Over a Saturday morning bagel, The Maori, The Gays and I discussed the best way to ask someone out.
"Dick pic" - was the general consensus at the table.
"What?!" I cried in despair, "do you expect me to send someone a photo of my vagina?"
"Yup. And caption it, 'up to'", was the helpful advice of The Maori, "that'll get a response real fast".
"No. I don't want to. Ew!! Just.... no! I am NEVER going to do that".
"Come on Shortty, this is 2016. It's The New Way. Do you think you're still in the 60s or something? How else do you expect this dude to know you're interested in him?"
Er - by the Power of Thought. Obvs. It's worked out so successfully for me in the past.
Is this really what we're reduced to? Information Technology has brought us so much: the ability to beam atrocities from Syria across the world in a fraction of a millisecond; everyone could mourn (or celebrate) Trump's victory at the same time; the way we learn and communicate has changed irrevocably; the way that we dissect world news and the (degrees of relativity) fascinating news of our friends and friends of friends and friends of friends of friends.... and yet dating has come to this: a high definition photo of your genitalia - sent to the person you want to have relations with (even that word sounds creepy) - and we're supposed to just accept that this is how we meet people in the 21st century? What happened to Kathy and Heathcliff and sending letters by carrier pigeon and phoning the operator to get connected to someone you HOPE will miraculously be at home at the exact moment that you want to call? I was promised Mr Darcy and Jack and Rose making their human crucifix on the sinking ship WHEN DID ROMANCE DIE PEOPLE?!!!
Wow. I wasn't aware that the bagel convo had affected me so much. Thank god I don't understand how to use the reverse function on my camera.
I'd like to reflect further on how far - or little - we've come in 2016. First we thought that BREXIT was the most radical development of this year - but hadn't reckoned on Trump. BUT if you thought DJT was the biggest shocker that 2016 had in store for you.... sweet innocent child I have something that is going to rock you to your very core. Ready? OK..... here it is.... the biggest news of 2016 that has quite frankly caused me at least one sleepless night this week...
Rick Astley's comeback album has been nominated for album of the year by the BBC Music Awards. AND DAVID BOWIE'S HASN'T.
WTF. I'd like to point out that this is actually Astley's SECOND comeback; after "Never Gonna Gove You Up" became synonymous with the meme "rickrolling" in 2007. For the uniniatited:
Rickrolling, alternatively rick-rolling, is a prank and an Internet meme involving an unexpected appearance of the music video for the 1987 Rick Astley song "Never Gonna Give You Up". The meme is a type of bait and switch using a disguised hyperlink. Those led to the music video believing that they were accessing some unrelated material are said to have been rickrolled. The trend has extended to disruptive or humorous appearances of the song in other situations, such as a live appearance of Astley himself in the 2008 Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York.
I feel like Astley himself must be equally bewildered by his latent success. According to Wikipedia, he retired in 1993, at the age of 27. That sounds like kind of an early age at which to retire - quite frankly it smacks not a little of "giving up on life" - but I guess if I had had a number 1 in 25 countries at the tender age of 19, I might also have considered that my work here was done.
I could go on and on about Astley - but I won't. Still - there you have it folks. 2016 will be remembered for BREXIT; TRUMP; RICK ASTLEY COMEBACK. Who knows what could still happen between now and December 31?
In other (sad) news, I discovered that no age is too great to be Kicked Off The Team. Attending a party with The Irish last week, I was delighted to be invited to participate in a jolly game of Beer Pong. "What high jinks!" I thought to myself, "this'll be a LOL". Well, 20 minutes into the game and I had not managed to score a single ping pong into the competitors' cups. I did feel I was only just warming up - but apparently my poor performance had been noted by the Captain. "Sarah, stand aside", Dublin said, "you're off the team." "Er... you're relegating me? AT A HOUSE PARTY?" "Yes. You're rubbish at this game".
Somehow it's the fact of being kicked off the team at a house party that seems to make this story extra pathetic. I thought that everyone accepted everyone at house parties - even drunk Bulgarian dudes who challenge everyone else to Pushup competitions and walk around with a sheet draped round their bare chest.
Well, not any more. The tides are changing. Clearly, Trump is in the house.
Saturday, 26 November 2016
Sunday, 23 October 2016
DTF? WTF...
Travelling back from Raglan yesterday, the Welsh Bird and I had a protracted discussion around dating. Finally she said, "Look I think you should give Tinder another go Sarah. But say what you want on your bio - say you're looking for a relationship or whatever".
OK. But I'm not saying I want a relationship. That sounds far too Desperate-35-Year-Old-Who's-Terrified-Of-Ending-Up-On-The Shelf (analyze that). I settled for the somewhat less demanding "not DTF". And thus the very first conversation went like this:
Tinder Man: Cute!
Me: Thanks. What's been the highlight of your weekend?
Tinder Man: 3 days off.
Lol.
Can I be honest with you Sarah?
It's been Tinder.
[brief pause in conversation]
Oh I see you're not dtf.
That pretty much counts me out.
WT actual F. I was kind of just writing "not dtf" on my bio to be a bit facetious but, no - apparently on Tinder it's very necessary to be specific.
It's at times like this that I wonder, is it REALLY that bad to end up a crazy cat lady? Because, quite frankly, my kitty brings me significantly more joy than receiving messages that tell me I'm not worth someone's while if I won't drop my drawers the first time we meet (that's right - I'm bringing back "drawers").
