Dating Do's and Dating Don'ts

 The 'rules' surrounding dating have always alluded me. I've been thinking about them a lot lately as I've been doing a little bit of 'dating,' trying to determine what I should say, how I should act, what I should wear. I've heard you should:

• ask lots of questions; 
• smile a lot;
• touch their arms;
• laugh at any attempt at a joke, no matter how lame; and
• compliment them.

I've heard that you shouldn't:

• talk about any of your exes;
• criticise them;
• talk too much; or
• question anything they say.

I'm going on what I would consider an important date on Sunday. I've been on a few dates since arriving here, and didn't have much of an interest in the guy I was on the dates with, so I was being a little lazier than I normally would be. I didn't 'date' much back home and I'm not really very good at it. I don't make a great first impression, men tend to think I'm a little weird, I'm either intense or disinterested. But the date that I'm going on this Sunday is a bit different, because I actually am very interested in, and very attracted to, this guy (yes, it is Wickham from the previous post, so it will end badly).

Because I am so interested I have been thinking a lot about how I should behave in order to secure a second date. To be honest we didn't get off to a great start. When he stated that he liked all of the 'blonde girls' from Home & Away (seriously Irish people, stop asking me about Home & Away!) I might have snorted with derision and told him that he was predictable. I may then have proceeded to have an argument with him over this particular issue. This all happened about ten seconds after we were introduced. In spite of this (and in spite of the fact that I looked like a bit of a grub in my jeans, white t-shirt and thongs) he kissed me (alcohol makes people do strange things). But because of this weird start, now I'm obsessing over everything. Should I go casual again? Should I keep up the witty argumentative banter, which is really just part of my personality, or should I keep my criticisms to myself and smile and laugh a lot? Should I try to kiss him again straight away or should I wait for him to do it? ARGH! 

But, in the midst of my obsessive torturous thoughts, something came to me. I remembered an episode of How I Met Your Mother (one of the greatest television programs of all time, I'm putting that out there, legend-wait for it- dary). Now HIMYM sometimes offers sage advice (oh, who am I kidding? Sometimes? All the time), and this particular episode was about Ted going on a blind date with a woman who he had actually already dated years before, but forgotten. It was all about how they were reliving the same bad date, and then they decided that they should just tell the other what things they disliked about them, so that they could use the constructive criticism on future dates. In the end, however, Ted comes to the conclusion that they shouldn't modify their behaviour for future dates, because the person that they were meant to be with wouldn't have a problem with it, because that is just who they were as people.

Lesson learnt, I am going to be myself, weird, intense, or disinterested (very unlikely, this guy is gorgeous). If he likes me, he likes me, if he doesn't, he doesn't. I'll survive either way, because some day I might meet someone who likes all of my little idiosyncrasies, and I don't want to start off pretending that I'm something I'm not. So from today onwards, when dating, I'll be myself, and I won't obsess over the minor stuff, because in the end everything works out, or at least that's what I'm led to believe. 

The New Bridget Jones,

B. J. Barnes

Lizzie Would Have Had More Fun If She Married Wickham

Blasphemy, I know. But, come on, even you die-hard Darcy lovers out there have to cave and admit that Wickham, minus the paedophilia, linked as it was to a penchant for deflowering flighty young things, and overt gold-digging, was a touch more fun. 

I consider myself to be a Darcy lover (particularly when said Darcy is portrayed by Colin Firth), and Darcy's appeal is most certainly his cold indifference, his stuffy top-button-done-up hauter (mmm, I would love to rip open that top button and cravat), but if you were Lizzie wouldn't you sometimes long for the easy, frivolous frippery of Wickham? I know that I would, and suspect that Lizzie, with her sharp tongue, even sharper intelligence, and lovely eyes, would agree.

Yes, yes, I can hear you all cry, Fitzwilliam turned out to be a lovely, gentlemanly, knight on the white horse type, he saved the Bennets, socially and financially, and he had Pemberley (ohhhh, Pemberley). But George, well, George had something a little bit special, that spark, that ease in social situations, in short, a sense of fun.

The truth is, Lizzie was really a woman ahead of her time. She would fit seamlessly into today's world (when she got over all the morality issues etc), and so would Wickham. Wickham is the type who could take you to the pub for a few pints, the type you would have great craic with, and the one who would try to weasel his way into your bed at the end of the night (I've got to say, I find him pretty charming so he'd probably make it into mine). He's not necessarily the type that would open the door for you, pay for your meal or drinks (actually, make sure you have a full wallet for any outing with Mr. Wickham), or even necessarily call or text you ever again after he got what he wanted, but it would be fun for however long it lasted. 

