J.P

Ok, let’s have it out. Internet dating. Hinge. Bumble. Tinder. Ok Cupid.

My parents are big into it. They are so into it they even offered to pay for a premium dating account for me. My dad keeps telling me how great it is, “The Twinders (that’s what he calls it) is just like shopping in a supermarket, nowadays you don’t even have to go out to find a guy, you can just swipe away.” he tells me in his thick Scottish accent. I keep trying to tell them that the supermarket produce is a bit bogan for my liking. That I’ve tried…..and after spending hours on it I just end up getting depressed and lose hope in the male race with RSI in my thumb from swiping left.

I mean can’t romance still happen the old-fashioned way. Like maybe meeting in a book shop when you reach for the same book and low and behold it hits you in the face LOVE… Or maybe he’s your cousin’s cousins stepbrothers best friends housemate, and you get introduced at some random house party and then boom it hits you like a freight train. LOVE! Or maybe you collide into each other on a bike path, and then he offers to fix your bike and then BOOM smack in the face. LOVE… You know, something IRL. A good story to tell your great great great grandkids… I mean I do know a few online success stories, maybe the odds are better in cities like Melbourne, but here in rural QLD most of the profile pics are of guys wearing wife-beaters and stubbies with shotguns and dead pigs or wearing drug dealer sunglasses swilling bottles of bourbon out of there utes, or guys with their arms around there ex-girlfriend/ wife. One of them actually wrote “I’m looking for a gal to drink beer with, play video games and go camping in my 4wd ute with me” I almost wrote to them to tell them that there actually looking for a mate, not a girlfriend.

I’m not sure who gave them the memo, but that ain’t the way to win a good gal’s heart.

I was actually thinking of getting into the business of advising men on how to make a good looking dating profile, maybe even doing photoshoots for them, styling them… But I digress.

Every time someone falls in love via online dating, my mama reminds me over and over again. “You know, so and so did meet online, Sara.” My mama even offered to make a dating profile for me and told me she would be most happy to manage it, spend hours swiping for me, chat for me, and ultimately find a match for me. So kind. It must be a common situation because now some smart entrepreneurial guy has developed an app for exactly that, for Jewish mama’s to find matches for their beloved perfect children before they become spinsters. My mama is pre ordered it.

So yes my parents are madly trying to pair me up with a mate. Preferably a Jewish educated man that owns a few properties and maybe a business or 3….

Last year my mama and her best friend concocted a plan.

They were both lamenting that their children were so wonderful and so brilliant but were still so single and had the brilliant realisation to partner us up. After all, we both liked music, we liked plants, we were of similar age, and of course, we were both Jewish. Perfect.

My parents drove 2000km from QLD to Melbourne and invited the lucky bachelor to come drink some whisky with the men so they could interrogate my potential future husband. After my father and uncle gave him the seal of approval, the mothers organised a date for us. So old school, huh? Who needs Tinder when you have Jewish parents! The date went well I must admit, but no chemistry, so what do you do? Can you grow chemistry in a lab? Or grow to fall in love? Or do you succumb and let your parents pay for Tinder Gold and get your dear mama to swipe and swipe and swipe till she finds you the one.

Below is a little tune I wrote for my mama!

The Nose

I spent $300 on perfume last week. Call it what you want. A millennial on job keeper with a disposable income that doesn’t know how to save. A 30+ something looking for love. New year = New scent. I’m not really sure. But I did it. It smells like Petey whisky and Cognac. It’s remarkable. Made by this Dutch perfumer guy that calls himself “The Nose”. Brilliant. Anyone that calls himself “The Nose” gets bucks from me. I thought this is an investment into my future, into my love life and casually blew my rent money for the week. I even watched the doco about him called “The Nose” He is mighty secretive about his perfume recipes, but says sometimes he puts cum, hash, and maybe some excrement into it to create the scent. And damn it smells good. It has everything going for it. In fact, I’m wearing it now. The perfume sales lady told me to dab it on the back of my neck so I can get continual wafts of it….that the scent should be “Just for me” I told her “Lady if I’m gonna drop this much cash on a scent I want the whole world to know about it, I want people on the street smelling it and swooning, none of this “Just for me” bullshit.”

But today I wear it just for me. I’m alone in my little covid cabin in the bush half-naked drinking iced coffee in the middle of Woop Woop trying to conceal the smell of mouse shit in my cabin with $300 perfume.