On the subject of dtf, I was given an illuminating insight into the Dublin Hippie's MO when it comes to scoring on a night out. It turns out there are 3 Stages to Securing Your Prey:
Stage One: make contact, but in a fun, non-threatening way. Spin her round on the dance floor or similar. Create a fun connection, then set her free and make your way around the other girls. Talk to 5 or 6 other girls about such innocuous subjects such as palm trees. Let the original girl know you're not really that interested.
Stage Two: return to prey and separate her from her friends by asking her to go to the bar/ outside for a chat/ have a dance. You need to isolate her, and then build on the original connection.
Stage Three: this is the most challenging stage of sealing the deal. You either: (a) get her number and arrange to meet up another time; (b) take her home and have a great night; (c) take her on to a house party; (d) cut your losses and go home or (e) move on to the next available girl.
So there you have it. Apparently this is not 100% full proof, but I'm told it generally has an 80% success rate. Which is significantly higher than either presidential candidate's chances of being elected right now - so sounds like a reassuring statistic to me.
Can we talk about the election? I really, REALLY don't want Trump to win. And I'm a bit scared that this is going to be another BREXIT. Where nobody actually thought that the worst would happen, and then it just did. I didn't vote in the UK election because, quite frankly, I wasn't aware that BREXIT could even happen until about 3 days before the vote. And, once again, I haven't registered to vote in the US election because I had no idea that Trump could actually have any real shot at winning. And now it's too late (apparently I had to register back in January to vote in the US). You know when you hear about all the things people had to do to secure our rights to vote, and then you realise that you have that right - without even doing anything to earn it - and you've squandered it by being a little bit too much on Instagram, and a little bit too less on The Times?
The shame is real, people. (But don't you love Parris Goebel's latest vid?)
Going back to Tinder though, I recently returned home and caught up with the Psychologist. He said, "are you seeing anyone Sarah?" "no. Are you?" "Don't be ridiculous". It was a very reassuring exchange. Anyway, the conversation turned to Tinder. Apparently it's much easier to pull on Tinder in Birmingham than in London. He said, "in London you need to have invented an App that's made you a millionaire under the age of 24 to get anywhere on Tinder. But, in Birmingham, I do much better. I'm a Doctor and a home-owner. I'm a King!"
But, more importantly... dtf?
OK. But I'm not saying I want a relationship. That sounds far too Desperate-35-Year-Old-Who's-Terrified-Of-Ending-Up-On-The Shelf (analyze that). I settled for the somewhat less demanding "not DTF". And thus the very first conversation went like this:
Tinder Man: Cute!
Me: Thanks. What's been the highlight of your weekend?
Tinder Man: 3 days off.
Lol.
Can I be honest with you Sarah?
It's been Tinder.
[brief pause in conversation]
Oh I see you're not dtf.
That pretty much counts me out.
WT actual F. I was kind of just writing "not dtf" on my bio to be a bit facetious but, no - apparently on Tinder it's very necessary to be specific.
It's at times like this that I wonder, is it REALLY that bad to end up a crazy cat lady? Because, quite frankly, my kitty brings me significantly more joy than receiving messages that tell me I'm not worth someone's while if I won't drop my drawers the first time we meet (that's right - I'm bringing back "drawers").
On the subject of dtf, I was given an illuminating insight into the Dublin Hippie's MO when it comes to scoring on a night out. It turns out there are 3 Stages to Securing Your Prey:
Stage One: make contact, but in a fun, non-threatening way. Spin her round on the dance floor or similar. Create a fun connection, then set her free and make your way around the other girls. Talk to 5 or 6 other girls about such innocuous subjects such as palm trees. Let the original girl know you're not really that interested.
Stage Two: return to prey and separate her from her friends by asking her to go to the bar/ outside for a chat/ have a dance. You need to isolate her, and then build on the original connection.
Stage Three: this is the most challenging stage of sealing the deal. You either: (a) get her number and arrange to meet up another time; (b) take her home and have a great night; (c) take her on to a house party; (d) cut your losses and go home or (e) move on to the next available girl.
So there you have it. Apparently this is not 100% full proof, but I'm told it generally has an 80% success rate. Which is significantly higher than either presidential candidate's chances of being elected right now - so sounds like a reassuring statistic to me.
Can we talk about the election? I really, REALLY don't want Trump to win. And I'm a bit scared that this is going to be another BREXIT. Where nobody actually thought that the worst would happen, and then it just did. I didn't vote in the UK election because, quite frankly, I wasn't aware that BREXIT could even happen until about 3 days before the vote. And, once again, I haven't registered to vote in the US election because I had no idea that Trump could actually have any real shot at winning. And now it's too late (apparently I had to register back in January to vote in the US). You know when you hear about all the things people had to do to secure our rights to vote, and then you realise that you have that right - without even doing anything to earn it - and you've squandered it by being a little bit too much on Instagram, and a little bit too less on The Times?
The shame is real, people. (But don't you love Parris Goebel's latest vid?)
Going back to Tinder though, I recently returned home and caught up with the Psychologist. He said, "are you seeing anyone Sarah?" "no. Are you?" "Don't be ridiculous". It was a very reassuring exchange. Anyway, the conversation turned to Tinder. Apparently it's much easier to pull on Tinder in Birmingham than in London. He said, "in London you need to have invented an App that's made you a millionaire under the age of 24 to get anywhere on Tinder. But, in Birmingham, I do much better. I'm a Doctor and a home-owner. I'm a King!"