Even back in P&P land Lizzie and George would have had a ball had they gone down the matrimonial path together, sharing witty observations on the company, throwing fabulous dinner parties and balls (all on borrowed money of course), and generally being the most attractive and charming couple in the countryside. Sure, they would have had no money, would probably live in one room with ten kids (because one would imagine that Wickham is pretty virile and I wouldn't be saying no), and after a while bitching about everyone else with your partner can become a bit boring (oh, who am I kidding, no it doesn't, it is always pretty entertaining) and you might start to question what they say about you behind closed doors. Ultimately, though, it might be better than sitting at one end of a massive table packed with tonnes of food that you could never possibly eat (and who would want to eat quail anyway, ugh?), whilst your stuffy little kids live in an entirely separate wing only to be seen when they have learnt something new on pianoforte or have learnt to ride their twentieth pony, and stare at your (admittedly gorgeous) husband who is probably sick of your habit of gently poking fun at everything about him, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't insult or offend his genteel manners.

In the book George was really wasted on Lydia, he needed someone who could match him in sparkle and wit, not someone who appealed to his frivolous, flighty side.Lizzie would have been the perfect companion for him, they complement each other.

I liked the Lost In Austen reworking of P&P, and I especially liked what they did with Wickham. He suddenly became a likeable (if deliciously naughty) character who had been unfairly judged by Darcy, who had sacrificed his own reputation to protect that of another, something that Darcy would find very hard to do, I would imagine.

Why all the P&P talk you ask? Well, I happened to meet a very attractive young man the other evening, and we had a bit of a chat about P&P, after he noticed that my name was the same as one of Austen's many heroines. He is most definitely a Wickham, and I know that this will more than likely end in a blind rage on my part, followed by confusion (mostly out of wounded pride, I am far too proud for my own good, I need to take a lesson from the book). But I am interested to see where this could go, for however short a period of time, and I hope that we get to the first date at least so that he can talk Wickham to me one more time.

Yours in Austen,

B. J. Barnes

Some Brief Passing Observations of European Men (and, more specifically, Irish men)

Australian men could learn some things from their Irish brothers:

• Irish men open doors for women, doors to pubs, doors to homes, doors to cars. This is a nice thing to do. It is gentlemanly and sweet, some might say charming. 
• Irish men hold your hand or the small of your back when you walk up or down stairs to ensure that you don't fall over. Once again, a nice thing to do, gentlemanly, sweet, charming.
• When Irish men ask for your number, it is usually because they intend to contact you, it is not just in case they don't meet someone better in the meantime.
• Irish men have the gift of the gab and tell fabulous, ridiculous, hilarious stories. They can blabber on about nothing and make it sound interesting (perhaps this is a trait that only I find attractive, as it is something that I do myself on a pretty regular basis).
• Irish men tell you what they want, say what they think, and they don't expect you to read their minds, or get pissed off when you don't know exactly what they're thinking at any given moment.
• Irish men are, for the most part, very masculine. They'll push you up against a wall when they're kissing you, but not in a rough, horrid way, in a very sexy, masculine, passionate way, which leads me to my next point:
• Irish men are more passionate than most Australian men I've met. They care about things, deeply, and aren't indecisive or apathetic. 
• Finally, and most importantly of all, Irish men can take a joke, and aren't sensitive little girls who tear up at the slightest trace of sarcasm or possible insult. They know that it's all in jest, and they give it back in spades. 

Note to Australian men (or at least the ones that I have had the displeasure of dating): man the fuck up. That is all. 

B. J. Barnes

Sex, Drugs and Sausage Roll

I ventured over the sea to jolly old England, Derby, to be more precise, and was delighted to see a charming man wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the above slogan. I would have asked him to marry me on the spot, but suspect that he would be happier with a woman as committed to pastry-encased meat products as he clearly is.

