screaming and shouting in order to prepare for “sales battle”, and ruining Ali’s immortal ” I’m gonna float like a butterfly, and sting like a bee,” were definite red flags.

This wasn’t my sales approach. I’m more of a sarcasm over wine kind of girl.

I hope this spate of bad job interviews ends soon; it’s costing me a fortune in comfort shopping. Today I bought a DKNY purse. It’s blue. To match my mood.

I give up.

I mean who do you have to stalk to get a job in this town? it’s not like I haven’t put myself out there. There has been a lot of putting out, and none of it fun. IMG_5735

I blew my last job interview on the grounds that my interviewer didn’t think I would be a good fit.  I may have gone a bit overboard on the professional look, and was way more serious than I normally am. In my own defence, I’ve been unemployed for a month now and if I was emanating a serious, or even desperate vibe it was probably because I was sweating out the last of my deodorant stick, at the end of a travel card, in a suit that was about to fall apart at the seams.

With that image in mind, I actually respect them for not giving me the job; I must have looked constipated and severe. Who wants that in the office?

They tell you not to lie in interviews, and they’re right. When they asked me what I did for fun, tequila sprang to my mind. But reading sounded more professional. I didn’t know tequila was the right answer. I would have come to the interview in the Hooter’s outfit I bought off Ebay, and got them to do jelly shots off me if I had.

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Bet you’re glad you did all that

What did I know about the method to their madness? Did Mr Miyagi make any sense when he asked Daniel San to wax his car instead of teaching him to roundhouse Johnny to the face?

Maybe I’m just not the kind of person who can be measured by other people’s standards.

This is the moment when I realise that I can’t work for anyone else, and try to set up my own business, which then goes from strength to strength, ending with me admiring the cityscape from my penthouse, side by side with my gorgeous husband and a Martini.

Only I still haven’t figured out what I  can do that gets me a penthouse flat in London and a hot guy.

Call girl? Lottery winner?

I don’t think I’m ready to work for myself. I’d watch reruns of Fraiser and eat French Fancies until I felt like doing something more productive, like eating mini Battenbergs and watching Only Fools and Horses.

Unless an opening for French Fancy tester opens up, I will just have to suck it up and keep trying.