But, more importantly... dtf?
Saturday, 2 July 2016
Everybody relax; we can still enter Eurovision
Earth-shattering events happen every day. Britain left the EU and precipitated a House of Cards-style revolution in Westminster. Donald Trump is looking increasingly likely to be the next leader of the United States. Moscow is deploying submarines with long-range cruise missiles into the Black Sea to ward off NATO.
And, in our house, we have finally got SKY TV.
Now, you may not think this is in quite the same league as, say, David Cameron resigning and Michael Gove betraying Boris Johnson in a Richard II type coup, but bear with me.
So little TV is usually watched in our house that the set was broken for 2 weeks before we even noticed. This is partly due to the fact that myself and my flatmate are either at the gym, on a Tinder date, or trying to get to bed before 9pm. But then it got cold and the Olympics is coming and my flatmate decided that she actually quite likes watching TV after all (whilst swiping Tinder, obvs).
It was a quiet Saturday night in Auckland and I was staying in with the cat.
(I'm going to own that line.)
I had scoured the TVNZ guide for free-view and was feeling understandably dejected by the offerings that awaited me: Wimbledon Highlights. The Block NZ: Girls VS Boys. Storage Wars. It was looking like I might have to turn to my trusty Frasier Series 3 box set. Then I thought, AHA! What's going on with the other channels? Might Frasier Series 4 be shown on one of them?!
And so it was that I ended up on the couch watching TV for 4 hours - possibly the longest amount of television I have watched since being a student. And it wasn't good TV; I managed to find the McDonalds of Saturday night entertainment: Female Killers: Too Close for Comfort. Fatal Vows: When Divorce Turns Murderous. And, of course, the Big Mac of Easy TV - Keeping Up with the Kardashians.
I have watched Keeping Up with the Kardashians exactly twice and both times they were going on a family holiday. Do rich people do anything else? I just do not understand the appeal of the show. It's basically watching lots of pretty people take selfies and talk about themselves whilst getting their makeup done by 5 people at once. And when they're not obsessing about themselves, they're bitching about one another and saying the word "like" too many times in every sentence. I have yet to see Kim Kardashian display any emotion other than vaguely bored. Even when she's being interviewed to camera and saying "it was so awesome that my mother bought me a gold-plated baby stroller and filled it with Chanel dummies", she looks as about as excited as a 16 year old on the checkout at Morrison's saying "that's 2.99. Did you want to buy a bag for 5p?" I've decided that the next time I watch the show, I'm going to make it into a drinking game where you have a shot for every time Scott Disick looks sad.
But the really exciting find was a new show called Famously Single on E! News. You must have heard of it. They've taken 8 "celebrities" and treated them to therapy with a relationship expert in the hope that it will cure them of the obviously nightmarish disease that is Being Single. I'd not heard of a single one of these celebrities apart from my Jersey Shore fave - Pauly D. The last time I saw Pauly D on the small screen he was screaming "cabs are here" and fumigating the room with hairspray. Then he went on to have a dubious career as a DJ. And now he's back, and apparently in love with one of the other "celebs" on the show - Aubrey O'Day (no, I have no idea either).In the trailer I watched, the therapist asks them "if you're not going to try out the therapy, then why are you here?" Er.... is "to revive my flagging career by shagging someone on screen" too obvious an answer?
Anyway - in conclusion - I'm thrilled that we finally have SKY. It might make me stupider, but at least I'll be up on the really important news in 2016 (Rob Kardashian proposed to Blac Chyna and DIDN'T TELL HIS SISTERS OR HIS MOTHER - THEY HAD TO FIND OUT VIA SOCIAL MEDIA.)
So.... BREXIT. It sort of makes me want to be back in Britain (cause that's where it's all kicking off and it sounds crazy) and also kind of glad I'm not there (because it's all kicking off and it sounds crazy). I do have one piece of good news though - we can still enter Eurovision:
Prime Minister David Cameron, who on Friday announced that he will be stepping down in October, addressed the future of Eurovision during PMQs in April. Labour MP Helen Goodman asked him to “tell the house what the worst argument he’s heard from Brexiters is”, to which he replied: “I think probably the one that we’d get out of the Eurovision Song Contest. Not only would that be incredibly sad but given that Israel and Azerbaijan and anyone anywhere near Europe seems to be able to enter - and Australia - then I think we’re pretty safe from that one.”
So rest assured - the pound may be plummeting and xenophobia exploding across the country, but Sonia's legacy of Better the Devil You Know lives on. Phew.
And, in our house, we have finally got SKY TV.
Now, you may not think this is in quite the same league as, say, David Cameron resigning and Michael Gove betraying Boris Johnson in a Richard II type coup, but bear with me.
So little TV is usually watched in our house that the set was broken for 2 weeks before we even noticed. This is partly due to the fact that myself and my flatmate are either at the gym, on a Tinder date, or trying to get to bed before 9pm. But then it got cold and the Olympics is coming and my flatmate decided that she actually quite likes watching TV after all (whilst swiping Tinder, obvs).
It was a quiet Saturday night in Auckland and I was staying in with the cat.
(I'm going to own that line.)
I had scoured the TVNZ guide for free-view and was feeling understandably dejected by the offerings that awaited me: Wimbledon Highlights. The Block NZ: Girls VS Boys. Storage Wars. It was looking like I might have to turn to my trusty Frasier Series 3 box set. Then I thought, AHA! What's going on with the other channels? Might Frasier Series 4 be shown on one of them?!
