“You’re very intelligent, aren’t you? I don’t like to date intelligent women. I find it intimidating.”
Honestly, I’m not Stephen Hawking. Really. But, even if I was, I don’t understand this.
I love meeting people who have strengths that I don’t have. I don’t know the first thing about the night sky, so when an ex pointed out all the different stars in the constellation, it was sexy as hell. I dated someone who played the guitar beautifully; I feel giddy at the memory of it. My boyfriend (not the chap in this story, obviously) is never more attractive than when rolls his sleeves up to fit a new light, or to fix the toilet; jobs that I couldn’t do on pain of death.
I think my date that night must have been quite an insecure person. I wonder, if he’s with anyone now, if he’s told her the good news: that he considers her stupid enough to date?
Half an hour into our first date, he looked down at my feet and exclaimed:
“OOOOOOOH, you’ve got lovely big feet, haven’t you? I give a really good foot massage. Some women have got really small feet. I bet I could give yours a really good rub”.
He did not get his mits on my size 8s. Or anything else, for that matter.
We’d been chatting about music for a while. Then, he leaned across the table and said:
“You’re a woman, so how do you know so much about music?” Before I could reply, he continued: “Then again, you’re not really a girly girl, are you? You’re more into the things that the blokes are. I bet you’re still into hair and handbags though.”
I’m a musician (as well as being a writer, it all helps to pay the bills…) and I’ve loved music for as long as I can remember. However, I don’t see music as being something specifically male or female. Frankly, I get annoyed when people try and define interests like that, goggling at the women who likes football or the stay-at-home dad like they’re some freak of nature.
And for the record, I’m not into hair* or handbags**, but so what if I was?
*My hair pretty much does its own thing, it sits on my head, I don’t think about it much beyond that.
**I have one I like, it’s useful for carrying stuff, that’s about the extent of the bag experience for me.
Speed dialling means I don’t know anyone’s numbers anymore.
If I break my mobile while fleeing the zombie hoards, but manage to get to a phone box, I’ll only be able to phone the following people for help:
1) my mum (same mobile number since 1993) (she’s not always in the country though)
2) My school-friend Michelle’s parents (I dialed their landline a lot in my teenage years, number is seared into my brain)
3) The Saturday Swap Shop number (defunct since the 80s)
I’m screwed. Especially if Michelle’s parents are out.
Another internet date. He emailed me several times beforehand to say how nervous he was. (Fair enough, we’ve all been there.) And then the date rolled around:
Me: “Hi, nice to meet you finally. How are you?”
Him: “Still really nervous. This is the first date I’ve been on in twenty years”.
Me: “Well, no worries, we’ve all got to get back in the dating game at some point. When did you and your wife split up?”
Him: “Last month.”
Me: “Oh. Really? Er, OK, but isn’t that a bit soon to be dating, maybe?”
Him: “Well, why not? You never know when you might meet the love of your life! It could be you!”
IT WASN’T ME.
Smallest Daughter handed me this note with a big smile.
Me: “Oh! You hate me?”
SD: “Is that not how you spell “heart”?”
Me: “Not quite.”
What did you have for supper last night?
Apparently we had gay power! It was fabulous!
We’d been seeing each other for a while, but he kept telling me that he wasn’t ready for a proper relationship. Then, he sent me an email explaining that he really liked me but had some concerns.
Helpfully, he included them as a list.
Concern number 7 was “You’re allergic to cats, and I hope to own a cat someday”.
We found each other on some dating site. Turned out we both loved music, so we batted some emails back and forth before he suggested a drink.
Saturday night found me in a bar, staring at my watch. I was on time. I’m always on time. He was late. Really late.
He finally arrived, sweaty and unapologetic. As he slid into the seat opposite me, he said he had to tell me something:
“You know, I’ve never been on a date with someone with kids before. I always knock back the single mothers straight away. I’ve no interest in kids, I don’t even like kids. But your picture was really nice so I thought I’d make an exception for you.”
Ah! Sound the Date-Killer Klaxon; turns out I’m on a date with King Herod.
It was never going to work. I’m a package deal; I come with two kids who are the centre of my universe. I’m never going to date someone who hates the idea of children and being a step-dad. (I made that mistake with another ex, that’s a story for another time.)
I’m classy me, so I do enjoy a nice Piña Colada once in a while (not so much getting caught in the rain, but I’m getting sidetracked).
Anyway, this came up in conversation the other day and the Smallest Daughter was rather taken with the drink’s name.
So, if you come round ours and wonder why on earth SD keeps cheerfully bellowing “PENIS COLARTA!” and giggling herself stupid, well, that’s why.