Cyber Dating Pond

Internet dating, some squirm at the very thought while others may see it offering a little help in negotiating the piranha filled dating pond. After my own interesting experiences, I'd rather skirt around the banks and avoid the teeth, or worse not have a panic attack upon the realisation that razor sharps aren't even interested in my flesh.

But this isn't about me, it's more about the razor toothed fishies.

Whilst this particular fish put off the razors with too much honesty... many razors don't seem to be so fussed with this trait, in fact it's probably viewed as a hindrance. This fish, put a pic up in real time (give or take a few months). Mr A had posted a photo which I should've worked out by the hairstyle was from the eighties and this cyber-fifty-ish was pushing towards his seventies in realtime. Even at my most desperate, I couldn't date somebody Dad's age. Mr A, who had once sported a beautiful, full head of hair was now somewhat more follicularly challenged. Why oh why, would Mr A think that I might not notice the ever so slight timewarp? (Even with my failing eyesight!?!) It's not the lack of hair I lament, but the lack of honesty.

Another little cherub greeted me at a table in the ubiquitous cafe. You know the scene, poor sap hiding behind a menu, eyes darting and hoping the person with the 'mad eyes' isn't the same less mad-eyed person on the receiving end of your little e-missives.

Said ME approached the table with his hand outstretched. As we shook hands, he squeezed his eyes as if testing his bladder, noting, 'I should be able to wait for a few minutes'. (How long before I can abandon Ship Nohope?) The ship was badly hulled in the first few nanoseconds and was sinking fast. When he requested Chamomile tea and took out 'two vitamin' pills (assumed they weren't Viagra!) I tied my laces tightly and scarpered as quickly as my middle-aged pins would allow me, in the politist possible way, of course.

Another interesting thing I noticed was the assumption that as an older fish, you'd be up for anything, which is all very well but dodgy hips and being a little less agile than in youth, would preclude some of the acrobatics suggested in the second missive from one particular razor. I'm not shocked, simply surprised that some razors might think that the social norms and pleasantries have no use in the cyber dating world. I wonder if these razors ever actually get to sink their teeth into any flesh. Or perhaps they work on the 'probabality factor' where if they chuck out enough hooks, something's bound to be hooked.

Other interesting tidbits I've picked up from friends who have dipped their toes in this rather despairing pond, are great to regale with girlfriends over a glass of wine or three. One chuckled that a would be dater with an out-of-date pic suggested they put their coffee date off due to his stomach stapling surgery. His photo, showed a man in the peak of fitness but the Georgie Pie in the background should've been both a hint and a portent of what was to come.

In Auckland there is the dreaded man drought but I think there's possibly more of an honesty and good mannered drought from my own, often peculiar, experiences.

But alas, let us not end on a note of bitterness as it does nothing for my wrinkles!

I have two very dear friends who met and subsequently married in the very pond I've been so disparaging about. I'm not sure how they did it, but they found each other and, well, isn't that just lovely! There is hope!

Don't despair, patience might prove to be the greatest virtue in this new and sometimes scary world of dating.

Tupperwary

I was surprised to be invited to a Tupperware party. My first thought was, are they still making that stuff?

With a drawer filled with mismatched tops and bowls, I have struggled in decluttering phases to try to coerce (some may say force) a Tupperware lid onto an incompatible and unrelenting bottom. Unfortunately, I've not been able to bring myself to throw the tops or bottoms out, don't ask me why. I'm sure when I get run over by a bus they'll be handy to help house the leftover asparagus rolls at the 'after party'.

The party was fun, it was women, surprisingly young women, all keen to engage (some might say fight) in trying to win tiny portions of Tupperware with their Tupperware auction money. It was like plastic gold, well it certainly seemed to be priced that way (it has a lifetime guarantee which cannot be said of many of the plastic purchases from the $2 shop). Slap! I am now the proud owner of a little plastic boxy thingy that I can pop in my fridge and it acts like a mini-cryogenic chamber for my tomatoes (well at least two medium sized ones, maybe four cherry). It was excellent fun, with a well mannered and slightly quirky host. (As an aside, am a bit worried about a wizened Tomato Disney emerging from the depths of the fridge in a few years time...cue Fantasia music.)

What worried me, was the worry factor which had not been factored into my Worry Table prior to the party attendance. Wrinkles. Mouth wrinkles, get worse when you sup from squirty bottles. I very nearly bought a lovely green bottle with a wide mouth to allay further chasms opening up around my lips. It was something I'd never worried about. I can only imagine that while out jogging I'd nearly submerge myself if I was trying to avoid wrinkles as I supped from a Tup'. I'm trying all sorts of pouty manoeuvres to try to rectify the damage I've no doubt done by sucking on the wrong type of bottle for years and years.

And there we have it. Plastic that lasts longer, albeit often forgotten, than many children born on the wrong side of the coin.

But I do aspire to my pantry looking like the one featured in one of Tupperware's brochures. Sparkling, clutterless and the joy of actually being able to find the vanilla essence when you need it.

Perhaps we should fill some Tupperware containers, all our mismatched ones and send them to the mouths that need it. When emptied, the lids and tubs could be used as tools.

Offspring

I'm not sure how it happens, well, have the biological bits under control but it's the personalities. You burp them the same, you change their nappies the same way (same brand, too, from memory) - they even eat the same things (that might be due to the lack of culinary genius on their mother's part) but they're so different.

So? How come?

Don't ask me, I'm in awe (well, these two I prepared earlier are mine) and flummoxed by the 'chasmic' differences.

• Attitude to homework
  Big - "I'll do my homework soon." He does, but soon is a precarious piece of time which means different things to different people. To Mum, it means just after now. To Big, it might mean finding himself at his desk but it's nearer to midnight than midday.
  Small - "What's homework?"
• Attitude to sport
  Big - Waiting to be subbed on the rugby pitch, focus, angst (he's not on) and complete, unbridled willingness when coach requests he play.
  Small - When asked by his coach if he'd like to go back on the field for the final five minutes, responds "I don't really think so, maybe next week."
• Mummy's bad hair day
  Big - "You look like you stuck your finger in a light socket."
  Small - "Mummy, you always look beautiful." (Said with straight face.)
• Where do babies come from
  Big - "Mummy, can you stick babies in the microwave?"
  Small - "Mummy, you don't need to tell me, I know. It's all about Daddy's sperm."
• School
  Big - Packs his bag and sets off with a spring in his step and his brain in his head.
  Small - "I don't think I'm really suited to school."
• Mummy noting that's she's going for a jog
  Big - "Have a good run!"
  Small - "Mummy, go back to bed and relax, jogging is stressful."
• Flatulence
  Well, do you have to ask? A smell's as good as a laugh.

So, anyway, ain't it grand! Would be boring if we were all the same...I think.