And so it was that I ended up on the couch watching TV for 4 hours - possibly the longest amount of television I have watched since being a student. And it wasn't good TV; I managed to find the McDonalds of Saturday night entertainment: Female Killers: Too Close for Comfort. Fatal Vows: When Divorce Turns Murderous. And, of course, the Big Mac of Easy TV - Keeping Up with the Kardashians.
I have watched Keeping Up with the Kardashians exactly twice and both times they were going on a family holiday. Do rich people do anything else? I just do not understand the appeal of the show. It's basically watching lots of pretty people take selfies and talk about themselves whilst getting their makeup done by 5 people at once. And when they're not obsessing about themselves, they're bitching about one another and saying the word "like" too many times in every sentence. I have yet to see Kim Kardashian display any emotion other than vaguely bored. Even when she's being interviewed to camera and saying "it was so awesome that my mother bought me a gold-plated baby stroller and filled it with Chanel dummies", she looks as about as excited as a 16 year old on the checkout at Morrison's saying "that's 2.99. Did you want to buy a bag for 5p?" I've decided that the next time I watch the show, I'm going to make it into a drinking game where you have a shot for every time Scott Disick looks sad.
But the really exciting find was a new show called Famously Single on E! News. You must have heard of it. They've taken 8 "celebrities" and treated them to therapy with a relationship expert in the hope that it will cure them of the obviously nightmarish disease that is Being Single. I'd not heard of a single one of these celebrities apart from my Jersey Shore fave - Pauly D. The last time I saw Pauly D on the small screen he was screaming "cabs are here" and fumigating the room with hairspray. Then he went on to have a dubious career as a DJ. And now he's back, and apparently in love with one of the other "celebs" on the show - Aubrey O'Day (no, I have no idea either).In the trailer I watched, the therapist asks them "if you're not going to try out the therapy, then why are you here?" Er.... is "to revive my flagging career by shagging someone on screen" too obvious an answer?
Anyway - in conclusion - I'm thrilled that we finally have SKY. It might make me stupider, but at least I'll be up on the really important news in 2016 (Rob Kardashian proposed to Blac Chyna and DIDN'T TELL HIS SISTERS OR HIS MOTHER - THEY HAD TO FIND OUT VIA SOCIAL MEDIA.)
So.... BREXIT. It sort of makes me want to be back in Britain (cause that's where it's all kicking off and it sounds crazy) and also kind of glad I'm not there (because it's all kicking off and it sounds crazy). I do have one piece of good news though - we can still enter Eurovision:
Prime Minister David Cameron, who on Friday announced that he will be stepping down in October, addressed the future of Eurovision during PMQs in April. Labour MP Helen Goodman asked him to “tell the house what the worst argument he’s heard from Brexiters is”, to which he replied: “I think probably the one that we’d get out of the Eurovision Song Contest. Not only would that be incredibly sad but given that Israel and Azerbaijan and anyone anywhere near Europe seems to be able to enter - and Australia - then I think we’re pretty safe from that one.”
So rest assured - the pound may be plummeting and xenophobia exploding across the country, but Sonia's legacy of Better the Devil You Know lives on. Phew.
Saturday, 28 May 2016
The Beautiful People
Let's get one thing straight. This was blog was never intended to be an in-depth analysis of dating websites. In fact, it was originally conceived as a result of bantering about sex with the boys on reception at Virgin Active 5 Ways and my friend Seb thought of the name and said that he would set it up for me (being the techno-moron that I am) if I would write something Vaguely Amusing.
Unfortunately, it has transpired that dating websites ARE Amusing. And Easy To Write About. In fact, if I'm having a dull day, the surest way to cheer myself up is to pop onto Tinder for 5 minutes and try to find a picture of a bloke pouring olive oil over his naked chest with his eyes half closed in Good Fat ecstasy. Presumably, basting himself for my dating delight. So I do feel that I have somewhat cut off my nose to spite my face when I deleted the app in a fit of rage after two exceptionally dull dates in a row. The first involved going for a walk with a bloke who was nice enough, but walked so slowly that our coffee and walk took TWO AND HALF HOURS. That's a long time to spend with someone when you realise before you've even said "hi" that you're not interested. The second was with a guy who apparently isn't familiar with the cultural norm that dictates that, when speaking with others, you should SHOW INTEREST and ASK QUESTIONS. I basically interviewed the guy about his life for 90 minutes. Eventually, I ran out of quesions. After all, there's only so much you can ask someone the first time you meet them without starting to come across as a nosy cow. There was a pause, and he said, Well, that's enough about me... (I waited).... (he continued) Anyway, yeah, about my band.... (just shoot me now).
There's someone who's clearly never read How to Win Friends and Influence People. Lesson #1: Ask Questions. Listen to the answers. Look interested.
It's really all very simple when you think about it.
But I have deleted Tinder which leaves me with somewhat of a gap for material. Luckily, the Times came to my aid with an article about the dating website BeautifulPeople.com.
The website, which claims to be the largest internet dating community exclusively for the beautiful, has courted controversy with claims that it culls members who become “ugly” after being accepted. It has also suggested that Irish men are among the least attractive in the world. Applicants are told to post photographs, information about their height, weight, hair colour, body type, field of work and several other personal details. Members then rank applicants on a scale of “absolutely not” to “beautiful”.
In other news, I received the most Kiwi As tixt bro I've ever read in my life last night. On a night out, my friend had said we'd keep in touch to see where everyone had ended up. At 1am I received this message: "At Bro".
