Eat, Pray, Love

Heartache is a funny word, but when you’re in a one way relationship (even a fantasy relationship as such) it really does ache, like a painful pull in your chest and sometimes even a stabbing physical pain.

I’ve had my share of it this year and nearly lost my marbles in the process. I met a totally unsuitable and as my friend loves to say ’emotionally unavailable’ man and I stupidly fell for him. Not gradually but instantly in that kind of rabbit in the headlights sort of way. I didn’t just fall, I bloody well took a running jump. A leap of blind faith. And my was I blind. I was convinced that this was The One, he just didn’t know it yet. But actually I realised he’s not The One he’s just A Some One.

Why this happened I don’t really know. I’m normally pretty sensible and if people start hurting me I drop them like they’re hot. But this was a strong connection, like a Svengali he would pick me up and put me down and even when he insulted me, degraded me and was mean to me I still opened my heart and my door. I became one of those women I pity and don’t understand. How bloody pathetic.

Why I don’t know? I’ve examined it over and over from every angle and all I can say is that I think it boils down to my Dad. I had issues with him when he was alive and he wasn’t the best Dad in the world and often hurt me, but I did adore him. Sound familiar? Also this person has done and experienced some similar things and I think it was a siren call for me. I know he’s toxic and causes me pain and heartache again and again but I can’t help myself. I delete his number only to put it back in again over and over. I’m like a druggie, but love is the drug. And yet it’s not love. It’s abuse.

I decided the only solution is to go cold turkey for the sake of my sanity and so I can clear the path of nettles so Mr.Right can walk up to my door. So how do you get rid of Mr Wrong? You go away and break the chain. I’m doing a Julia Roberts and grabbing my rucksack and passport and I’m off to see some of the world at least for a short while. And just like in South Pacific I hope to wash that man right out of my hair and send him on his way. And I will do plenty of eating (a gastronomic adventure) a bit of praying and probably not any loving, but that’s OK. It’s the experience, the sights, sounds and colours that I need.

I’m counting the days now and I can’t help but wonder if I might just meet my Javier Bardem on the way or fittingly right at the end? How romantic would that be? Then Javier could come back with me and punch the other fellas lights out. “This is for dissing my woman!” kapow….yeah I know violence is not the answer but still it would be very satisfying. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year everyone, love from Miss Kitty xxx



Kinky is as kinky does

Strictly speaking this is a blog about my current dating experiences, but I feel compelled to share a few other stories from my past here and there which can only be described as very odd. This may lead to you draw the conclusion that I am a weirdo magnet (it takes one to know one so they say) and it’s probably true, but these are simply too good to be kept in the closet, so here is one particularly brief but true story (Barumba! But this little joke won’t pay off till you’ve read to the end).

In my 20s I dated a nice young chap with good prospects who my mum adored. He was OK looking, had a good income and drove a very nice car. Oh say no more, except that I’m always suspicious of guys my mum likes. Anyway, cut to the chase, he invited me away for the weekend and paid for us to stay in a swanky hotel in a cool little city not far away, separate rooms of course, and as ever mum was pleased. Once at the hotel we made plans to go out that evening and went to get changed, he came to collect me from my room early to go to dinner and as usual I wasn’t ready, so he hung out in my room watching telly while I finished off my make up in the bathroom. Fair enough, nothing kinky here, so off we went for a really expensive meal followed by drinks and dancing at the nightclub. Lovely.

I was having a great night and was starting to warm to the idea of going out with a proper boyfriend who was charming and polite and bought flowers and opened doors etc etc I mean what a novelty? Maybe Mum was right after all? Anyway at about 2am Mr.Smooth leans in and kisses me and asks me if I’m having a nice night? “Yes” says I (weak at the knees) “Good” says he “Because by the way, I’m wearing your knickers…” “I’m sorry what was that? It’s so loud in here that I could have sworn you said I’m wearing your knickers ha ha!” “I am” said he and matter of factly pulled down his waistband and flashed me, my own, plain, white, Marks and Spencer cotton knickers with a little satin bow at the front. “I’ve been wearing them all night.” he said with a cat’s got the cream smile. Ding dong weirdo alert. Oh shit, one of them again. I didn’t really know what to say, one of the few times in my life I’ve been stunned into silence. So OK he was a bit kinky obviously, he’d rummaged through my bag, stolen my knickers and put them on while I was getting ready. But the thing that always tickles me is that he didn’t pick any of the sexy little, black offerings I had stashed away in the bag but the boring old workaday white knickers. I mean if you’re gonna do it, do it in style right?