Yup. It’s true. I’m 35 years old. Living with my parents again.

A few weeks ago I texted a tinder date and invited him for a good old fashioned romp in a hotel room. He was a bit taken aback by my forwardness. I guess I was too. I blamed it on the blue moon and the fact that I’m ovulating and semi lonely. He said it was too much pressure and too much expectation and that we hardly knew each other and tried to psychoanalyse my text.  …. I told him YOLO and not to overthink it, like what’s the worse that could happen, we could both get an STD, and I could get preggers to a tinder date…. Not so bad, huh. I mean what kind of self-respecting male would say no to such an opportunity. Maybe he was broke and couldn’t afford the hotel room… I’m not quite sure… I guess I’ll probably won’t see him again.

I have never done anything like that before… but since cougaring a young Israeli boy on a one night stand , the spell has been broken, the chastity belt unlocked, the nun habit dried and chopped and rolled up into a smoke mix. I’m ready. Ready to get around for a bit. Finally. Jeez. My friends are stoked. Finally I’ll have some new goss to tell them. Some new stories.

So here I am living in the bush, with my entire family. Rich on Job Keeper, addicted to buying mid-century furniture and Afghan camel bags on Facebook marketplace. 2 weeks clean cause I got vain and started looking like a fag hag, and people judge you hard when you’re 35 and still a Fag Hag, so I’m trying hard to clean up my act, get back on the wagon and get myself a glow up.

My ex casually commented to me the other day that gals just don’t look that good after 40. I couldn’t believe it. It’s easy for them, with that salt and pepper George Cloony sheik look, dad bod and 7-day growth, but for us…. Damn.

I took it straight to heart and now I’m trying extra hard, I’m doing it all, I’m believing the hype. I’m trying unsuccessfully to do a HITT workout daily, I’m rubbing coffee grinds on my skin, gargling coconut oil, smearing turmeric on my face, putting cider vinegar in my hair, brushing charcoal in my teeth, drinking way too much water, doing squats cause my lil sister told me my ass has dropped and spraying on a lavish load of my $300 perfume.

Why Cant You Look Hot and Run?

Its day 3 of detox. No cigarettes, no illicit drugs, no alcohol, no coffee, no fun.

It all started with a pair of fluro pink and leopard skin black running shoes.

Well…. Actually, it all started with a boy…. Which led to the shoes…. Which lead to now…. Wait a second… let me just tell you the story…..

I’ve always been indulgent, a yes kinds girl. More coffee? Yes. More chocolate? Why not. Another smoke? Definitely…. Never had I said no to myself.

My Papa would always encourage me to read books on the topic of willpower, and discuss with me the importance of such things…. being able to control your mind over body…..

I would preach to people whilst happily chowing down my 3rd-morning coffee accompanied by my 3rd organic cigarette, that I could if I wanted to, but darling, its organic, and besides it makes me sing better…..Tom Waits??

Anyway, I met this boy, he’s an extremist. Yin to the Yang, black to white, yes or no. He runs when he’s not chain-smoking…He drinks power smoothies in the morning, strange “Heath Concoctions” kale, acai, chia, you name it… It’s in there…. I don’t think it actually tastes that pleasant, but honey it’s 2018, you’re in your thirties, and its the thing to do.

My friends are all getting to that age of discovering exercise… they tell me it actually feels good when those endorphins kick in…. gets you high in fact. I’ve always found those lycra clad, bad taste in shoes, hair ponytail slicked with sweat, iPod donning, brand emblazing, exercise iron man people rather freaky. But with a little encouragement of my friends, and fear of the middle-aged spread I decided to purchase my first pair of running shoes.

So…. My bestie and I, determined to get fit went from store to store, shop to shop, shoe to shoe… it was like Cinderella all over again…. Now you see this ain’t no easy task for two fickle ladies, especially from ladies that are both used to buying sequin heels, or Portuguese leather boots.

And let me tell you they were horrid…. these shoes…. I mean I don’t know who designs them or nothing, but Jesus Christ almighty… I mean the colour scheme…. What were they inspired by? The primary school highlighter collection….??? Every single fluro colour on one shoe….. strange lines, and detailing….

Why can’t you look hot and run? All I wanted was to look hot and run….

I mean already this was a step down from the hipster, bohemian queen identity I had going on…. But this selection? Atrocious.