If you're reading this and you need a translation, it means "I'm out in town, whereabouts are you and I'll come and join you". Another version of this is "Up to" = "what are you doing right now". And the classic, "that's us" = "yes, I agree to that plan, sounds good with me".
New Zealanders. They're a nationality of few words. They take a sentence and distill it down with the approach of "what do I ABSOLUTELY NEED TO INCLUDE in this sentence to communicate my intention?"
I'm hoping this Kiwiana knowledge will stand me in good stead when Immigration New Zealand comes to review my visa applications this month. It's currently causing me a world of pain. Everything was going fine, I'd got my paperwork in, was feeling pretty smug about getting everything together 3 months in advance... then I got a call from them reminding me that I'm American. And therefore have to submit a police check from the US as well as the UK.
OH GOD.
And thus ensues mass panic as you find out that you have to get fingerprints done, and you can only get them done at one post office in Auckland, and they never answer the phone, and when you do go in they tell you there's a 2 week wait, until you look like you're about to cry and they ask you "OK, what are you doing at 10am tomorrow?" Then you work out that the FBI is going to take 4 months to process your fingerprints, by which time your UK police check and medical will have expired and your NZ work visa and you're basically going to be back in Birmingham hoping you can have your old job back at Topshop. Then you realise, Aha! I can pay twice as much money (of course, it's America) and send my fingerprints to an FBI "approved channel", but they can't send anything outside of the US. So you get the report sent to your sister and ask her to text you when it arrives. You receive the following text at 5am on a Friday morning when you've had a complete sense of humour failure about the entire business which says,
They say they have a record of you from 1998??
At which point you have a breakdown.
WTF?!!!
1998? I was 17?
Did we get arrested at a house party?
This is a nightmare!!!
And you sister texts back:
Just kidding! + lots of laughter crying emoji faces.
(Maybe I'll find it funny once my visa is approved).
I think we should bring back the "Ten Pound Pom" scheme, when the New Zealand government actually WANTED us Brits to come over. It was introduced after the Second World War as part of the "Populate or Perish" policy - to increase the population and supply workers (Clearly they were aware of the Great British Mating Tradition. Get Pissed. Find A Shag). All we had to pay was ten pounds and the southern hemisphere welcomed us with open arms. Well, I can tell you that so far I've spent almost 4000 dollars trying to live here, and there's no guarantee that I'll be allowed to stay beyond July 5.
Come on New Zealand! We're part of the Commonwealth! I'm your grandmother man!
On the plus side, if I am kicked out, I'll have a whole new region with which to experience the joys of Tinder.
Every cloud.
Unfortunately, it has transpired that dating websites ARE Amusing. And Easy To Write About. In fact, if I'm having a dull day, the surest way to cheer myself up is to pop onto Tinder for 5 minutes and try to find a picture of a bloke pouring olive oil over his naked chest with his eyes half closed in Good Fat ecstasy. Presumably, basting himself for my dating delight. So I do feel that I have somewhat cut off my nose to spite my face when I deleted the app in a fit of rage after two exceptionally dull dates in a row. The first involved going for a walk with a bloke who was nice enough, but walked so slowly that our coffee and walk took TWO AND HALF HOURS. That's a long time to spend with someone when you realise before you've even said "hi" that you're not interested. The second was with a guy who apparently isn't familiar with the cultural norm that dictates that, when speaking with others, you should SHOW INTEREST and ASK QUESTIONS. I basically interviewed the guy about his life for 90 minutes. Eventually, I ran out of quesions. After all, there's only so much you can ask someone the first time you meet them without starting to come across as a nosy cow. There was a pause, and he said, Well, that's enough about me... (I waited).... (he continued) Anyway, yeah, about my band.... (just shoot me now).
There's someone who's clearly never read How to Win Friends and Influence People. Lesson #1: Ask Questions. Listen to the answers. Look interested.
It's really all very simple when you think about it.
But I have deleted Tinder which leaves me with somewhat of a gap for material. Luckily, the Times came to my aid with an article about the dating website BeautifulPeople.com.
The website, which claims to be the largest internet dating community exclusively for the beautiful, has courted controversy with claims that it culls members who become “ugly” after being accepted. It has also suggested that Irish men are among the least attractive in the world. Applicants are told to post photographs, information about their height, weight, hair colour, body type, field of work and several other personal details. Members then rank applicants on a scale of “absolutely not” to “beautiful”.
In 2011 BeautifulPeople claimed that a virus called Shrek, named after a film character famed for his ugliness, had allowed thousands of unattractive people to gain membership without being vetted. Greg Hodge, the company’s managing director, said at the time: “We have sincere regret for the unfortunate people who were wrongly admitted to the site and who believed, albeit for a short while, that they were beautiful. It must be a bitter pill to swallow, but better to have had a slice of heaven then never to have tasted it at all. We have to stick to only accepting beautiful people — that’s what our members have paid for. We can’t just sweep 30,000 ugly people under the carpet.”
Oh Greg. You have made my life with that quote. I will never have a Tinder story to beat that.In other news, I received the most Kiwi As tixt bro I've ever read in my life last night. On a night out, my friend had said we'd keep in touch to see where everyone had ended up. At 1am I received this message: "At Bro".
If you're reading this and you need a translation, it means "I'm out in town, whereabouts are you and I'll come and join you". Another version of this is "Up to" = "what are you doing right now". And the classic, "that's us" = "yes, I agree to that plan, sounds good with me".