Needless to say he got the elbow pretty quickly. I mean I don’t want a guy who literally wants to get in my knickers! When I got home and told my mum, who let’s face it was secretly a little bit disappointed that Mr.Smooth had stuffed up, she valiantly countered with “well at least he wasn’t wearing your bra as well”. Yes Mother…. I kid you not.

marilyn and toni

Broken hearts, broken city

Living in a broken city is odd, you get used to the dust, pot holes, containers and traffic cones. It’s only when we go to a fully, functioning town that we realise that our normality is weird. Christchurch had two massive earthquakes and it marked us all. Our beautiful, little pocket city is lying in ruins and our lives have changed forever.

The first earthquake struck at 4.35am, on September 4th measuring a whopping 7.1 on the richter scale. We’d always been warned to be on alert for the ‘Big One’, but in all honesty nothing prepares you when a large earthquake hits. It creeps up and whips the rug from underneath you with breath taking speed. I woke to a roaring noise and scrambled across a floor which was rippling like waves breaking on the shore. My dogs were running up and down in sheer panic and I braced myself in a shaky doorframe, convinced the house was about to collapse. The quake took out the power and I remember feeling very scared in the dark, dead of night huddled round the transformer radio listening to news bulletins like something out of the blitz.

But that was just a test run. It was a shock, there was damage, we were all a bit stunned, but no one died, the city was pretty intact and to all intents and purposes we carried on as normal despite the unnerving aftershocks that carried on for hours, days and months afterwards.

February was different. This one struck with malevolence at lunch time one sunny afternoon catching us all off guard. At 12:51pm it tore into our lives and spat out every piece of normality we knew. In a blink we were living in a surreal hell, a disaster movie that was happening in our streets, our homes, our city. There was no ‘off’ button, no escape, no relief from the sights and sounds of chaos. The quake itself was a 6.3, smaller than the first one but a more dark and evil twin, with a seismic pattern that was more aggressive and destructive than the first. It came swiftly and violently and snatched away 182 lives. The city was destroyed, streets were ripped apart and everywhere there was rubble, twisted metal and spewing water and liquefaction. It was like a war torn scene from the middle east. In the  following weeks soldiers patrolled the no go zones and helicopters thundered overhead. We learned to live with horrible uncertainty and rumbling aftershocks.

It took its toll in so many ways, people left, relationships broke down, families split up, people lost jobs, addiction and divorce went up. 4 months later I myself called time on my relationship of 11 years. The experience had made me re-evaluate everything in my life and stop treading water. As Nike says Just Do It, so I took a deep breath and I did.

And now 16 months on I’m back out there dating. And it’s slowly getting better, summer is here and there’s lots of new exciting pubs and bars popping up all over. For a long time there was only a few overcrowded watering holes and people were usually drunk out of their skulls trying to deal with their personal sadness. If you went on a date somewhere that was open it meant going around the barren wasteland of the central city, and inevitably  on the date conversation was always about the where and whens of that horrific February day.

But the winds of change are blowing through and bringing new people with them too. Builders are arriving in droves to start the re-build. A lot of the ‘fresh meat’ turning up on the dating sites are construction workers from elsewhere or abroad. Now you can’t tar all builders with the same brush and it’s great if you do need a little help with your DIY, but too much of a good thing can be a bit mundane right? So at the moment I’m trying to steer clear of construction related employees. But if this influx continues, which it will, never mind the post-war baby boom, Christchurch will be having a post-earthquake builder baby boom. There’s definitely no man drought here anymore. So I’m optimistic that the wind might just stir up my little world.

rail tracks

Cold feet

Date night jitters, no matter how old or wise I get nothing seems to fix the pre-date nerves. Even when I’m relaxed all day, two hours before and hello! there’s a little Oompa loompa in my stomach.