I was in England for the Download Festival in Donington, and, more specifically for the absolute gods of rock, AC/DC. I was staying in Derby (weird place, more later), and in order to get to the festival I had to catch a shuttle bus. I was sitting on the shuttle bus, waiting for the last rockers (mainly older, I'll point out) to board, and through the window noticed a rather tall, rather handsome, rather well-dressed man in the line. I put all my energy into mentally deterring all of the people in front of him from taking the seat next to me, and then focused on him, and to my delight, it worked, he sat down next to me. Then it was just a matter of thinking of something to say that did not sound completely weird. I eventually settled for asking how long it took to get to the festival. We then embarked on a great conversation and I fell a tiny, incy bit in love with, let's call him Ted, from Manchester. We parted upon reaching the festival as I had to pick up my ticket and he had to meet his friends, much to my disappointment.

AC/DC absolutely rocked their way right into the number one spot of desert-island, all-time best concerts ever. I spent the concert with some random Scots (fitting, I thought, Australia and Scotland coming together for AC/DC), and had an absolutely brilliant night. I lost my voice and ended up with a cold, but it was all worth it, because I've never seen such a spectacle, never been so entertained, never been in an atmosphere quite so electric. 

The night didn't end with the fireworks which heralded the conclusion of the concert. Getting a little bit lost, I ended up in the wrong part of the arena and had to backtrack to find the carpark where the shuttle bus departed to return me to Derby. I lined up for what felt like hours and eventually boarded the bus. I made my way up the stairs (weird for me, as I don't usually go to the top floor of the double deckers) and as I reached the top who should be there but Ted from Manchester! Fate? I think so. We went on to quite possibly the weirdest pub I have ever been to (and I'm from Australia, so that's saying something!). Ted, his friends, Taz and Cooper, and I spent a lot of time open-mouthed in astonishment at this establishment. We were lured in by the disco ball, the Meatloaf song playing, and the complete lack of patrons. Once safely seated with our drinks, served by a couple of young men who I suspect might have been, well, I hate to say it but it is unavoidable, inbred, we were shocked to see three women dancing in the middle of the abysmally empty bar. They danced for about five minutes and then disappeared. We later saw one of them behind the bar with the deep-south brothers, and formed the opinion that they worked at the bar and were used as bait to lure unsuspecting men inside. It worked (sort of), in that a number of stragglers from the concert made their way into the bar (this may also have been because it was the only place open that was close to the shuttle bus drop off point). The night was one of the most bizarre I have ever experienced, and the bar resembled a weird scene out of the Mighty Boosh, we even decided that the Crack Fox wouldn't have been out of place there (as an aside I found out that one of Taz's ex-girlfriends had slept with Noel Fielding and got incredibly excited). 

After Ted, Taz and Cooper walked me to a cab, Cooper got my details so that they could add me on that most brilliant of stalking-networking tools, facebook, and Ted drunkenly slurred (several times) that I should come to Manchester to visit, I wasn't really expecting to hear from them again. I thought that it was a weird, fated, tangled night, and that no ongoing contact would result. Imagine my delight when Taz (a rather tall, rather handsome, rather well-dressed man himself) added me. And then Cooper, and then Ted. Brilliant. 

Slightly in love with some Manchester lads,

B. J. Barnes

Slight Problem...

This is going to be a really quick one. I had an inkling that it was coming to this, and now my suspicions are confirmed. I have a minor crush on one of my housemates, let's call him Donut. Donut has a lovely lilting accent, and is funny, friendly, and loves food on the same level that I love food. We have entire conversations purely about food. It is brilliant. And he also loves books, and told me he has rooms full of them back at his parents' house. And, even though he is not traditionally what I would class as my type, he has dreamy blue eyes and a pretty smile (and the accent, come on!). He is also arrogant, in a really endearing way. Problem- apart from the obvious issue of him being my housemate and therefore off limits- he has a girlfriend. A pretty Canadian one with a cool hippy-sounding name. Bah. Anyway, this is probably just a case of situational lust, and wanting what you can't have. I'm going to put it down to that. 

As for my other flatmate, Smartie, he is definitely not my type, and luckily I am not his (he likes blondes, I am about as far from blonde as it is possible to get). Smartie embodies most things that I dislike- obsession with money, labels, and just a complete lack of imagination (something that Donut has in spades, in fact, we share a quirky outlook on life, sigh). Having said all of this, Smartie and I get along quite well, but he can be a bit cranky, and I'm not sure how to take him just yet. But Donut sort of makes everything calm between everyone (another reason I am crushing)

Anyway, I'm off to bask in unrequited like until such time as I find a cute boy to kiss. 

Yours in quirkiness, cuisine, and inappropriate crushes,

B. J. Barnes