New Zealanders. They're a nationality of few words. They take a sentence and distill it down with the approach of "what do I ABSOLUTELY NEED TO INCLUDE in this sentence to communicate my intention?"
I'm hoping this Kiwiana knowledge will stand me in good stead when Immigration New Zealand comes to review my visa applications this month. It's currently causing me a world of pain. Everything was going fine, I'd got my paperwork in, was feeling pretty smug about getting everything together 3 months in advance... then I got a call from them reminding me that I'm American. And therefore have to submit a police check from the US as well as the UK.
OH GOD.
And thus ensues mass panic as you find out that you have to get fingerprints done, and you can only get them done at one post office in Auckland, and they never answer the phone, and when you do go in they tell you there's a 2 week wait, until you look like you're about to cry and they ask you "OK, what are you doing at 10am tomorrow?" Then you work out that the FBI is going to take 4 months to process your fingerprints, by which time your UK police check and medical will have expired and your NZ work visa and you're basically going to be back in Birmingham hoping you can have your old job back at Topshop. Then you realise, Aha! I can pay twice as much money (of course, it's America) and send my fingerprints to an FBI "approved channel", but they can't send anything outside of the US. So you get the report sent to your sister and ask her to text you when it arrives. You receive the following text at 5am on a Friday morning when you've had a complete sense of humour failure about the entire business which says,
They say they have a record of you from 1998??
At which point you have a breakdown.
WTF?!!!
1998? I was 17?
Did we get arrested at a house party?
This is a nightmare!!!
And you sister texts back:
Just kidding! + lots of laughter crying emoji faces.
(Maybe I'll find it funny once my visa is approved).
I think we should bring back the "Ten Pound Pom" scheme, when the New Zealand government actually WANTED us Brits to come over. It was introduced after the Second World War as part of the "Populate or Perish" policy - to increase the population and supply workers (Clearly they were aware of the Great British Mating Tradition. Get Pissed. Find A Shag). All we had to pay was ten pounds and the southern hemisphere welcomed us with open arms. Well, I can tell you that so far I've spent almost 4000 dollars trying to live here, and there's no guarantee that I'll be allowed to stay beyond July 5.
Come on New Zealand! We're part of the Commonwealth! I'm your grandmother man!
On the plus side, if I am kicked out, I'll have a whole new region with which to experience the joys of Tinder.
Every cloud.
Sunday, 27 March 2016
F&^%ing Brunch
Whilst you're enjoying your Easter Eggs and family get-togethers over this sacred time, spare a thought for my sister whose experience of this holiday weekend will be very different. No, she's not been posted to Syria or dealing with the fallout of Broad Street at 3am in A&E. What Alana's going through will be much worse. Much, MUCH worse.
She's handling 3 days straight of Brunch in Harvard Square.
Sometimes I miss working in hospitality. The free pizza, the banter with the Gay Best Waiter Friend, the Hot Bartender to flirt with, the lock-ins where you get to further your flirting with said Hot Bartender whilst Gay Best Waiter Friend makes lots of awkward comments ("Just get a room"), the free pizza...
Then my sister tells me about the Holiday Brunch shift, and I feel infinitely grateful that my dealings with the general public have (at least for the time being) come to a merciful halt.
The last Brunch shift she worked, she turned up really hungover, thinking it was going to be quiet. And it was, for the first hour or so. In fact, it was looking so quiet that her boss optimistically told her that she'd be able to go home early. She passed the first part of her shift engaging in the waiter's preferred job of polishing cutlery (anything to not have to deal with actual customers) and daydreaming about the takeaway she'd get when she knocked off in a few hours.
Then the floodgates opened.
300 people were seated in her section, 100 of which were babies. She said at one point she had to go into the walk in freezer, have a little cry and a very loud scream to compose herself. She was so loud, in fact, that on exiting her colleagues asked her, "what was happening in there?!" I can't tell you how gloomy she looks when she tells me she's working the Brunch Shift. Or rather, "F&%$ing Brunch" as it's known in our house. On the up side, however, she and her colleagues handle the Harvard elite by playing Brunch Bingo. Here's a few of the choice encounters they are likely to tick off:
- Obnoxious Twat
- Harvard Knobs
- Interrupted Greeting. Eg, "Hi there, good morning, can I offer you still or... " "DIET COKE".
- Foreigner tips 10% or less
- Cheque split 8 ways
- Soy milk on the side
- "Is that paleo?"
- "Is it gluten free and vegan?"
- When Pepsi isn't OK. "We don't have Diet Coke, is Diet Pepsi OK?" "Oh. No, not really. I'll have a hot chocolate". Cause that's the same thing...
So it’s been a while since the Russian and I caught up. Probably not since 2012, when he told me I needed to stop eating muffins and that if he trained me he could make me “aesthetically pleasing”. So a chat was long overdue. I was lucky enough to bump into the vodka-swallower on Friday morning in the gym café, where he had these words of wisdom to impart:
THE RUSSIAN: There’s some fine looking talent in here this morning.
ME; Haven’t you got a girlfriend?
THE RUSSIAN: Yes but I’m window shopping. That’s what the gym is all about. After all, you don’t go to a restaurant and not eat, do you? It’s the same thing. It’s an important part of coming to the gym. It’s just as important as training my clients. In fact, some days, it’s more important.
ME: right…
THE RUSSIAN: Like on a Friday. You need to unwind, right? That’s why you come to the gym.