Somehow I settled on a shoe that looked the best out of all of them, but honey, let me tell you, that ain’t saying much. There still ugly as all hell, fluro pink, lime and leopard skin.

I hate to say it, but these running shoes are way more comfortable than my Portuguese leather handcrafted shoes and way more comfortable than my Italian red wedges. Hmm goddamn! I  understand why people wear them now, wear them casually, wear them when they’re not even running around, wear them to the local café, sipping on skinny lattes. I dunno maybe just wearing them makes you fitter you know, some kinda positive reinforcement manifestation.

In fact, I’m wearing them right now and I’m not even jogging… and as fugly as they are, they feel great, they caress my feet like a knowing lover, I feel fit just sitting here, typing like a mad woman, and burning calories like nobodies business. I get it. Maybe this is it……maybe this is the future.

Dirty Thirties

Welcome to your dirty thirties- Your skin starts sagging a bit. You start looking your age. No more ID checks, unless you’re queuing up for a gold coast club on a Saturday night, searching for paradise. Those cigarettes actually show up on your skin. You get bags under your eyes if you drink coffee and have a bad night sleep. Hairs start growing in peculiar places. You friends that had jumped the gun in there twenties are all getting divorced and now dating millennials. Your friend’s kids are starting to hit puberty. Everyone you know around is breeding and playing house. Your friend’s friends are buying their second investment property, planning their second baby. And you are still 19 at heart living with your folks, smoking dope and trying to start your life afresh for the 100th time this year.

 

“Quit it tiger, you need to make your body clean so you can make good babies”

“Aren’t you to old for that now???”

“Your over the hill, should have had babies in your twenties, your much to old and fussy now”

“Your still so young, you can have babies at 40 now, and that’s fine”

 

All these unwarranted and conflicting opinions, these rants and raves about what people think I should do and when I should do it.

I was told I was over the hill the other day. I’m 32 years old. But I guess in some cultures that is a spinster age if you haven’t found “Mister Right”, or “Mister You’ll Do For Now”. All my Sisters friends have ended up worth Aussie Bogans. Part gentleman, part golf, part beer coaster. I wonder if it’s because of the diminishing selection of eligible bachelors in there 30’s and early 40’s. Or is that Mamas and Papas are bringing up uncouth, ill-mannered, sloppy men, and part bogan is better than full bogan so you settle, pettle.

Or is it this country.

I don’t get approached by men anymore, although to be honest I never really have, unless they’re drunk, desperate, ancient or stupid.

My Sisters tell me I’m attractive, my Mama tells me I’m special, my Papa says I’m alright, but men don’t say shit.

My Brazilian friend tells me to go to Latin America. She tells me it’s different there. My other bestie, who is now divorced from a Latin man, tells me to stay the hell away from there.

I was discussing this last year when I was told the problem is….I’m too attractive… which makes me intimidating, therefore unapproachable. Right…..

Or is that maybe as we get older, we have higher standards, are more stuck in our ways, have more barriers up, less reluctant to dive in deep and let it all go for love like we did in our free wheeling 20’s.

Last week I put up a sign on my community notice board.

 

SEARCHING FOR A HUSBAND

-MUST CLEAN- COOK- SAIL- GIVE GOOD ORGASMS-

I’m still waiting for a response…..

I used to be a sponge. My first few boyfriends had it relatively easy… I would shapeshift for them, chameleon into what was needed, desired…. But now. What? Can I no longer chameleon for love. Or is easier to live a single and sometimes lonesome life rather than cash it all in on some kind of crazy, forget me not guaranteed love….

Disney really fucked me up. I blame Disney 100 % on all my false hopes, fantasy rides and semi unrealistic dreams. From a young baby, I was brainwashed to think prince charming was going to come riding up on his donkey to take me away to a palace someplace… but I’m still waiting, and no donkey in sight…

But Disney and Bogans aside…. On a positive note….

Since I’ve turned 30…..

I have started living more of my truth, becoming more in my power, saying no to things that no longer serve me. Owning my worth and dancing like no ones watching. I’m more assertive, more focused and more alert. No longer do I have the endless soul-searching of youth, the “Who am I?, Why am I? Questions. I just am.

And although I sleep alone at night, am childless, ticking like a time bomb, with black rings under my eyes, I am happy and getting better at life one tiny step at a time.

 

 

 

 

Pheremones, Hormones and babies…..