It’s just no use, I get it ever time. That horrible sick feeling as I watch the time tick down and my mouth turns into a desert. Followed by a complete lack of interest in food even though I know this would be wise, look out stomach here comes some gut churning anxiety all washed down with a trough load of wine! Then there’s the constant trips to the loo every three minutes. Never mind the outfit hell, trying on endless combos, all left in a pile on the bed in desperation. Inevitably I end up wearing a version of the same tried and tested outfit from last time. I want to look a little bit sexy but not too fleshy, casual but well thrown together. It’s all supposed to look so nice and easy, huh, whatever? Heels are a must I think, just enough height to look womanly but not too much that I look slutty. Wedges I find are a great half way house (sorry but no matter how short they are I’m not massaging his ego on the first meeting by wearing flats!).

Extra time in the bathroom spent on the ‘natural’ look make up. Just enough blush to look healthy and glowing but easy on the foundation! Then there’s my own personal horror – the pre date spot. It’s inevitable. How is it I still get these eruptions in my 30s, what’s with that?! Quick run over with the GHDs, a spritz of suitably floral, girly scent under the ear lobes and neck – just enough for a lean in whiff, not a full on assault! And now I’m ready. Arghhhhhh! I feel like a 16 year old again.

Jump in the car and drive like a crazy thing to get to the arranged bar on time (it’s always a bar, my nerves are so bad caffeine just won’t ever cut it!), and suddenly there I am, parked up, bang on time and ready to go in. Except I’m not. Panic hits. I don’t want to go in and meet a stranger and be all chatty and bubbly. I just want to turn the car around and go home and watch telly with a takeaway and a bottle of wine. That would be nice. I can only describe it like dragging yourself towards a much loathed exam, my stomach is now doing crazy flips, I’ve got nothing to say and I’m bordering on being really grumpy.

Then I tell myself to bloody well pull myself together (see I must be single because I talk to myself). Hey it might even be fun? He might be…dare we actually say it out loud…The One…or at least one of The Ones. This thought can actually make me worse as the terror strikes in. I want to meet someone but why, why is this such a painful process? Can’t my friends and my Mother vet them first and then buy me an instant boyfriend off the internet? Someone who’ll love me and my quirky jokes and ways instantly and then I don’t have to do this excruciating getting to know you,  soul bearing stuff in public?

I imagine the awkward first chat and settling down to talk face to face, no escape, no distractions, just two people and a hope for some chemistry. Oh shit. So I grab that adrenaline rush and I take a deep breath, haul my arse out of the car, flick my hair (I imagine in a Charlie’s Angels type fashion) and strut into the bar, what the hell… he doesn’t know I’m nervous right? Fake it ’till you make it.

Because you know why I do it? For the same reason that every other woman steps up for the first date with a stranger. Because sometimes, just sometimes, you find a guy who makes you forget your nerves and have a good laugh, who’s good looking and interesting, makes you irrationally happy and is actually really funny too. Someone who you get on so well with that 3 and a half hours can fly by on just two small wines and then the bar staff are asking you to leave the pub because they’re closing.


Horny young things

If men are from Mars and women are from Venus then the male under 30s must have been siphoned off and deposited into their own mini tribe on Uranus. Why? Because they are sex-obsessed and in a word all they want to do is get in your knickers.

Now let’s face it you and I know that’s the whole point of dating right? But at least try to put a finer point on it guys? Men over 30 know this, they play the game and will at least put on a show of trying to engage your brain as well as your pheremones. But these young bucks just want to get straight to the action, no chit chat, no preamble.

Point in case a certain young man we’ll call Mr G&T. Running a bar he has the opportunity to chat to lots of age appropriate, hot young things (he’ s 28) but he chose to have a crack at me. Every time I went to the bar he got more and more bold meanwhile I was stupidly, more and more flattered. Curious, I eventually I gave in and we went on a date. He really wasn’t interested in anything I had to say (I on the other hand was interrogating him and checking out his prospects), he kept plying me with drinks, got progressively handsy (it was like fending off a swarm of bees) and was shockingly forward. Among other things I can’t repeat, he said he wanted to “put his head between my legs” (good lord look away Mother!) I laughed it off as over-active hormones.