ME: To perve on other people?
THE RUSSIAN: Exactly!
Which brings us nicely onto the 21st century version of The Freak Show, otherwise known as Tinder. I thought I’d give it another shot after the debacle with the Young Boy and… wow. Just wow. If I thought there were some weirdo’s in there the last time I searched…. well the Weirdo’s have contacted the Super-Weirdo’s and they called up the F&*%ing Freaks who brought along the on Crazies and they’ve all somehow ended up on Tinder. Here’s some profile quotes for you – from the cosmopolitan metropolises of Auckland and Boston:
I EAT PUSSY and I love it (Patrick, 34, Architect at Vandelay Industries)
The only hair between your legs should be my beard
Aspire to something greater than yourself and follow me on Instagram
I am a 29 year old who love to chill smoke weed play pool video games cooking going to movies and showing among other things. I also am a big wrestling and walking dead batman songs of anarchy and breaking bad fan. I love to binge watch Netflix and am hugely into hip hop music and going to concerts and events like comic.con. I am looking for a down to earth girl to hang out and chill and get to no each other and see were things lead and take us. I’m interested in woman ages 20 to 50 (Brandon, 29)
Not gonna lie, mainly looking for sex. Got a ten inch… kik jonk1 if you don’t believe me (John, 30)
Just here looking for FWB. Not married (JL, 34)
The Nina/ The Pinta/ The Santa Maria/ I’ll do you in the butt/ while you’re drinking Sangria (Dan, 31, Route Driver at Poland Spring Natural Springs)
Not up for a threesome. If I wanted to disappoint 2 people at the same time I’d have dinner with my parents.
(Actually I quite liked that one)
I received the following message from Dave, apparently a dentist, in Wellington. "Hi Sarah, would you like to meet up over green, white or $$$?" Being the innocent, I checked with the Cheerleader if I was missing something obvious. After all, I have only just joined Instagram, so I am at least 2 years behind the rest of the kids when it comes to being "street". (Do people still use the word "street"?) She was similarly mystified, so I replied, very politely, "Hi Dave The Dentist, you've lost me. What does one mean?"
"Can I pay you to meet up with me?"
The Cheerleader texted me later. She had figured out: green = weed; white = coke (or, more likely, in Dave's case, P), $$$ = well, we figured that one out. Great. Apparently I have gone from paedophile to prostitute in one smooth swipe. I miss the days of courting in my youth, when you had a few Snakebite and Blacks in the Dome (II) and some pale spotty boy from Handsworth Grammar informed you, "Gazza wouldn't mind pulling you tonight if you can chip in for the taxi back to Bartley Green.".
That was so much more romantic than being offered money for sex on Tinder.
Monday, 1 February 2016
The Generation Gap
I have to say it: I hate being 35.
Being 34 was cool. I could still (sort of) claim to be in my early 30s. 40 felt a long way away. But then, out of nowhere, BANG - THIRTY FIVE, and it feels like a totally different ball game. When I told the physiotherapist how old I had turned this year he said, "oh well, it's a big one, it's a 5!" And I then I thought about my last "5" birthday, when the Asian and I had a fairytale fantasy party and nobody was married or having kids (out of my friends - obvs - I suspect other people were), and I got all self-reflective and panicky about my ovaries shrivelling away by the moment.
It probably didn't help that I started the year by hanging out with a 26 year old "Young Boy". Or, since things have now gone awry, "Stupid Young Boy". He wasn't that great for my ego. Comments such as "your generation... my generation", "did they make contact lenses back when you were a teenager?", and "who's Ziggy Stardust?" only served to heighten my fear that I was turning into Demi Moore. He didn't quite ask if I had gone through "The Change" but I could tell that he was pretty stunned that I was still getting my period.
A friend of mine told me that her doctor referred to women of age 35+ as being "older primates" when it comes to getting pregnant. NOT FAIR! NOT FAIR!!!!! I have never heard of a man being described in these terms. And so, not for the first time, I have begun to regard the reproductive system with fear and dread. And think, "shit, if I want to have kids, I better start looking for hot doctors and lawyers in their late 30s with no kids and a weird fondness for Boggle and other 3-minute word games". Basically I want George Clooney in ER. Could someone kindly point me in the right direction? Little Easy on Ponsonby Road doesn't seem to be delivering the goods.
On the plus side, I am in good (familial) company. My sister has recently moved to Boston, and decided to download Tinder. She was a real hit for the first few days, matching with Massachusetts' finest.... and then, suddenly, all the matches stopped. She duly lowered her swiping standards, and started swiping right to any old Brad, Justin or Joseph Junior II that she came across. Still nothing. Disbelieving that she wasn't matching with ANYONE in the greater Boston area, she found herself searching the net for "How to know if Tinder is broken". Apparently, the problem may lie in the algorhythm, and the advice was to remove the App, and then download it again.
She reinstalled it three times.
So here's the key guys: perseverance.
Apparently the buzz word for 2015 was "resilience". I have given this topic considerable thought, trying to come up with someone who embodies this word for me. And then it came to me in a flash of inspiration at 522am last Thursday when I was driving to BODYPUMP. No, not Joan of Arc. Or Maya Angelou. Or Malala Yousafzai. The most resilient woman I can think of is... (drum roll please) the human miracle known as Jordan. AKA Katie Price.