Love mystifies me…. I talk to many people from all walks of life, asking them on their matters of love. For we all seem to need it, like food, like sleep, like water…. All searching for it…

I have never been clucky, I mean, maybe when I was 16 and wanted to be a single mum in a kombi van with a border collie, daughter and a guitar… but for the last 13 years, I haven’t. I’ve actually been “anti-baby” and seriously considered not having kids at all… until this, man came swaggering by and romanced me like nobodies business.

Pheromone: An agent secreted by an individual that produces a change in the sexual or social behavior of another individual of the same species; a volatile hormone that acts as a behavior-altering agent.

It’s been 14 days now. This is the first time I’m alone. I’m on a romantic love marathon.

My bits are swollen from excessive use, my body jellied and head slightly wobbly. I’ve dropped out of the world, no longer on the Internet killing time, hardly seeing my friends. My world has been consumed by love, taken over by this man and his romantic woos that literally has sweep me off my feet.

I am 29 years 8 months and 5 days old. We’ve been having a seriously romantic escapade for the last 14 days now. He is my new addiction, my new cigarette and cup of long black with a side of honey and cardomon. He is my man in white leather Michael Jackson style jacket, white singlet, black jeans and movie star eyes, he is the swagger in my hips and the glint in my eye. He is magnetic, quiffed up, carries a comb in his back pocket with these strong muscular arms.

We went away to the country last weekend; it was our 14th date in 14 days. We had spent every spare moment together until then. Fast-talking, jumpin, jiving, lovin, dinin, dancing more talking. Time was elastic, with him, I lived nocturnal and concubine like with him. We only had so much time together so we made it count. 14 days in, and 14 days till I left for the USA to try and cast my luck on The Great American Dream.

He took me to a farm in East Gippsland. There were 2 caravans, a shed, cows and a river. There was no reception, the outside world didn’t exist, and it rained day and night. I love the sound of rain on an old tin roof. We ate salmon, drunk wine, made passionate love, slept by day and loved by night. We had breakfast in the afternoon and dinner at dawn, broke all the rules we did… I made the fire he cooked the dinner, we sung songs on cheap guitars drinking counterfeit whisky and smoking endless cigarettes. Life couldn’t get much better, wrapped up in a bubble of love and womb. Glorious. My version of heaven.

What is it about a man that can carry you, that has strong arms, that can envelope you and literally lift you of you’re feet, and make you feel light as a feather.

He smells incredible like an old chesterfield mingled with single malt whisky, smoked wood and tropical flowers.His smell drove me crazy.

It was about then that the idea of “babies” started coming up in my brain, all I could think about was having babies to this man, getting hitched and building a happy home in the country, dedicating my life to being a contented mother and housewife. It all seemed so easy, so fantastical, so right.

I could let go of all my fanciful ideas and big dreams for a while and just do what it is that women have done for eternity, making that transition from women to wife and mother.

Now I don’t know whether this feeling suddenly attacked my brain by the excessive dopamine that was flooding through my body or it could be my age. They always told me sooner or later my body clock would start tick-tocking.

I’ve met a man that is incredible, charismatic, charming, intelligent, leather-clad, dapper, strong and single and I know that this man would be able to provide for and protect my children. This cluckiness overrode all logic, realism and timing and came at me with such an urgency that I couldn’t see reasoning at all. I think my clock has started the tick-tock, screaming MAYDAY! MAYDAY!

I thought I was to be career women, only having children when I’m 35+, famous, rich, successful, have a home and a stable relationship. I had it all planned and perfectly timed so I could continue to live my self-reliant independent, fancy-free, do what I want, gypsy lifestyle that I have grown so accustomed to.

But all of sudden this animalistic urge is clawing up inside and rattelin at my soul.

In reality, the timing is terrible, I live in a shared house, I’m on Centrelink, I spend my time being another self-absorbed artist that lives in Northcote, I have no savings, I’m about to leave for overseas… But this tick tock is screaming out at me and sounding the alarm. I thought I was beyond all this biological, we are born to breed thing, a modern day woman wanting to make it big before poppin out a babe…. it makes you realise how the human race has survived this long…that clock is infecting my insides and only sees BABIES BABIES

So what do you do?

I thought I was in control of my baby-planning destiny. But can you really plan these things, is there ever good timing, or do you just make it work when it happens?

Can you ever really plan anything at all?