After that date he would regularly sext me and promise me among other things dinner, nudity and multiple orgasms. Over confident, huh you think? He insisted I was way more interesting than his 20 somethings and that I was worth the wait. But the best was yet to come. With at least three weeks distance after seeing each other on that last date, I was beginning to mellow and teasingly told Mr G&T that he’s all talk and no trousers promising me a dinner that never materialises. In return he told me he was “all trouser” and followed it up with a naked self-portrait of himself standing in the mirror!

Blimey there’s a 10am text that’s hard to cover up in work! I deleted it instantly (prude that I am) but the trouble is it’s burned in my brain! Whatsmore when I told him he was naughty he asked me to pop round during my lunch break and spank him! Ohhh the smut – it’s like a bloody Carry On Film…

Now there’s ‘nowt wrong with getting it on, if that’s what you’re after. But I’m not ready to be another notch on a 20 something’s bedpost or a tick on their ‘things to achieve’ sex list read ‘older woman’. I’m kinda looking for something more than just sex on a stick, even if it is a very long rather nice looking stick!


Telephone tied

“Stop calling, stop calling, I don’t wanna talk anymore” Lady Gaga summed it up really. I got a case of tongue tied blues on the phone last night with an old flame (strictly one way traffic on that flame dear readers sadly).

Why is it that after weeks and weeks of texting and being a sassy, clever, quick witted and just a touch sarcastic version of myself, the version of myself that I think rocks, when they finally call and you open your mouth, all your skills, charms and faculties fly right out and abandon you? Suddenly you’re back to being a luddite.

Where was my sparkling wit? Where was my flirt dust? Goneski. Instead I’m reduced to a hair twirling, monosyllabic teenager again. Damn. I hate it when that happens. You feel like it’s all hanging in the balance, there you are trying to radiate your winning charm down the telephone line and come up with an amazing if slightly spin-doctorish blurb on your recent activities. “Sorry no time for thinking about you buddy, I’ve been way too busy, being fabulous and in-demand! I’m kinda of a big deal you know.” But no…. big fat zero. What have I been up to? Nothing much… just sanding my cabinet. I say a silent curse to Saint Bridget of Singletons who has pioneered this kind of mental abandonment when your brain goes ga ga.

And then all too quickly, he casually says goodbye, the line goes dead and your left hanging with all that pent up, missed opportunity fizzing in the air…. again.


Date rage

Man I must be in the Universe’s bad books today…. I’m getting bad vibes from several guys and I have to say I think it’s totally uncalled for.

I blew off a guy recently (let me be clear by blew off I mean let down, I can see you deviant readers!) after a first date. I even Googled “How to let someone down gently” first to soften the blow. I sent a polite text to the effect of “thanks, but I didn’t feel any chemistry, good luck”. To begin with he took it in good spirit even mentioning he forgot to bring his chemistry set, but that was 4 days ago and since then I have had progressively angry and ranting texts. Scariness. Thank goodness I didn’t tell him my full name, place of work or home address.

Online I’ve been getting the mean reds from a guy I’ve been talking to since back in April. Really he’s my darling little dating protege. He is 11 years younger than me, rather hot and lives in a different city. Secretly I am loving this role as a kind of Puma-in-waiting (for those of you who don’t know that’s a younger Cougar!), he calls me his rainbow, bless. So sweet. I give him guidance and mentorship from afar on dating girls. But he’s kind of hellbent on dating me despite the age gap and the distance involved. But today he sent me a horrible glare face emoticon and told me that he’s getting tired of asking for my number and waiting for an invitation to come and stay at my house. Hello, sorry? Stay at my house? Is there anybody in there? Reality check. I don’t know you and I never promised anything more than chat and support? D’oh.

Meanwhile in the date ‘waiting room’ I got a text from a guy I’m lining up for a first date who had to cancel on me. Problem is he cancelled 2 hours prior to said meeting this afternoon, due to work commitments. Bad form. He suggests we reschedule for the weekend, I coolly said I was busy and probably won’t be free for a re-match till next week (genuine non-dating commitments apply here folks). He comes back and accusingly implies I must have lots of dates lined up! The cheek. As a good friend of mine would say “you snooze, you lose” so I’m not sure now if I will be free next week after all………

the birds