Here's the definition of resilience from the Oxford English Dictionary:
[mass noun]
Does this not describe Jordan perfectly? She's got about 25 kids by different fathers. She's been married 3 times - to Peter Andre, Alex Reid, and some builder/ part time stripper. She decided to reconcile with said builder/ part-time stripper after he shagged 2 of her closest mates. She's written "novels", had reality shows, released an album with Peter Andre (the unforgettable, A Whole New World), got a lingerie range, perfume line, and equestrian clothing collection. Even when her men are exposed as being transvestites, the woman keeps bouncing back. She is the Page 3 equivalent of the cockroach. In the event of a nuclear holocaust, the world would be left barren except for roaches and Kate Price And Cleavage.
And what happens to the men? Who knows what Peter Andre is doing today? Although I for one miss Alex Reid's column in 'Star' magazine. Particularly memorable is the edition that he referred to himself as the "Reidinator". I am not ashamed to admit that, at one point in my life, that column was the highlight of the week.
So there you have it. My heroine for 2016: Jordan. Plus she's 3 years older than me. And she's not letting 26 year olds make her feel bad about herself. GIRL POWER!! RESILIENCE!! I LOVE BEING 35 IN 2016!
(Just tell George Clooney to head towards Mission Bay).
OVERHEARD AT THE MILL
INSTRUCTOR: And if you can't keep your butts down guys, then I want you on your knees...
Being 34 was cool. I could still (sort of) claim to be in my early 30s. 40 felt a long way away. But then, out of nowhere, BANG - THIRTY FIVE, and it feels like a totally different ball game. When I told the physiotherapist how old I had turned this year he said, "oh well, it's a big one, it's a 5!" And I then I thought about my last "5" birthday, when the Asian and I had a fairytale fantasy party and nobody was married or having kids (out of my friends - obvs - I suspect other people were), and I got all self-reflective and panicky about my ovaries shrivelling away by the moment.
It probably didn't help that I started the year by hanging out with a 26 year old "Young Boy". Or, since things have now gone awry, "Stupid Young Boy". He wasn't that great for my ego. Comments such as "your generation... my generation", "did they make contact lenses back when you were a teenager?", and "who's Ziggy Stardust?" only served to heighten my fear that I was turning into Demi Moore. He didn't quite ask if I had gone through "The Change" but I could tell that he was pretty stunned that I was still getting my period.
A friend of mine told me that her doctor referred to women of age 35+ as being "older primates" when it comes to getting pregnant. NOT FAIR! NOT FAIR!!!!! I have never heard of a man being described in these terms. And so, not for the first time, I have begun to regard the reproductive system with fear and dread. And think, "shit, if I want to have kids, I better start looking for hot doctors and lawyers in their late 30s with no kids and a weird fondness for Boggle and other 3-minute word games". Basically I want George Clooney in ER. Could someone kindly point me in the right direction? Little Easy on Ponsonby Road doesn't seem to be delivering the goods.
On the plus side, I am in good (familial) company. My sister has recently moved to Boston, and decided to download Tinder. She was a real hit for the first few days, matching with Massachusetts' finest.... and then, suddenly, all the matches stopped. She duly lowered her swiping standards, and started swiping right to any old Brad, Justin or Joseph Junior II that she came across. Still nothing. Disbelieving that she wasn't matching with ANYONE in the greater Boston area, she found herself searching the net for "How to know if Tinder is broken". Apparently, the problem may lie in the algorhythm, and the advice was to remove the App, and then download it again.
She reinstalled it three times.
So here's the key guys: perseverance.
Apparently the buzz word for 2015 was "resilience". I have given this topic considerable thought, trying to come up with someone who embodies this word for me. And then it came to me in a flash of inspiration at 522am last Thursday when I was driving to BODYPUMP. No, not Joan of Arc. Or Maya Angelou. Or Malala Yousafzai. The most resilient woman I can think of is... (drum roll please) the human miracle known as Jordan. AKA Katie Price.
Here's the definition of resilience from the Oxford English Dictionary:
[mass noun
1. The capacity to recover quickly from difficulties; toughness: the often remarkable resilience of so many British institutions
2. The ability of a substance or object to spring back into shape; elasticity: nylon is excellent in wearability, abrasion resistance and resilience
Does this not describe Jordan perfectly? She's got about 25 kids by different fathers. She's been married 3 times - to Peter Andre, Alex Reid, and some builder/ part time stripper. She decided to reconcile with said builder/ part-time stripper after he shagged 2 of her closest mates. She's written "novels", had reality shows, released an album with Peter Andre (the unforgettable, A Whole New World), got a lingerie range, perfume line, and equestrian clothing collection. Even when her men are exposed as being transvestites, the woman keeps bouncing back. She is the Page 3 equivalent of the cockroach. In the event of a nuclear holocaust, the world would be left barren except for roaches and Kate Price And Cleavage.
And what happens to the men? Who knows what Peter Andre is doing today? Although I for one miss Alex Reid's column in 'Star' magazine. Particularly memorable is the edition that he referred to himself as the "Reidinator". I am not ashamed to admit that, at one point in my life, that column was the highlight of the week.
So there you have it. My heroine for 2016: Jordan. Plus she's 3 years older than me. And she's not letting 26 year olds make her feel bad about herself. GIRL POWER!! RESILIENCE!! I LOVE BEING 35 IN 2016!
(Just tell George Clooney to head towards Mission Bay).
OVERHEARD AT THE MILL
INSTRUCTOR: And if you can't keep your butts down guys, then I want you on your knees...
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